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“Does that statute still exist?” asked the judge.
“It’s got to be public conduct for lewd and lascivious,” said Mr. Moon.
Sergeant Tony glared at the prosecutor. “It was public,” Sergeant Tony said. “It was in front of someone.”
“A bedroom’s not public,” said the judge.
“Your honor,” said Mr. Moon, “I’ve already got a call from Father Wennington on this case. He’s upset.”
“So?” said the judge. The two men stared at each other.
“Well, contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” said Mr. Moon. “That’s the crime.”
Judge Horner sat back. “But she’s a minor, too, isn’t she? At least for some purposes.”
“Doesn’t make any difference. Under the statute—”
“Do you have the statute?”
“Not in front of me.”
Judge Horner turned to Josephine. “Get the code book,” he said. She hurried out of the courtroom. “This is very interesting, gentlemen,” said the judge, smiling. “We may have a case of first impression here.”
While we waited for Josephine to come back, Sergeant Tony started whispering to Mr. Moon again. The prosecutor’s brown suit hung lifelessly on his small shoulders, and strands of his thinning, black hair were combed over a bald spot on the top of his head. Sergeant Tony, making a point, jabbed a finger at him. Mr. Moon nodded. “Can we approach the bench?” he asked the judge.
Judge Horner said yes and the two men walked up, draping their arms over the front of the desk. The three of them talked quietly. Only an occasional hiss from Mr. Moon, who has a slight lisp, rose above the low murmuring.
“Why does everyone have to whisper?” Bunny asked in a loud voice.
I put my finger to my lips, and she groaned.
Josephine returned with the book. The three men looked at it, then sent her out again. Soon she returned with another. They studied that one. After a while, they called Mrs. O’Brien up to the bench. For a time, the four of them talked in whispers. Josephine stood silently to the side, listening. Occasionally, she’d look over at Bunny and me. Once, our eyes met, and she turned casually back to the group.
I remembered one time, years ago, when Tom came back from a court date, and I asked him what had happened. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “How could you not know?” I demanded. “You’re not supposed to know,” he said. Later, that became a kind of joke for him. I’d ask what’s for dinner. “You’re not supposed to know,” he’d say.
Finally, an agreement was reached. They all came back to their seats. Mrs. O’Brien sat down without looking at me, but, beneath the table, I felt her hand tapping my knee—a sign, I took, that things were all right.
Judge Horner continued to study the code book for a few seconds. Above his head, a ceiling fan spun listlessly, moving the air just enough to ripple the pages. He seemed to be looking over the book the way you sometimes read an encyclopedia—dipping in after a particular entry, but then hopping around, testing other subjects that happen to catch your eye. He apparently didn’t care that all of us were waiting, and he certainly didn’t seem about to pronounce anything serious.
Finally, he closed the book and put it aside. “Well, here we are,” he said, glancing down at the documents on his desk. “This is J56–129, In re: M.C. I’m satisfied, after careful consideration, that there are grounds for the county to get involved here. I can’t imagine that this incident with the Benedict boy would have happened if the girl had been properly brought up at home. I’m not saying that I’m convinced yet that she’s not getting adequate supervision—or, should I say, the right kind of supervision. But I’m satisfied that Mr. Moon has made the preliminary case. We’ll have a full hearing in two weeks and just see what’s here. In the meantime, I think everyone will benefit—particularly you, Mrs. Calhoun—if Martha continues her residence with the foster family, the Vernon family. It will be useful just to get everyone apart to study this thing carefully, and a foster family is certainly less severe than the Home. Of course, Mrs. Calhoun, you’ll have unlimited visiting rights, provided you don’t make a nuisance of yourself. Mrs. O’Brien, you’ll work up a psychological evaluation of the respondent. And do a social history of the family, if you would.” He picked up a small pack of papers and flapped them in the air. “I’ve got one here, but it’s four years old. The girl only gets one sentence.” He dropped the papers. “I suppose the father is still out of the picture?”
Mrs. O’Brien looked at Bunny. Bunny’s head was sunk in her shoulders, and her eyes were glassy; she wasn’t looking at anything.
“He’s long gone,” said Sergeant Tony.
“Well, all right,” said the judge. “Anyway, you’ll work that stuff up, Mrs. O’Brien, and Frank, you’ll amend the petition in accorda
nce with our discussions.” He paused. “Now, I understand there was a problem interviewing the girl, that Mrs. Calhoun wouldn’t cooperate.”
“I think that’s all cleared up now,” said Mrs. O’Brien.
“Good.”
The room was silent. The judge’s voice was echoing around inside my head. I understood what he’d said, but the words he was using—words like “social history,” “evaluation,” “respondent”—didn’t seem as if they could possibly apply to me. They were from another world, and I was still only a child, I was Bunny’s little girl. Sitting there in that stiff, wood, courtroom chair, I felt tiny and innocent, the way I used to feel when I’d have a sore throat, or a stomachache, and Bunny would take me to Dr. Baker’s office and put me up on the cold, leathery sofa in the waiting room, my legs sticking out high above the floor. There were medical magazines on a low, corner table, and Bunny and I would look through them together, studying the illustrations of the diseases. Some of the pictures were hideous, but they were never frightening. They were from another world, and snuggled up under Bunny’s arm, I felt perfect and safe in the world I knew.
“Have you ever been to juvenile court before?” Judge Horner asked me.
“No.”
