With that odious chore behind him, Dean began to formalize his notes on yesterday's interviews. Because of his 10:00 court date, he asked Harrigan to contact Byrne's doctor and try to run down any additional life insurance the missing man might have purchased. Rita would type up the taped transcript of the conversation with Mayer. Norfolk called to confirm Dean's flight, adding there was nothing much new on the case from their end. A fisherman had thought he'd sighted a body in the bay, but it was too far away to confirm and, with night approaching, the shape was lost in the darkening swells. Dean saw no reason to trouble Mrs. Byrne with this nebulous sighting. By the time he left the office for the ten-minute walk across the square to the courthouse, he felt comfortable with the progress of the case.
The old courthouse was a massive structure dominating the town square. The interior was marble and polished wood, dating back to a time when first generation craftsmen took pride in their workmanship. As Dean climbed the steep steps, Bobby Witherspoon from the District Attorney's office caught up with him. Bobby was assigned to the pending burglary case and Dean had made the arrest. The young attorney was always well prepared, and the police appreciated how tenaciously he pursued his cases. Unfortunately, his efforts were all too often thwarted by a sympathetic judge or a system that could not find jail space for the numbers of criminals brought before it.
Bobby and Dean had reviewed the testimony the prior week. Witherspoon felt optimistic about their case against Shakey Jake Morrison, the "alleged" felon.
The courtroom was half filled, mostly with pensioners who looked to the system for their daily entertainment. Dean could not understand someone voluntarily subjecting themselves to the tedium of the molasses-process of justice. Many of the women knitted and a number of the men caught catnaps when the action was dull-which was most of the time. The entire procedure operated with a casualness to it that seemed to make fun of the serious nature of what was happening, while the rules seemed more important than what they were designed to accomplish.
Shakey Jake, named for a nervous tic, looked less nervous than he should have for someone facing heavy time. The reason soon became apparent. Jake was led forward by his attorney, a newcomer, a dapper little man resplendent in vest, patent leather shoes and a gold watch chain, all topped off by a condescending smile that seemed to say, "Look out, rubes, I'm going to spring this poor victim before you finish administrating the oath." His appearance was in marked contrast to the public defender who usually inherited the Shakey Jakes of the world.