Maybe Rob thought I was kidding about the roads. I wasn’t. Judge Jane Shiffley’s farm was about as far as you could get from the center of town and still be in Caerphilly County. To go there, you drove along the Clay County Road to within a mile of the county line, then turned off onto a smaller, gravel-paved road for several grueling miles, and then onto an even smaller dirt road for the final stretch. I was fully expecting the plowed roadway to end long before we reached the county line.

But I was surprised. The main road continued clear until we got to the point where we turned off on the gravel road to Judge Jane’s farm. After that, I could see that we’d have needed a sleigh to continue on the main road, but fortunately the gravel road was as neatly and thoroughly plowed as the main road had been up to the turnoff.

“Well, why not?” Rob said when I pointed this out. “After all, why would anybody want to go to Clay County at the best of times?”

“Someone could want to go through Clay County,” I suggested. “To Tappahannock, maybe?”

“Then they’d be out of luck when they hit the county line,” Rob said. “I don’t think Clay County has working snowplows anymore. They figure anyone who can’t be bothered to buy a truck with four-wheel drive can just wait till it thaws.”

He had a point. But here in Caerphilly, even the final stretch of dirt road was pretty clear—obviously the Shiffley clan, who had the plowing contract, took good care of their aunt Jane. Or maybe they’d gotten into the habit of plowing her road this way a few years ago when the county had temporarily lost possession of its town hall and Jane’s barn was the only courthouse available—just as she was the only judge not either in jail or under indictment.

I could recall summer days when court was in session in her barn and the entire dirt road would be lined with cars. You could see lawyers and their clients pacing up and down in the pastures, since that was the only way to have a private conversation, given the absence of conference rooms. People waiting for their cases to be called would often picnic by the side of the road, and a couple of deputies would patrol the area, making sure defendants and the witnesses against them weren’t thrown too close together. Some of the local churches and civic organizations set up stands to sell lemonade and sodas, while the children took turns riding the several gentle old horses Judge Jane kept around for her own grandchildren.

Even though the town had reclaimed its courthouse, the judge still often preferred to hear cases in her barn, and most of the time, nobody much minded.