Poacher
By Rebecca Gaffron
Shirley Packer sat in the first bench of the District Magistrate's court. It was late afternoon and quiet. Only the thump of footsteps on the stairs as people returned their videos to the rental place on the second floor disturbed the tense silence. Shirley didn't look up when The Magistrate entered with a game warden and his deputy. The three men had been discussing this case in the magistrate's private office, along with a recent Steelers’ game. The wardens pointedly ignored Shirley, seating themselves on a bench across the room, while The Magistrate glanced over the paperwork on his desk and prepared to begin.
Looking up, The Magistrate was taken aback by how ugly Shirley was. Her dirt splattered clothing looked cheap and worn. Colorless lips framed rotting teeth and several large moles with coarse dark hairs marked her face. Her skin had a waxy appearance that he attributed to poor health, and her stringy white-gray hair was covered by a large wool hunting hat. He couldn't guess her age, the years had been too cruel.
The Magistrate glanced at the warden, half-expecting to learn that this was the wrong woman, but the officer simply waited, a bored expression on his face. Fiddling with the papers in front of him, The Magistrate composed himself.
“Mrs. Packer you were issued a fine for poaching deer on the ninth of November of last year, and you have failed to pay that fine. Do you understand that if you do not pay, you could spend time in jail?”
“Yeah, but I can't pay no fine. I don't got the money. An’ I told the warden I ain't the one 'at shot them deer. There’us some other guy out there who done the shootin.”
“You are telling me you didn't shoot those three deer? Mrs. Packer, Deputy Wilson found you with them.”
“I’us there but I ain't the shooter. I’us just walking the back fields to get away from them kids and I seen this fella up ahead of me pull up and shoot three times. He’us good too, 'cause he hit 'um all.”
“Sir,” interrupted the deputy. “We saw no sign of another shooter that night.”
“A’course ya didn’t. He took off as soon as ya turned on the head lights. That’s a damn fool way to sneak up on someone.”
The Magistrate smiled in spite of himself. He had underestimated her. Taken her lack of advantage for granted.
"An' seems to me, your honor sir," she said with an unpleasant smile, "that them wardens there, ain't got no proof that I shot nothin."
"She was right there, ready to carve vension steaks!" cried the deputy, jumping to his feet. "This other shooter she keeps talking about is bull."
Shirley faced the irate deputy. "Can't prove that can ya?"
The deputy sputtered something, but The Magistrate cut him short. "Mrs. Packer you keep insisting that you are not the poacher, and given that the wardens did not find a rifle on your person or in the immediate vicinity I do have to wonder."
The woman nodded in a knowing way, like The Magistrate had finally caught on.
“But,” he added, irritated by her demeanor. "It was approximately 10:30 at night, how could you see this man up ahead of you? It was dark wasn't it? Mrs. Packer, exactly how far can you see in the dark?”
“Well sir, do ya want to know exact like?" She frowned and scratched the band of her hat. "Now I ain't real good with that sorta thing. I don’t know no number or nothin’. But I can see the moon in the dark, 'bout how far's that?”
- - -
Rebecca Gaffron is fascinated by sea-green spaces, words, and men who behave like cats. She is a sometimes writer and can be found at her virtual home, rebeccawriting.wordpress.com.
By Rebecca Gaffron
Shirley Packer sat in the first bench of the District Magistrate's court. It was late afternoon and quiet. Only the thump of footsteps on the stairs as people returned their videos to the rental place on the second floor disturbed the tense silence. Shirley didn't look up when The Magistrate entered with a game warden and his deputy. The three men had been discussing this case in the magistrate's private office, along with a recent Steelers’ game. The wardens pointedly ignored Shirley, seating themselves on a bench across the room, while The Magistrate glanced over the paperwork on his desk and prepared to begin.
Looking up, The Magistrate was taken aback by how ugly Shirley was. Her dirt splattered clothing looked cheap and worn. Colorless lips framed rotting teeth and several large moles with coarse dark hairs marked her face. Her skin had a waxy appearance that he attributed to poor health, and her stringy white-gray hair was covered by a large wool hunting hat. He couldn't guess her age, the years had been too cruel.
The Magistrate glanced at the warden, half-expecting to learn that this was the wrong woman, but the officer simply waited, a bored expression on his face. Fiddling with the papers in front of him, The Magistrate composed himself.
“Mrs. Packer you were issued a fine for poaching deer on the ninth of November of last year, and you have failed to pay that fine. Do you understand that if you do not pay, you could spend time in jail?”
“Yeah, but I can't pay no fine. I don't got the money. An’ I told the warden I ain't the one 'at shot them deer. There’us some other guy out there who done the shootin.”
“You are telling me you didn't shoot those three deer? Mrs. Packer, Deputy Wilson found you with them.”
“I’us there but I ain't the shooter. I’us just walking the back fields to get away from them kids and I seen this fella up ahead of me pull up and shoot three times. He’us good too, 'cause he hit 'um all.”
“Sir,” interrupted the deputy. “We saw no sign of another shooter that night.”
“A’course ya didn’t. He took off as soon as ya turned on the head lights. That’s a damn fool way to sneak up on someone.”
The Magistrate smiled in spite of himself. He had underestimated her. Taken her lack of advantage for granted.
"An' seems to me, your honor sir," she said with an unpleasant smile, "that them wardens there, ain't got no proof that I shot nothin."
"She was right there, ready to carve vension steaks!" cried the deputy, jumping to his feet. "This other shooter she keeps talking about is bull."
Shirley faced the irate deputy. "Can't prove that can ya?"
The deputy sputtered something, but The Magistrate cut him short. "Mrs. Packer you keep insisting that you are not the poacher, and given that the wardens did not find a rifle on your person or in the immediate vicinity I do have to wonder."
The woman nodded in a knowing way, like The Magistrate had finally caught on.
“But,” he added, irritated by her demeanor. "It was approximately 10:30 at night, how could you see this man up ahead of you? It was dark wasn't it? Mrs. Packer, exactly how far can you see in the dark?”
“Well sir, do ya want to know exact like?" She frowned and scratched the band of her hat. "Now I ain't real good with that sorta thing. I don’t know no number or nothin’. But I can see the moon in the dark, 'bout how far's that?”
- - -
Rebecca Gaffron is fascinated by sea-green spaces, words, and men who behave like cats. She is a sometimes writer and can be found at her virtual home, rebeccawriting.wordpress.com.
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