Gloating.

She was gloating on the inside, quite enjoying the defendant’s agony. It took a special kind of evil to enjoy the agony of others. She put a hand on her chest and wrapped her fingers around something just beneath the sweater she wore. A necklace of some sort, it had special meaning. It made her happy knowing she had it near, as though she wore it on purpose.

“I just —,” I started again, unable to tear my gaze away from her. “May I call for a recess?”

Part of the room gasped in horror. The rest simply looked on in horror, probably afraid to gasp aloud in the presence of the Iron Fist, a nickname Judge Quimby had earned her first year on the bench. I hoped it had more to do with her judging principles than, say, her ability to beat scrawny white chicks to a bloody pulp. I always saw the cup half full like that. Tried to see the good in any situation.

The prosecutor, ADA Parker, scrubbed his face with his fingers. He did that a lot around me.

“Fifteen-minute recess,” Judge Quimby said before pounding her gavel.

“Oh, my god,” I said to no one in particular. “It worked.”

“You,” she continued, pointing her gavel at me. “In my chambers.”

Holy crap on a cracker. This could not be good.

I looked at Ubie in helplessness and grew even more mortified when I saw the humor playing about his mouth. Annnnd we were back to Traitor Joe.

“You, too,” the judge said, scowling at Joe with a stern look of disapproval.

It took every ounce of strength I possessed not to say in a singsong voice, Ubie got in trouble.

At least I wouldn’t go down alone. I’d drag everyone with me that I could.

“What about the captain?” I called to her as people stood all around us, waiting for the bailiff to excuse them.

“Him, too,” she said.

Sweet! Surely I could deflect some of the blame for my disrespectful behavior in her courtroom over to them. They should have known better, inviting me into a courtroom. It was their own fault. This was assuming, of course, that my trespass into her courtroom was the reason for Judge Quimby’s orders. If it was about that other thing, we were all screwed.

I tossed a shrug to Reyes as we were led into the judge’s chambers. He had stiffened, not wanting to let me out of his sight, but he’d just have to hold that thought. Nothing to be done for it now.

The Iron Fist walked out of a side room, a toilet flushing in the background. “I had to go something awful.”

I knew how she felt.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” she said to Ubie and Captain Eckert as she sat behind a massive desk. It was all very stately.

Since there were only two chairs, I took that as my cue that I was meant to stand. I stepped to the side so that Ubie and the captain didn’t have to stare at my ass.

The door opened again and both the prosecutor and counsel for the defendant stepped inside. Now it was getting awkward. And cramped. The ADA scrubbed his face again when he saw me. Maybe he had allergies that made his face itchy.

“Now, Miz Davidson,” Quimby began, riffling through papers as she spoke, “what on God’s green earth made you think stepping into my courtroom was a good idea?” She stopped riffling and leveled one of her infamous glowers on me. It rivaled my own infamous death stare and was a thing to behold, especially when her top lip twitched, as it did now. I’d have to add that to my death stare. I could twitch. No, wait, I could twerk. Different body part entirely.

“I needed to talk to my uncle,” I said, hanging my head in shame. “I didn’t realize you were presiding today.”

“Really?” she asked, tapping a stack of papers into place. “The name on the door outside didn’t give it away?”

“I – I’m having problems comprehending what I’m reading today. I have a condition.”

“Interesting.” She looked over at my partners in crime. “Detective, Captain, would you care to elaborate?”

“I’ll try, Your Honor,” Ubie said. “I called her in on a case, and she needed some information. I apologize. I should have met her outside.”

“Yes, you should have. Captain?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “I got nothing.”

“I didn’t expect that you would.”

“You know,” I said, trying to put an end to the torture, “about that last incident. If I’d known that guy had schizophrenia, I never would have made that face. But daaaang, girl,” I added, going the homegirl route, “you were the bomb. I mean, those moves were tight.” I did an exaggerated head nod and threw in some gang signs for good measure.

Uncle Bob closed his eyes, unable to watch.

“Seriously, girl, the way you threw me over your shoulder like that? Sheeeee-uht. I had lower back pain for days.”

“I will hold you in contempt,” she said, her voice a dangerously low octave. “Don’t you ever pull that gangsta garbage in my presence again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. “But what if we’re at a bar and a rival gang comes up threatening to shank our asses and all we have is our wit and acting skills?”

“Are you mentally challenged?” she asked me. She was serious.

“Not that I know of.”

“Then shut up.”

“Okay.” Gah. Testy. Unlike hers, mine was a legitimate question.

“So, what were you saying about the defendant?”