Blunt Darts

were similarly outrageous; yet he seemed to favor neither police nor defendants as a class. Each decision seemed exactly arbitrary, depending upon which party hap- * pened to appear to be giving the most affront to the judge’s sense of how his time was to be used. I’m sure all six rulings were technically defensible. The point was that it was clear to everyone in the courtroom that the rulings were unfair and showed an incredible disregard for common sense.
    I almost forgot. About six names (or three minutes) after the “case-dismissed” defendant, the central doors squeaked and a fiftyish, crew-cut guy in a brown double-knit blazer and baggy blue slacks hustled down the center aisle. I recognized him from the Bonham pistol range. He entered the bar enclosure and sat down hurriedly next to the young police prosecutor who’d stood up for him. The young one whispered to him. The old one turned to him with a look of disbelief on his face and half-rose from his chair. He sunk back down, faced front, and bowed his head. He then pounded the counsel table three times silently with his fist.
    After the criminal cases had been called, the judge muttered something to the clerk, who turned to the judge and then turned back around with a surprised look on his face. “Court will recess for thirty minutes,” he announced.
    “All rise,” shouted the elderly court officer as the judge scampered off the bench as quickly as he had ascended it and exited through the same door.
    “Shit, man, we’re gonna be here all fuckin’ day,” said the kid next to me to his friend as they got up and edged past me. About half the courtroom’s population decided to do the same. I could feel the exodus clearing from the aisle, when a five-pound ham dropped on my shoulder. A gruff, egg-breathed voice said, “His Honor wants to see you in his chambers. Now.”
    I put on my most indifferent face and swiveled my head around. The giant’s eyes were small and mean.
    “I don’t expect any special treatment, you know,” I said mildly.
    “Now.”
    I got up, and we walked abreast to a side door just fonvard of the right-hand seating area. I decided Giant was pushing six feet seven and maybe three hundred pounds. Giant used a key on the door. I moved before he could shove me through it. We entered a narrow corridor with PRIVATE stenciled on the painted walls. We made a sharp left and walked into a small outer office with a striking brunette secretary behind the reception desk. She gave me a quick look, as if she didn’t want to be able to say later on that she recognized the body. Giant rapped a knuckle twice on the heavy-looking inner door and then pushed it open and motioned me in ahead of him. I walked in and glimpsed reddish hair behind the cloud of light blue cigar smoke hanging over a big desk. Then I was whirled around against the wall. I heard the door slam, and Giant said, “Assume the position.”
    I did so, with my hands outstretched on the wall, and Giant spread my legs a little wider. He locked one foot inside my right one and gave me a rough upper-body patdown.
    When I was in army officer training, a military-police major always said to be sure to check a man’s crotch for a weapon. When I was actually in the field, a military-police sergeant showed me how to bring the frisking hand up just right to ring the friskee’s chimes without any abrupt motion being apparent to an onlooker. I looked down as Giant started his hand up the inside of my right calf, saw the telltale turning of his wrist, and shifted my weight to the left just in time to catch most of his goose on my inner right thigh. Nevertheless, I heard a gentle tinkle of bells.
    Giant snickered and moved back from me as I straightened up.
    “He’s clean, Your Honor,” he said—“and smart.”
    “Please be seated, Mr. Cuddy.”
    No surprise there. Giant had probably read my plates when I pulled out of the judge’s driveway yesterday. One call to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, one call to the Boston police, and one call by them to the Copley Square rent-a-car would have produced the information. Still, I had a feeling that Mrs. Kinnington would be disappointed in me. I also didn’t like being roughhoused, even a little, by Giant. But I liked the judge’s style sufficiently less that I maintained my composure and dignity. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I sat.
    “Why were you visiting my mother yesterday?”
    “Does Baby Huey have to hear all