They paid no attention to the surveyor walking off the job with his bright yellow equipment. The divorce turned out favorably for Judge Endo. In return, he gave Tittle the appointment, as promised in their bartering agreement.

Magistrate Tittle’s guilt grew with the years. He became increasingly depressed and intimidated when Judge Endo called from time to time to remind him of the favor and the necessity of going to the grave, in this case Hollywood Cemetery, with the secret swap that had brought about Tittle’s dream-come-true. Magistrate Tittle never told a soul.

He confessed his sin to God and swore to make restitution. Tittle took photographs no more. He resigned from the barter club. He reported its members to the IRS. He turned in the neighbor who illegally hooked up cable. Tittle exposed the lady in the grocery store who was trying to pass expired manufacturers’ coupons. He admitted when something was his fault. He was humble and hardworking.

Magistrate Tittle became known for his zero tolerance of felons, fools, rotten kids and stupid cops. He was admired for his fairness and truth if one was unjustly accused. This was both good and bad for Officer Rhoad, who had not made an arrest in over twenty years. When Rhoad had flipped through the Virginia code, looking for charges to bring against Patty Passman, he had been certain Magistrate Tittle would empathize and go with life imprisonment with no TV or chances for appeals and lawsuits.

Tittle was reaching back to the coffeemaker to pour another cup, his grim gray suit jacket draped over a chair, when Officer Rhoad appeared at his window.

“I need to get some warrants,” Rhoad said.

“What makes you think I can see you right this minute,” said Tittle.

“Because you don’t look busy, I guess.”

“Well, I am,” he said through the small opening in the bulletproof glass. “I should make you sit over there for an hour or two, but I’m about to go home. So let’s get this over with.”

Tittle shoved out a metal drawer. Rhoad placed his thick stack of arrest sheets in it. Tittle pulled them in and started looking through them. Tittle was silent for a long time while Rhoad watched through the glass.

“Officer?” Tittle finally spoke. “You ever heard of piling on charges?”

“Certainly,” said Rhoad, who was used to quotas and assumed the magistrate was paying him a compliment.

“Use of police radio during commission of a crime,” Tittle started going through the charges.

“Obstructing justice. Subject did knowingly attempt to impede this officer from engaging in his duties.”

Tittle went to the next one. “Using abusive language.”

“You should have heard her,” Rhoad indignantly said.

“Disorderly conduct in public places. Resisting or obstructing execution of legal process.” Tittle peered up over his reading glasses. “Crimes against nature?”

“She grabbed me.” Rhoad’s face got hot.

“She carnally knew you by anus?”

“No, sir.”

“What about by mouth.”

“Just the things she said.”

“This isn’t about things said, officer. What about bestiality?”