“Yo. Guilty.”
“Falk, Lemuel.”
The judge stops applying lipstick and surveys the courtroom. The bailiff, the lawyers, the court stenographer twist in their seats to get a good look at the man who answers to the name of Falk, Lemuel.
“Falk, Lemuel,” the bailiff calls again.
Rain elbows Lemuel in the ribs. “The fix is in,” she whispers. “You cough up thirty dollars for the fine and you’ll be out of here like Vladimir.”
Lemuel climbs to his feet. He clears his throat. He raises his chin. “In a civilized country the man driving the tractor would be on trial,” he tells the court. “He almost killed me.”
The judge handles Falk with kid gloves. “The court notes you signed a charge sheet acknowledging trespass.”
Lemuel shakes his head. “That is
