by Ken Renshaw
After leaving the motel on the drive to court, I had an idea. Why not introduce some false signals into the gossip grapevine? I stopped by the hardware store. Inside, I could tell the middle-aged lady behind the cash register knew who I was, and was watching me carefully as though I might be shoplifting. I picked up two $4.95 plastic gold panning pans, one red and one green, and two plastic vials. I paid for them with cash and wondered what the grapevine would report.
As I walked up the granite steps of the courthouse, I stopped, turned around and looked out into the square and thought to myself, 'this place has a different feel than the courthouses I have been in. Wait, that's a psychic observation. There is a solemnity about this place instead of the usual hustle and bustle.'
I entered the courtroom, sat down in the third row and waited for the session to begin. The clerk called the court to order and announced the judge.
Judge Cartright appeared, a short, balding, slightly obese man in his sixties. His jowly face reminded me of cartoon bears. When he spoke, I knew he was no Yogi bear: he was firm and his presence emanated control. Ours was the third case on the docket, after a DUI and disturbing the peace case. The judge called my case and I went forward, filed my papers and made the necessary motions. After the defense had done the same, the judge recessed the court and asked us to join him in chambers.
I introduced myself to the defense counsel, Dean Buttress, a slight man with a bald pate, hair combed over the top from the side. His face was puffy and had an alcoholic look. He was slightly stooped in a rumpled suit. He had a Hitler-style mustache that wiggled in a funny way when he talked.
In chambers, the judge was very abrupt. "I don't want you big city lawyers to turn this trial into a circus. I would prefer you not give interviews to media before or during the trial. Our economy depends of vacationing families, and we don't want this to be seen as a place where we lose children. We also don't want to attract New Age weirdoes. People around here make their living in the summers and will be inconvenienced by jury duty. So, I am fast tracking this case to get it over by the tourist season. I am scheduling the trial for one month from today."
I had the distinct impression that Judge Cartright was, indeed, a "hanging judge."
"Any objections.?"
We both said, "No."
"Then, I'll see you both in a month. I don't want to see any pretrial publicity. I can take care of the Butte News. Thank you, gentlemen." The judge rose and we both hurried out of the chambers.
I turned to exchange pleasantries with Mr. Buttress. He turned his back and walked away.
I drove to Bob's Cafe for a cup of coffee before the trip up the hill to Steve Manteo's. Agnes greeted me with a big smile, as though I was a local now.
"Coffee?"
"Yes," I said as I sat down on the same stool. "I didn't get sent to jail."
"I put in a good word for you," Agnes replied.
Then, a cowboy–hat-wearing man in a rusty pickup drove up. As he came in he said, "Agnes, I just came across the creek bridge and guess what I saw. Downstream, on the motel side, where there is that fallen tree, Otis Wilson and Bud Johnson are panning for gold. That claim belonged to old man Williams and he gave up on it years ago."