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They said their lawyer would be late, the judge asked the clerk if the lawyer had called the clerk’s office, and the clerk said no. At that point the judge stated that their son’s case would not be heard until 3:00 P.M. The father began to say something, but the clerk had already begun calling the next case.
    As the trio hesitatingly sat back down, I saw the giant court officer in the side aisle pull even with my row and roll his gaze toward me as he walked back toward the only public entrance. His was the beefy, now not-quite-as-stupid face I’d seen in the car that had swerved at me the day before. He had a fringe of wispy blond hair around, and combed in ridiculously long strands across, his balding head. I didn’t follow him with my eyes to the back of the room, but no sound came from the central door, which had squeaked a bit when opened by a latecomer a moment before. So much for my concerned-parent cover.
    The next case was a Bonham police matter. The defendant’s name was called, and the defendant and her attorney answered “Ready.” No one, however, answered for the Bonham police, which, like most Massachusetts departments, prosecutes its own minor cases through a senior officer instead of tying up an assistant district attorney. A young, clean-cut guy within the bar enclosure (who turned out to be the Meade police prosecutor) stood up haltingly. He said, “Your Honor, I believe the Bonham police prosecutor is on the telephone arranging to bring in a witness.” The judge glared down at him. “Case dismissed for lack of prosecution.” I was stunned, but the young cop/prosecutor gamely tried a stall. “If Your Honor please. I can run back and—”
    “Case dismissed!” boomed the judge, whose microphone was set, I suspect, a bit higher than anyone else’s. The defendant and her lawyer got the hell out as fast as their feet would carry them.
    And so it went. Of the twenty or so preliminary rulings I saw Kinnington make, at least six 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