But Atticus had once told us that in Judge Taylor’s court any lawyer who was a strict constructionist on evidence
usually wound up receiving strict instructions from the bench.
He distilled this for me to mean that Judge Taylor might look lazy and operate in his sleep,
but he was seldom reversed, and that was the proof of the pudding. Atticus said he was a good judge.
Presently Judge Taylor returned and climbed into his swivel chair. He took a cigar from his vest pocket and examined it thoughtfully.
I punched Dill. Having passed the judge’s inspection, the cigar suffered a vicious bite.
“We come down sometimes to watch him,” I explained. “It’s gonna take him the rest of the afternoon, now. You watch.”
Unaware of public scrutiny from above, Judge Taylor disposed of the severed end by propelling it expertly to his lips and saying, “Fhluck!”
He hit a spittoon so squarely we could hear it slosh. “Bet he was hell with a spitball,” murmured Dill.
As a rule, a recess meant a general exodus, but today people weren’t moving.
Even the Idlers who had failed to shame younger men from their seats had remained standing along the walls.
I guess Mr. Heck Tate had reserved the county toilet for court officials. Atticus and Mr. Gilmer returned, and Judge Taylor looked at his watch.
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