By mid-morning I had arrived at the county courthouse in response to an “urgent” request by County Judge R. In Kentucky, the county Judge-Executive is the chief elected official and chair of the “Fiscal Court” which serves as the county’s ruling management and legislative body. I’m happy to say that the Judge-Executive has no judicial powers, and has had none for the last 40 or 50 years. Nonetheless, these county administrators yield considerable political power.
When I checked in at his office, Judge R was occupied in fixing a traffic ticket for a loyal constituent. I walked across the hall to the restroom to drain my radiator. Inside I was there were no stalls, but rather, I was presented with two commodes quite in the open, one occupied. There sat a pleasant fellow reading the county bird cage liner. Noticing my hesitation, the reader waved me on in with a hearty welcome. I am not at all shy, but I credit myself as remarkably brave in accomplishing my task with the appearance of poise and equanimity.
Relieved of my discomfort, I met with the judge. He apologized for keeping me waiting while he helped out an old friend who always reminded the winner of an election that he had voted for him and so did all his cousins, regardless of the truth. A fine old feller, the judge said, but half drunk half the time. Judge R took me to lunch at a diner near the river and after sharing a plate of fried vegetables (I declined the chicken), he set me on my task. This involved getting signatures on some document, I forget what it was, from two parties. It required driving to two separate towns in another two counties at some distance.
As the sun was setting I crossed the river bridge and headed back to the courthouse. The old building was open and His Honor was on the phone making another deposit to the favor bank. He thanked me profusely for bringing the executed documents and apologized for keeping me so late.
I told him it wasn’t a problem. In that job I often worked well into the night but it did concern me a good deal that in that county a disagreement was generally settled by gunfire. The local County Attorney got pissed at his son-in-law a few months prior and put two slugs in the young boy. An employee of mine was on the grand jury for that one but it failed to indict: she told me that after all, the boy lived. Another employee of mine had done his own shooting I discovered. Ten years before he shot the Postmaster dead on the steps of the Post Office. Told me the fellow was foolin’ with his wife and anyway, he drew first.
I said I was glad to help but I was eager to cross the river to home before it was fully dark. But why? Well, hell Judge, this whole county is armed to the teeth and ready to fire. I can see in my memory clearly the judge and I were standing in the dimly light hall as he locked up. He said you know, you’re so right, that’s why I always carry Lil’ Alice here. Out of his coat pocket he pulled a small pearl handled pistol and waved it high to I could see. Well, that was a comfort.
Two Strikes 