At that moment Irving Williams, with his lawyer behind him, walked out of the courtroom. And the twenty-five bearded black men followed them. The black detective remained sitting at the counsel table until the Clerk asked him to make way for counsel on the next case. The detective got up slowly, gathered his few papers, tightened his belt again and moved over, his head held down, to a seat on the right side of the courtroom.

“Philomena Brown!” the Clerk called. “Philomena Brown! Come into Court!”

The fat whore got up from beside Jimmy Mulligan and walked heavily over to the counsel table and lowered herself into one of the chairs. Her lawyer was talking to Ralph, the Italian boy’s counsel.

“Do a good job, Jimmy, please,” Ralph said. “Old Bloom is gonna be awful mean now.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “I got to really work on him.”

One of the old men on the second row leaned over the back of the bench and said to Jimmy: “Ain’t that the one that’s married to a nigger?”

“That’s her,” said Jimmy.

“She’s gonna catch hell. Make sure they give her hell.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “I don’t see how I’m gonna be able to try this with a straight face.”

“Do a good job for me, please, Jimmy,” said Ralph. “The kid’s name is Angelico. Ain’t that a beautiful name? He ain’t a bad kid.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll do it.” Then Jimmy moved over to the table next to his client.

The defendant and the arresting officer were sworn in. The arresting officer acted for the state as prosecutor and its only witness. He had to refer to his notes from time to time while the Judge paced behind his bench, his head down, ponderous and impatient. Then Philomena Brown got in the witness box and rested her great weight against its sides. She glared at the Judge, at the Clerk, at the officer in the box on the other side, at Jimmy Mulligan, at the old men smiling up and down the second row, and at everyone in the courtroom. Then she rested her eyes on the officer.