"What noise?" I hadn't heard anything, but then once I'm asleep I seldom do.
"That kind of roaring, didn't you hear? Sort of like thunder? Only there wasn't any thunder?—'Scuse me," she added, and I could hear her saying something with her hand over the mouthpiece. Then, "Sorry, honey, but they're loading up. I've got to go. See you in a couple of days—"
"I love you," I said, but I was talking to a dead phone. What's more, Mr. Ruppert was coming toward me, so I added swiftly, to the dead microphone, "I only wish I had a dozen more clients like you! Take care, and I'll get back to you with the quotations."
I hung up, gazing blandly at him, and bent quickly to the paper on my desk. I always keep a lot of it there for floor-time days. This time, though, it was actual work, quotations I had to prepare for clients in six different municipalities. Since each municipality had its own fire and safety codes—and thus its own insurance premiums— and since every client was different anyway in terms of credit standing and down payment, I had a good two hours of work with the adding machine. I had hoped for a nice lunch on the way over to Barrington, but I was lucky to get a hot dog and a root beer along the highway. I got there two minutes before the 1:30 P.M. on my ticket, which meant I was late. Not late late. The judge hadn't even shown up yet, and probably wouldn't for at least another quarter of an hour—that was what you got to be a judge for. But everybody else had been there long enough to hand in his ticket, announce his plea, and get a number. I got a number. There were forty-two people summoned for that session. I was number forty-two.
I sat down in the back, calculating as best I could. Number forty-two. Say, at the most optimistic, an average of a minute and a half a case. That meant the judge would get to me in a little over an hour. Still, that wasn't so bad, I reassured myself, because I had a briefcase full of credit reports to check over. I could be sitting right there in the back row and catching up on my paperwork.
I opened the case, pulled out the first half-dozen folders, and glanced around, reasonably well content. It was interesting to somebody who'd never been in traffic court before. The judge's bench was in a little playpen sort of a thing, flanked by two flags. On the left was the old Stars and Stripes, the forty-eight stars bright on the blue background; on the right, the white of Illinois. Between them— Between them was a sign on the wall. It said:
NO SMOKING
NO EATING
NO DRINKING
NO READING
NO WRITING
NO SLEEPING
So the afternoon would not be as productive as I had hoped. I tested it out by opening my briefcase in my lap, but the test came out negative. A fat, elderly guy in Barrington Police Department uniform came strolling down the aisle to watch what I did. There was no rule against having reading or writing materials out on your lap, it seemed; he didn't tell me to put them away. But you could see that he was waiting to pounce—one little stroke of the pen, one word scanned out of the corner of my eye, and pow!
I gave him a patronizing smile and turned to the citizen two seats away from me. "Hot in here, isn't it?" I asked. "You'd think they'd turn the fans on."
"Fans don't work," he said. That was all he said. There wasn't any rule against talking, but he wasn't taking any chances. A voice from behind me explained:
"They work all right, it's just that this court's electric bills are getting too high." I looked around. Dapper young man grinning at me; he wore a white jacket, white pants, and next to him on a vacant chair was a white panama hat. A very flashy dresser, I thought. "It's hard to stay awake, though, isn't it?" he added. "Especially when that noise keeps you awake all night."
That noise again. Again I said that I hadn't heard a thing, and both he and the guy in my row were glad to supply details. Like from the sky, see? No, not like an airplane-with an airplane you can hear the motors going; this wasn't a motor, it was more like something roaring—although, yeah, come to think of it, it did seem to come from around the airport. Midway? No, not Midway—that little private field off to the northwest, Old Orchard, they called it, though some people wanted to change the name to O'Hare. And, boy! that noise was something. On this all parties agreed—all but me, who had little to contribute but ears—and we probably would have gone on concurring for another half hour if the court attendant hadn't called out: "His Honor Timothy P. Magrahan, all rise!"
And we rose. His Honor came in, sweating in his dollar-ninety-eight black judicial robes, gazing out at us like an actor counting a sparse house, without much pleasure. When we were allowed to sit down again he sighed and gave us a little speech:
"Ladies and gentlemen, most of you here today have been accused of traffic offenses. Now, I don't know how you people feel, but to me this has to be taken seriously. A traffic offense isn't some little thing that doesn't matter much one way or another. Not at all. A traffic offense is an offense against driving. An offense against driving is an offense against the good people who make our driving possible—our friends from the Middle East, including Mekhtab ibn Bawzi himself. An offense against our friends from the Middle East is an offense against the principles of religious toleration and democratic friendship among peoples ..."
It was not a surprise to me when the snappy customer in the white suit whispered in my ear that Judge Magrahan was coming up for reelection that November. By the time the judge got around to telling us that an offense against the Koran was an offense against religion generally, including our own Judeo-Christian denominations, I began to see that this traffic ticket could be serious. My only hope for getting off scot-free would have been if the summonsing officer hadn't shown up in court. That wasn't happening. There was a bench along the side of the room, and among the five or six men sitting there-a couple in state police uniforms, the others from various municipalities—there was my good friend from Meacham Road. He knew I was there too. He didn't smile at me, or nod, but I could feel his eyes on me from time to time.
The first case came up for decision, scared-looking young woman with a baby in a stroller, sixty-eight miles an hour in a sixty-mile-an-hour zone. A twenty-five-dollar fine and six months' probation. The second case was worse, driving under the influence of alcohol, third offense, along with reckless endangerment and failure to observe posted stop signs. That was a man of no more than twenty, and he did not leave the courtroom under his own power. One of the officers took him away in handcuffs, to be held awaiting sentencing, and as he left I could see him looking at his thumbs wistfully, as though he didn't expect to have them much longer.
I sat up straighter and put my briefcase away. Most of the people in the courtroom were doing the same thing. It seemed that Judge Magrahan's political strategy had been set: losing votes among the people he sentenced would cost him less than those he would gain by working up a reputation as a fearless crusader for traffic safety.
There was also the consideration, I realized, that most of the persons awaiting hearing came from other municipalities, like myself, and therefore were of no interest to the judge's vote counters.
So I watched for half an hour as the justice meted out justice to his subjects, one by one. I decided that it wasn't my month. Chief Agent Nyla Chnstophe was bad enough, but at least I'd been able to clear myself with her. With this judge, I had no hope. I watched my acquaintance in the white suit wander around the courtroom like a friend of the family at a picnic, stopping to chat with this one and that. When he leaned over to whisper in the ear of the cop who'd summonsed me, I began to pay closer attention. When the cop glanced at me, shaking his head, I sat up straight. When, a couple of minutes later, the two of them walked out of the courtroom together, still talking, I almost got up to follow; but the courtroom attendant who had so faithfully monitored what I was doing with my briefcase stood at the end of my row, watching me assessingly. I stayed put. For a while. When a few minutes later curiosity overcame caution it was too late. "Men's room?" I whispered to the attendant; he nodded. I went where he pointed; neither cop nor man in white were in sight anywhere around.