Ten minutes later, the first parents started to arrive. They came in with their faces tight in anger and helplessness, looking like they’d been disturbed from Saturday night sleeps.
My old lady came down in a nightgown and a coat thrown over her shoulders and her hair still up in a bun. She looked scared and white, and, when she saw me, she wailed it was my own fault, and I hung out with the wrong people. She tried to reach over and slap at my head, but the matron wouldn’t let anyone near us.
Every time a new parent arrived, some girl would sob and try to run across the court. They were all pretending the same game, playing like they were innocent bystanders seduced into sin by slick playboys. Girls are chicken when the chips are down.
The judge heard three drunk cases before he got to us. He lined us up in front of his bench and looked at each of us and asked our ages and how high we were in high school. He wanted to know why we smoked and how we first got the habit. No one tried to explain. I felt their eyes coming around to me, and I figured I better make it good.
I sort of stepped forward and raised my hand, like I wanted to make a heavy confession. I explained how Harold kept following me from school every day, trying to get me started. I told how at first I resisted, but how he kept up the sweet talk and finally got me going. I told how the habit came over me and how I couldn’t break off, no matter how hard I tried.
Arnie stuck by me and confirmed the story of Harold and how he was always soaking us for more and more money when he knew he had us hooked. W started to cry and pointed to Harold as the one responsible for the whole mess.
It went over big. The judge was boiling and screamed this menace would never harm children again. The parents yelled that no term would be too stiff, and even the people sitting in the back of the court booed and shouted until the judge had to rap for quiet.
They dragged Harold to the bar again. He was moaning and shaking and trying to fall down against the floor, but the two cops held him good. The judge let him have it with both barrels. The court became silent under the judge’s angry voice, and you could feel all the tension disappearing — the parents stood by, ready to claim their wayward kids, and the rest of us started breathing a little easier. And then the policeman, the one sent to collect more evidence at Harold’s address, came back.
He walked down the aisle, carrying a mountain of loose tobacco in a soiled white shirt and holding it by the sleeves. Harold screamed when he saw it. The detective brought it to the front of the bench and handed it to the judge as exhibit A, the shirt filled with the tobacco, and a hand machine for rolling cigarettes.
The judge stopped his speech and looked over the new stuff and then he listened as the cop whispered in his ear. When the cop finished, a strange look came over the judge’s face and he dipped his hand into the tobacco and examined it in his fingers. Everybody was watching him, even the attendants at the doors, and he must have appreciated his audience because he spent a long time studying the evidence.
Then, like there was no one around he casually took one of the cigarette papers, filled it with tobacco and slid it into the roller. He rolled a cigarette and, when it came out the other end, he picked it up and called for a match and then put it in his mouth.
A policeman came forward and handed him a light, and he bent forward and took the first puff. One of the girls let out a small whimper, like she remembered the mistake she made, and a couple of us yelled. “No, no — don’t!” But he paid no attention. He puffed and inhaled for a long time, like he’s part of a television commercial. He looked down and beckoned to one of the fathers, and, when the man came forward, he handed down the cigarette and insisted he smoke.
That’s when all hell broke loose. The parents started hollering, and the girls started wailing again, and the judge was rapping on his gavel so hard his bottle of medicine fell over. They finally called Harold again, and all he did was nod his head and corroborate their new story. He was sent to spend the night in jail, and then all the parents were allowed to grab their kids, and the case was dismissed.
Can you understand what happened? Can you understand my humiliation, my disgust with life and people?
It came out that Harold was a phony. He picked cigarettes from the street, grimy little butts that he kept in his dirty pockets. He took them home and squashed them together, added some Turkish imports and rolled them into new cigarettes.
They were stained and contaminated and unsanitary. He was taking our money and giving us nothing in return. We could have gotten diseased. The swine, the phony swine! Did you ever hear of anything so terrible?