The defendant was shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment. He turned half-way around to look at the laughing audience, a sheepish grin on his face.
The magistrate smiled his appreciation of the humorous response to his question. "So, you can't make up your mind?" he said in a seemingly friendly and sympathetic way. "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, Miguel. I'll give you thirty days in the city's hotel to think it over."
Laughter and applause filled the room. The judge nodded his head in a little bow of acknowledgement. Miguel Garcia was led away, still smiling, obviously ignorant of what was happening. Miguel Garcia apparently did not understand English.
Stan was happily filling in the first line of his scorecard. His face was flushed. His eyes were bright. A satisfied smile lingered on his lips.
"Stan, let's leave," Julie said.
Stan laughed in disbelief. "Are you kidding? The fun's just starting."
"Please, Stan. I ... I don't feel well."
"Oh? I'm sorry, honey." It was a formality, like saying 'I beg your pardon' to a stranger you bump into in a crowd. There was no concern in Stan's voice. The second case was being presented, and his attention was rapt upon the clerk and the object of the proceedings, an old white haired derelict.
"Stan, please!" Julie insisted.
"Look, honey," Stan said impatiently, "we can't leave now, even if we wanted to. They don't give back the IDs until after it's all over."