BERNARD KAPLAN

Sherry Lindquist started bond hearings at the fingerprint shelf at 9:45. She does taxes. Somebody had to. At 10:25 Bernard Kaplan walked into the lobby in a charcoal blazer, big glasses and a beard, and watched five minutes of shit he hadn't covered in law school.

"I'm sorry, is this a court?"

Actual attorney. Champaign, Illinois. Driving to Branson with his wife for a show. They'd stopped for gas, she'd gone to the Rexall, and he'd wandered across the square because he likes courthouses. Bless him, some men look at bass boats. Bernard found a tax preparer releasing prisoners.

"Ma'am, you can't set bail."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a lawyer."

"Where?"

"Illinois."

"Then you can't either, honey."

Bernard explained principle. Sherry explained how many people were still back yonder. Dale Bailey collected on two more while they argued. The Sheriff came out at 10:30 on a Saturday to find out what the hell needed this much explaining.

"Sir, are you licensed in Missouri?"

"No, but—"

"Then you're doing what she's doing."

Well, damn. Hard to rescue the law when the law's fixin' to put you beside it.

They booked him. In the Polaroid his mouth's a little open; he's still got some sentence left. His wife came back with Tums and found him in a cell with Louella. They made the show, barely. Bernard says he'll never look at a courthouse again. He will.