POKER? He Doesn't Even KNOW Her!

Saturday morning, The Pony cleaned out T-Hoe and found a treasure. He carried it into the dark house and held it in front of the living room window with a glare of natural light behind him.

"Look. That picture Dad found in Grandma's garage when he and the ex-mayor cleaned it out."

"I can't see that, Pony. There's a glare. Bring it over here."

"You know those pictures of dogs playing poker. It's kind of like that. It's a dog in a raincoat. Dad said he brought it because it looked like me. I MEAN, he said it looked like something I'd want. I don't, really. But he brought it for me, and it was Grandma's."

"What are you going to do with it?

"I have no idea."

And I have no idea why Mom had this picture in her garage. It's not even a real picture. There's a frame. But this is like a magazine cover stuck inside. Mom never had a dog that I know of. She said when she was a kid, her dad had beagles. But she never spoke of a pet. And she only tolerated our miniature poodle, Buster. So why she had a framed picture of a dog in a raincoat, under an umbrella, is beyooooond me.

Shhh...I don't want my sister the ex-mayor's wife getting wind of our windfall. She might come a-knockin'.

Coincidence OR a Sublte Message?

Karma and Even Steven are real jokers, are they not?

After making the decision Friday afternoon to allow Pete-from-work to take the $1000 Caravan home, even though he's only paid for half of it...look what Hick and Val saw Saturday morning:

You'll have to look closely. Val is no photographer under the best of circumstances. And in a moving T-Hoe (driven by the Master Sweaver, Hick), using a hand-me-down more-than-four-year-old cell phone with no glass over the camera hole, she's barely better than a courtroom sketch artist.

Look. Not at the Dairy Queen drive-thru awning. Not the white car making its exit from the Drive-Thru Liquor Store's gravel driveway. There! Third in line waiting for the light! It's a Dodge Caravan.

WITH RED DUCT TAPE HOLDING UP THE WINDOW!

Let the record show that for all the time our vehicle has been cooling its wheels in front of the BARn, with Hick's handiwork sealing the window closed...we have not seen another one with the same repair job.

Sure, it's not exactly like our $1000 $600 $300 Caravan. Ours is maroon, and has the passenger side window held up by silver duct tape. While this one is dark blue and has the driver's window held up by red duct tape.

I wonder how much they want for it?

Do You Need Your Cockles Warmed This Evening?

As much as it pains Val to share a feel-good story with her ever-dwindling audience, she can't resist foisting this one upon her readership.

I might not have mentioned it here, but Hick is selling the $1000 Caravan to a guy at work. The deal was made in mid-October. I believe the particulars were for the low, low price of $600, with $200 paid down, and two more payments of $200 to come with successive paydays, the Caravan remaining here until paid for. The dude, let's call him Pete, gave Hick the $200 that day. The next payday came and went. He told Hick he didn't have the money because something came up. Then the next payday, he gave Hick $100. That's all we've gotten. The $1000 Caravan sits over by the barn, its silver duct tape resplendent in the evening sun, holding that passenger-side window closed so that no critters get inside to befoul the gray cloth interior. Which is really in good shape, since that most of the use has been Hick driving it to and from work (without a functioning speedometer), not hauling around a dirty, smelly soccer team.

This morning, interrupting my chair nap, Hick said that if Pete could come up with $100, he felt like letting the guy have the $1000 Caravan, and finish payments later. I agreed. As I was trying to leave work this afternoon, putting my spare shoes in a Walmart bag for The Pony to carry out, Hick called me. Because obviously he can see through the phone, and knows the most awkward moment to foist himself upon me.

"Just a minute. I need two hands. We're trying to put a pair of shoes in a bag."

That did not deter Hick. He kept right on talking. As I forgot the bottle of water I set on my desk to carry out to T-Hoe, and as I struggled to lock my classroom door with one hand, and as I stood beside T-Hoe, unable to clamber up on his running board while holding the phone to my ear.

"I'm getting ready to leave work. We had a little meeting this afternoon. Then I called Pete back to my office. 'Pete. I need to talk to you. You're not in trouble.' We sat down and I told him, 'Val and I talked this morning, and if you can come up with a hundred dollars, you can drive the van home and pay us later. You can wait until after Christmas, and after you get caught up at the first of the year. You can wait until your tax refund if you need to. And if you can only afford fifty dollars right now, that's okay, too. Let me know what you can do. Call me on Sunday and we'll talk.' And Pete started to cry!"

"Oh, no. Because he doesn't have the money? Did you make him cry? I don't want him to feel bad if he can't afford the van! We can give his money back if he needs it."

"No. He wasn't sad. He was happy. It was like he couldn't believe somebody was doing something nice for him. He just got an emergency call yesterday at the plant. It was his wife. The car she has been driving broke down in the middle of nowhere. Apparently, her and the baby--did you know he has a less-than-two-year-old baby? They had been to Walmart, and she broke down on the side of the road. So he had to leave work to go get them."

"I know they have a baby. They brought it to parent conference night, and it had a ladybug in its nose! It's a really cute baby."

"So I know he needs the van. It made me tear up when he started crying. I told him to call me Sunday. To talk it over with his wife. Even if he can't afford anything right now, to call me and we'll talk."

"As long as you didn't make him cry because he can't afford the van. It's just sitting there. I hope it still runs. I don't care how long he takes to pay. But he'll want to pay, because he made the deal."

"It runs. And it has good tires. Those studded snow tires we put on it last year or the year before. Pete is handy. He can tinker with it. I don't think anything major will go wrong."

"Well, then. He needs to come get it Sunday."

"Yeah. I think so too."

Now don't be thinking we should just give the $1000 Caravan to Pete. He's a worker. Not a charity case. I don't think he'd go for that. He might be willing to accept a hand-up. But not a handout.

The Anti-Waldo

Val has a monkey on her back. And in her pocket. And under her feet. And all over her.

Well...not so much a monkey...as HICK.

No matter where I go or what I do, there's Hick. It's uncanny. He can track me down any time of day. In any location. He should be one of those people-finders. All he'd have to do would be put a little Val scent on the folks he was tracking. He always gets his woman.

Wednesday, for example. He woke me with the thump of his left ham-arm across my torso when the alarm went off. Okay. So it's not hard to find Val when she's sleeping in the same bed right next to Hick. But we're only just beginning. After his shower, he found me in the La-Z-Boy. Still not much of a challenge. But after waking me to say how much he hates his job (more like hates being told what to do), and after feeding the dogs and making his breakfast, he came BACK to tell me some more how much he hates his job.

At school, between the time I arrived and the time I turned off my phone to start class, Hick sent me a text that he loves me. Yeah, yeah. I figured that. Or he would have hit the highway long ago. At lunch, Hick sent me another text wishing me a good day. At 3:30, he called to tell me he was on the way home to meet the roofer about another estimate on our hail-shingles.

When The Pony and I got home, here came Hick. Right into the garage as The Pony was trying to smuggle in a gift for him to hide under his bed. Good thing I had made him wrap it up in my coat. To stall Hick from opening up the back of T-Hoe, just trying to help, The Pony loaded his arms with lunch sack, backpack, school bag, and my purse, plus the mail and a loose physics book. "Dad. Can you get this door for me? I don't have a hand to turn the doorknob."

Distracted, Hick went to open the garage people-door. He came back and opened up the passenger door of T-Hoe. "That's okay. We can get it."

"All right. I'm going to fill up a box with wood for Genius. He wants to make a bonfire Saturday night. We'll take it to him." Because there is no wood in college town, I suppose. Even at a rental house with a large yard and trees all around the back.

I went inside. The Pony smuggled the gift. I changed clothes and was putting a load of laundry into the washer when Hick walked in.

"Oh. There you are again."

"Yeah."

"Well, I haven't started supper yet. I just got home. I was putting in this laundry. I was going to read the mail. And now here you are again."

"Okay. I'll go back outside."

As soon as supper was done, I sent Hick a text. Wednesday is Survivor night for Val and The Pony. We take our meal down to the basement in our haste to watch our show. "Supper is ready. I'm out of the kitchen. Genius sent a letter. It's on the counter." Hick had wanted to make his own supper of eggs he wrestled out of the mouths of Poor Dumb Ann and Sweet, Sweet Juno, along with leftover Thanksgiving ham.

I took my meal down to my dark basement lair. No sooner had I fired up my New Delly and taken a bite than there was Hick. Standing behind me. Not quite as stealthy as The Sidler. In no need of TicTacs in his pocket. Because I had heard his footless ankles stumping down each of the 13 steps.

"That Genius! I KNEW I was right about his typewriter."

"Yeah." Heavy sigh.

"What?"

"It's just that...you're always around me. I need some time to decompress. Some alone time. I've been around people all day. It's like I can't get away from you."

"Oh. Okay." Stump stump stump stump stump stump stump stump stump stump stump stump stump.

He's gonna hafta CHILL when we both retire. He's like the Anti-Waldo.

HERE'S WALDO.

Val Thevictorian Tips the Scales of Justice

Order in the court! All rise. The honorable Mrs. Val Thevictorian will now continue with her story of courtroom intrigue. You may be seated.

Let's get down to brass tacks. I don't want to specify the nature of this case, but it is not funny in the least. I am not making light of the issue. Far from it. Sometimes, you gotta laugh to keep from crying. Or laugh after you are almost crying out loud in front of 70-something people. So bear with me. Let's just say this case involved a word that sounds like the shape of Lady Liberty, and a word that has its root in the sister city of Gomorrah. The prosecutor made that clear right up front. The incident allegedly occurred with a child who was then 9-10 years old. There would be four witnesses giving testimony. The child. The mother. The therapist who was told the details by the child (and a video of it), and the police officer who took the initial report. Let the record show that the plaintiff, the mother, and the defendant all had the same last name.

As with all jury proceedings, the attorneys first question the pool of peers to see if there is any reason they cannot be fair and impartial. From whether they are related to, or acquainted with, any of the parties involved. Then they inquire as to whether any of us have been party to an event such as the charges made against the defendant. With a case of this sensitive nature, we were instructed that we did not have to elaborate on our personal experiences. Simply raising a hand and giving the basics was okay. OR we could go to the bailiff individually during a break, and speak privately about our reservations of impartiality. The members of our group did not seem shy about sharing.

"I am a survivor of rape. I do not think I can be impartial."

"It happened to me. I think he is guilty."

"I am a victim of abuse. I don't think I can be fair."

"I put away my son for the same thing. He's in prison. I will not let it happen to somebody else's grandaughters."

"When I was a babysitter, it happened to me. I can't be fair."

Some of them were shaky. Some spoke with determination. But they all did exactly what the rule of law calls for, and informed the court that they could not give that man a fair trial if chosen. I was wondering from the beginning if I could be fair. Lefty had talked about going to a jury orientation, and a group where they heard evidence and decided if there was reason to go to trial. "Most of it was about sexual abuse. Child abuse. It would break your heart. It's hard to listen to that time after time."

"I don't know. If it involved a kid, I don't know if I could be fair. I've spent my whole life working with kids. I don't know if I could do it."

And then THIS. The charges in the trial. So I was uncomfortable. I had not put up my hand when the prosecutor questioned the jury pool. Was that fair? I figured those other people had it so much worse than me. That it would look like I was just trying to get out of getting picked. Because the prosecutor said the trial was expected to go well into the evening, possibly into the night, and perhaps into the early morning hours. Which gave another group of possible picks a reason to disqualify themselves.

"I've had a hip replacement. It's hard for me to sit here. Even this long."

"I am scheduled for a hip replacement in two weeks. It is very painful for me to sit."

"I had my left hip replaced, and I'm scheduled to get my right one replaced. I am in a lot of pain when sitting."

"I am pregnant. Due on Christmas day. It is very uncomfortable for me to sit."

"Did you ask your doctor for a note?"

"Yes. He said, 'Pregnancy is not a disability.'"

"That's because HE was never preganant!"

"You have a crappy doctor!"

I swear, you could see that fetus writhing beneath her t-shirt. We were afraid she might give birth right there in the second row.

The prosecutor finished, and the cute young Defense Dude began to address the crowd. He led with a big, "GOOD MORNING!" The response was less than stellar. It was kind of less than the dim lights over Val's kitchen table. "Let me try that again. HELLO!"

Lefty could not control herself. "HELLO!" You could hear her over the whole crowd. Who had just kind of mumbled.

Defense Dude took a step towards her. Looked her in the eye. "That's more like it. Hello." He went on with some sports analogies. They went over like a lead Hindenburg.

Left turned to me and whispered. "He was so cute. Then he had to open his mouth."

Defense Dude also had a visual aid, which I had seen him carry into the courtroom. It was a science fair display board, black, with manila folders and notebook paper taped to it. Seriously. A third-grader could have done it better. Or at least the third-grader's parents. Defense Dude should have had his mom help him. He held it up like it was the most advanced visual aid ever carried into a courtroom.

"This is what you have to ask yourself. Can you say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that my client is guilty of the charges? You must be sure, beyond reasonable doubt, of each of these five items." He let down the flap of each manila folder as he went along, pulling out a red push-pin. Inside each folder was drawn, in red colored marker, a question mark. To the right of each folder was a piece of notebook paper, labeled. Who. What. When. Where. How.

Defense Dude also asked if we expected crime scene evidence. "It's not always like on TV. We don't do that stuff. But would you be able to convict without a doctor's report? Or a doctor's testimony? Would you be able to convict if the defendant decided not to testify? Would you think he was trying to hide something? I bet none of you got up this morning, drove to the courthouse thinking, 'Gee...I wonder that Joe Blow is not guilty of?' Did you? No. You most likely were thinking, 'I wonder what Joe Blow is guilty of?' Right?"

The prospective juror who said this happened to her said, "No. We didn't know his name yet."

"Oh. So you think he's guilty, even before you hear any of the facts?"

"He IS guilty!"

Let the record show that at this point, the defendant leaned his head over the table and cried. Silently. Until his assistant DA gave him a tissue.

Defense Dude got crackin'. "Is there anybody who has not already stated they could not be fair and impartial who has anything to add? Any questions I should be asking?"

Then I couldn't stop myself. My hand went up.

"Over here. Juror number <REDACTED>."

"I have been a teacher for 28 years. I have spent my life working with kids. I am afraid I would believe the child. I would not be fair and impartial."

Lefty let out a gigantic sigh. She had visions of us being picked together to serve on this jury. At the break, she said, "Well, they'll never pick you now. But I understand. You were about to cry, weren't you. I heard it in your voice. I saw you tear up."

"We're not supposed to discuss anything relating to the case. But next time, I'll tell you."

Here's the thing. I know sometimes kids lie. I know that sometimes kids are persuaded to lie, convinced to lie, given false memories by a divorced parent in order to get revenge on the ex-spouse. But once you've worked with kids who have been abused, you always want to err on the side of the kid. Do whatever you can to let them feel safe again. No matter how much I tried, I don't think I could have given the defendant an equal chance to prove his innocence. Which is not fair to the defendant.

Let the record show that Val was not chosen for the jury. But the case is still on her mind.

Val Has Her Day in Court

I had a bad feeling about it. Before it even started. No matter how many times I called that information line, I got the same answer: the case for my scheduled day of civic duty judging my peers was still on.

I even told The Pony on the way to school. Uh huh. Somebody has to drop him off, you know. It's not like he has his driver's license. "I am not looking forward to this, Pony. I feel sick. Like I might throw up. I don't get it. I've served on a jury before. I know where I'm going. I have plenty of time. I know where I'm parking. But something is off. Something makes me dread it today."

Foreshadowing, people. My keen psychic sense was trying to ease me into it. Like that joke with the punchline: "Grandma's up on the roof."

You might recall that the last time I appeared in court, I was member number--whoa, Nelly! You don't think I can give out that information, do you? I was one referred to by the defense attorney as EXTRA! One who had no chance of being chosen. Let the record show that THIS time, I parked T-Hoe down by the liquor store, gingerly-stepped my unhappy knees up the differently-abled ramp to the courthouse like a 1980 Olds Toronado up the cut-backs to Pike's Peak, presented myself to the clerk handing out number badges, and noticed that she did not look flustered in hearing my name. Do you know why? Because she immediately glanced down and struck a line through me. Like I was Sean Thornton, and Will Danaher told her to write down my name and strike a line through it! And it was easy, you see, because there was only ONE name ahead of me. Making me member of the peer panel number--aha! Thought you'd trick me, eh? I can't tell you my number!

Clerk pointed out the stairs, but since I'm a regular there, I walked across her outstretched arm. If somebody is so blind they can't see the steps right there in the center of the courthouse, they need to not sit in judgment on a trial, methinks. Especially since this one had visual aids. But I'm foreshadowing again...

The wood-paneled elevator took me one floor up, to the more modern courtroom. Shinier pews. Carpeted floor, not as creaky. I was immediately show to a seat right up front. Thank goodness there was no CRAZY EYES across the rail from me this day. My peers trickled in. The one on my left had been near me on my previous legal outing. We chatted about old times. Old CRAZY EYES. About our spouses. Children. Lefty was surprised to hear that The (famous pictures-in-the-paper) Pony was my son. We had plenty of time, because once again, we did not get started until an hour and a half after our reporting time. Counsel came and went. Lefty was quite excited about the defense dude, a young thing with spiky black hair and an athlete's build. "I know I'm married...but I can LOOK!"

"Do you want me to hold up a sign in front of you that says, 'Pick ME!' right before the recess?"

"No. I would never ask you to do that. Hold one up in front of yourself, with an arrow pointed at me, that says, 'Pick HER!'"

While chatting, I learned that on Lefty's previous case, when the group was asked the standard question of whether anyone had a reason they could not stay for the whole day and possibly late into the night if chosen...a man raised his hand and stood up. "I'm going to be honest with you. I've had a couple of drinks." Well. He was told he could leave!

"I should have thought of that! How simple! Of course, word would probably get back to my school..."

"Yeah. You'd make the news."

"I'd be on the front page of the paper, next to a picture of my son..."

"One for being so smart. One for being not very."

"Yeah. Not a good idea. But I DID park down by the liquor store. Not in front. I figured why block their customers. You know. The ones headed up here with us."

I sent a text to The Pony. "Hey. I'm here. I am juror number REDACTED."

Then came his response. "Oh, CRAP!" Because, you see, if I was tied up (just an expression, I'm pretty sure they don't allow that, even here in Missouri), his father (you know, HICK) would have to pick him up from school.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Hick's Words Of Wisdom Concerning the Legal System

Val is a time traveler tonight. She'll type up this tale and it will appear Monday evening while Val is elsewhere. She's magic like that.

Jury duty looms Monday morning. No matter how many times I call that information line, I cannot get the message I want to hear. So plans have been left, The Pony will be dropped off, I will drive to the courthouse in bill-paying town, I will drive back to pick up The Pony after school and attend the First Monday faculty meeting (if not chosen for jury), and then drive BACK to bill-paying town for an appointment of The Pony's after stopping by the bank on the way during one of those trips. Yes. A regular day of work is preferable to jury duty.

Sunday morning, I may or may not have complained to Hick. It's so rare that I voice my displeasure with anything, I seriously doubt that a cross word exited my lips. But for some reason, Hick told me to call the courthouse and tell them I couldn't be there.

"Tell them you take a water pill and you can't sit in the courtroom that long."

"That's not going to work. They won't even take a doctor's note from people who really have something wrong with them. They'll issue a bench warrant if I don't show up. Remember, like when the process server brought those papers for you to go to court over the lawnmower incident?"

"That was the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!"

"I know. And YOU were the one pressing charges!"

"Yeah. And after missing three days of work because they would continue the trial every time I showed up, I told them to stick it. I told the judge that I was done. I wasn't pressing charges anymore. It was the judge's secretary, I guess. The clerk. And she said, 'You can't do that!' And I told her, 'You watch me. I'm not coming back. I don't want to press charges. I've lost too much money missing work for three days. That kid has served more time in the county jail waiting for his trial than than he'll get if you convict him. I think he's learned his lesson. I'm done with it!' And then she went off to talk to the judge, and came back, and of course they made it sound like it was their decision, so I didn't have to go back."

"That kid never did have a nickel. He had a stringy mullet haircut, and Dollar Store tennis shoes that were falling apart, and he was thin as a rail. He probably ate better at the jail than he did at home. I don't know how he had the strength to carry that riding mower over the swinging bridge."

"Yeah. But the other kid was loaded. His parents had all kinds of money."

"So HE got bailed out, I guess. I didn't know him. And he would have gotten off anyway, probably, because he'd have had a good lawyer."

"More than likely. Just tell them that you're a racist or something. So you don't get picked."

"That case I had to serve on, I THOUGHT I had it covered. It was about eminent domain. So I made sure to say I was against it. That I had strong feelings about it because the highway department took our land behind the house to put in that road. My dad was bitter because they paid almost nothing. And I'll be darned if they didn't PICK ME! I was about #40, too. I should have not said anything. I'm sure the guy who was suing the state had his lawyer pick me. Because he thought I'd give him more money. That's what the trial was for. It was a done deal. We just had to decide on the award. It was kind of interesting, though. We had a bunch of expert witnesses, and one of our jury questions was how much each witness was being paid to testify. One guy got $5000! He was from the DNR. The local realtor only got a couple of hundred dollars. That would have killed her to find that out. She really thought she was something. She's the one who lied and said she climbed down in that 15-foot hold where the gas tank had been, all by herself, and then out again."

"Some people don't realize they oughta just take what they're offered and not go to trial. The guy would have had to pay the lawyer and the witnesses out of his money. And didn't you say that one went late?"

"Yeah. We were there until after 10:00 at night."

"Now that lady I ran over with the city truck? She should have just taken what we offered, which was $25,000 and her medical bills. She only broke her arm."

"Well. YOU broke her arm. When you ran over her with the truck."

"Still. Seven years later, it goes to trial, and she only ended up getting $33,000. No medical bills. So she would have been better off to settle in the beginning, and not pay the lawyer for the trial. She would have come out ahead."

"Hindsight. If she had that, she may not have gotten run over by you."