Leonard Blick had been a member of the New York bench for twelve years, seven months and nine days, and the last time he'd been surprised by any occurrence in his court had been some twelve years, seventh months and three days ago, when a prostitute had dropped her pants in front of him in an effort to prove she couldn't have solicited the undercover police officer since it was the wrong time of the month. Having gaveled that enterprising young woman into her clothing and out of his courtroom, Judge Blick had settled down to year after year of ordinary drunks, thieves, wife beaters, non-supportive ex-husbands, traffic-ticket scofflaws and Army deserters, with nothing ever to attract his attention. A few murderers had come before him for their preliminary hearings, but they'd been of no interest; they were the sort of murderer who pulls a knife in the middle of a barroom argument. It was all so dull, so drab, so tediously predictable, that more than once Judge Blick had said to his wife Blanche, in their pleasant airy home in Riverdale, "If I ever get an interesting crook in front of me, I'll let the son of a bitch go." But it had never happened, and of course it never would.

"Thirty dollars or thirty days," he announced to a defendant of such low quality that the fellow actually started adding things up on his fingers. "Next case."

"Bail to be set at five hundred dollars. Remand in the custody of–"

"License suspended for ninety days."

"–to be enjoined from communication of any kind with the said ex-wife–"

"Bail to be set at four thousand dollars. Remand in the custody of–"

"–to be turned over to the military authorities at–"

"Bail to be set at seven hundred fifty dollars. Remand–"

"Bail to be set at forty-seven dollars." (Complaint from the public defender.) "You're quite right, Counselor, I wasn't thinking. Bail to be set at eight hundred dollars. Next case."

The next case, according to the papers on Judge Blick's desk, was a grand larceny. Not very grand; the fellow had been caught stealing television sets from a repair shop. John Archibald Dortmunder, unemployed, forty years of age, two convictions and prison terms for robbery, no other convictions, no known source of income, being represented by an attorney appointed by the court. A loser, obviously. Another dull fellow, another dull crime, another dull two and a half minutes in the judicial career of the Honorable Leonard Blick.

A stir in the courtroom, as of a sudden breeze across a cornfield, caused Judge Blick to look up from his papers at the two men approaching the bench. It was clear which was the defendant; that thin glum-looking fellow in the gray suit with the lumpy shoulders. But who was that striding next to him, causing shock waves of astounded recognition among the pews of drunks and whores and lawyers? Judge Blick frowned once more at the papers before him. "Attorney: Willard Beecom." He looked up again, and that was no Willard Beecom advancing on the bench, that was–

J. Radcliffe Stonewiler! By God, it really was! One of the most famous lawyers in the country, a man whose nose for the glamorous, the wealthy and the powerful was only matched by his instinct for publicity. If an enraged actress smashed a paparazzo on the head with his own camera, it was J. Radcliffe Stonewiler who defended her from the charge of assault. If a rock group was found smuggling heroin into the country, J. Radcliffe Stonewiler was certain to be there for the defense. And who would defend an Arab oil minister from a paternity suit lodged in a Los Angeles court? Who else but J. Radcliffe Stonewiler.

So what in Blackstone's name was the man doing here?

For the first time in his judicial career, Judge Blick was hornswoggled.

And so was almost everybody else in court. The spectators murmured to one another like a crowd scene in a Cecil B. DeMille movie. Never had Judge Blick's court seen such excitement, not even when that hooker dropped her drawers. About the only person not impressed by it all – except the defendant himself, who simply stood there like a ragman's horse, gloomy and fatalistic – was Judge Blick's bailiff, who arose and read out the charge in his usual sloppy-dictioned way, at the finish requesting the defendant's plea.

It was Stonewiler who answered, in a large, round, confident voice, announcing, "Not guilty."

Not guilty? Not guilty? Judge Blick stared. What an idea! The concept of somebody entering his courtroom who was not guilty was so startling as to verge on the physically impossible. Judge Blick frowned at the defendant – who was guilty as hell, you could tell it by looking at the man – and repeated, "Not guilty?"

"Completely not guilty, Your Honor," Stonewiler declared. "It is my hope," he continued, declaiming as though for multitudes, "to prevent, with Your Honor's assistance, a tragic miscarriage of justice."

"With my assistance eh?" Judge Blick narrowed his beady eyes. No funny business in my courtroom, he told himself, and said to the bailiff, "Is the arresting officer here?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Officer Fahey! Officer Fahey!"

Officer Fahey, a huge beefy Irishman in dark blue, came confidently forward, was sworn, and told a simple story. He had been on radio-car patrol with his partner, Officer Flynn, and they had started a routine check of an alley behind a row of stores when they saw the defendant – "That fella right there" – emerging from a doorway with a pair of TV sets in his hands. The fella had frozen in their lights, they had stepped out of the car to investigate, and they had found approximately thirty other TVs and similar appliances stacked just inside the door, apparently for easy removal to the defendant's automobile, parked nearby. The defendant had made no statement, and had been arrested, advised of his rights, brought to the precinct and booked.

Judge Blick listened to this tale with the soothing calm of long familiarity. How nicely policemen testified! Thud thud thud came the facts, each word following inexorably like the brogans of a cop walking his beat. Judge Blick nearly smiled as he listened to it, this gentle lullaby, and at the end said, "That seems very straightforward, Officer."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Judge Blick turned a suspicious eye on defendant's counsel. "Does Counsel wish to cross-examine?"

J. Radcliffe Stonewiler, smiling and at his ease, bowed his gracious thanks. "If Your Honor pleases, I would reserve the right to question the officer a bit later. Not that I have any argument with his presentation of what he himself observed. I consider that an excellent recital of the facts, and I would like to congratulate Officer Fahey on the clarity and precision of his testimony. Perhaps a bit later we could clear up one or two minor points together, but for now I would like my client sworn, and with Your Honor's permission I would ask him to tell his story."

"Certainly, Counselor," Judge Blick replied and the defendant was duly sworn and seated, and proceeded to tell the following absurd story:

"My name is John Archibald Dortmunder, and I reside by myself at 217 East 19th Street. In my past life I led a life of crime, but after my second fall, when I was on parole, I gave all that up and became a square citizen. I got out the last time three years ago, and while I was on the inside everything changed in the movies. When I went inside, there were two kinds of movies, one kind that you went to a movie and you saw it and one kind that you went to a smoker or some guy's garage and you saw it, and it was people, uh, men and women. But when I got out, there weren't any more smokers, and that kind of movie was in the regular movie houses. I never saw one of them in a movie house, and I was curious about it, so last night I went to a different neighborhood where nobody knew me, and I parked my car in an alley so nobody would recognize it, and I went to look at a movie called Sex Sorority."