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Gladys Tate entered. She still wore her clothes of
mourning. She hung on Octavious's arm, stepping
with great difficulty to show the world we had
dragged her into this horrible hearing at a most
unfortunate time. She wore no makeup, so she looked
pale and sick, the weaker of the two of us in the
judge's eyes. Octavious kept his gaze down, his head
bowed, and didn't look our way once.
Toby and Jeanne and her husband, James,
walked behind Gladys and Octavious Tate, scowling
at us. Their attorneys, William Rogers and Martin
Bell, led them to their seats. They looked formidable with their heavy briefcases and dark suits. The judge
entered and every-one took his seat.
The judge's name was Hilliard Barrow, and
Monsieur Polk had found out that he had a reputation
for being caustic, impatient, and firm. He was a tall,
lean man with hard facial features: deep-set dark eyes,
thick eyebrows, a long, bony nose, and a thin mouth
that looked like a slash when he pressed his lips
together. He had gray and dark brown hair with a
deeply receding hairline so that the top of his skull
shone under the courtroom lights. Two long hands
with bony fingers jutted out from the sleeves of his
black judicial robe.
"Normally," he began, "this courtroom is
relatively empty during such proceedings. I want to
warn those observing that I won't tolerate any talking,
any sounds displaying approval or disapproval. A
child's welfare is at stake here, and not the selling of
newspapers and gossip magazines to the society
