Things were slow today, no doubt in part because of the weather. Only a few cars and trucks were parked in her farmyard, mostly patrol cars and the chief’s blue sedan.

I saw two figures, both heavily bundled, pacing up and down in the snow nearby. One I recognized as a local attorney who specialized in representing drunk drivers. He appeared to be lecturing the other figure, and I noticed a deputy standing just outside the barn door, watching them. This time of year, the lack of conference rooms made for some pretty brisk attorney-client meetings.

Rob nodded to the deputy and hurried inside. I stopped to say hello—it was Vern Shiffley.

“She in a good mood?” I asked, nodding toward the barn.

“With one of her own family arrested for something like this?” Vern shook his head. “Man, will I be glad to get out of here.”

I braced myself and stepped inside.

The interior of the barn was warm, and humid from the breath of all the two-and four-legged creatures within. I inhaled the rich farm odor, a composite of hay, feed grain, and manure.

This end of the barn was a wide corridor flanked by stalls and boxes. Several of Judge Jane’s Morgan horses or prize Guernsey cows peered over the stall doors as if interested in the proceedings going on at the far end. I started slightly when I heard a duck quack almost underfoot, but it turned out to be a large buff-colored duck—presumably one of the Saxony ducks I’d heard Judge Jane raised, rather than yet another refugee from St. Byblig’s.

Judge Jane was sitting in state on the judge’s bench, which was formed by putting an antique captain’s chair on the bed of an old farm wagon. The chair was pulled up close to the raised driver’s seat, so the judge would have a place to stow any documents she needed close at hand—and more importantly, so she’d have a good solid surface on which to pound her gavel, which she tended to do a lot when presiding.

A dozen or so of the judge’s black-and-brown hound dogs lay sleeping in piles of hay, either in the bed of the wagon or on the barn floor, as close as they could get to the judge’s feet. The dogs weren’t fond of loud voices, overlarge gestures, or anything they suspected was a threat toward their mistress. Their menacing stares and occasional low growls usually kept most defendants and attorneys from getting anywhere near a contempt of court citation. Judge Jane called the dogs her assistant bailiffs.