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Gladys Tate entered. She still wore her clothes of

mourning. She hung on Octavious's arm, stepping

with great difficulty to show the world we had

dragged her into this horrible hearing at a most

unfortunate time. She wore no makeup, so she looked

pale and sick, the weaker of the two of us in the

judge's eyes. Octavious kept his gaze down, his head

bowed, and didn't look our way once.

Toby and Jeanne and her husband, James,

walked behind Gladys and Octavious Tate, scowling

at us. Their attorneys, William Rogers and Martin

Bell, led them to their seats. They looked formidable with their heavy briefcases and dark suits. The judge

entered and every-one took his seat.

The judge's name was Hilliard Barrow, and

Monsieur Polk had found out that he had a reputation

for being caustic, impatient, and firm. He was a tall,

lean man with hard facial features: deep-set dark eyes,

thick eyebrows, a long, bony nose, and a thin mouth

that looked like a slash when he pressed his lips

together. He had gray and dark brown hair with a

deeply receding hairline so that the top of his skull

shone under the courtroom lights. Two long hands

with bony fingers jutted out from the sleeves of his

black judicial robe.

"Normally," he began, "this courtroom is

relatively empty during such proceedings. I want to

warn those observing that I won't tolerate any talking,

any sounds displaying approval or disapproval. A

child's welfare is at stake here, and not the selling of

newspapers and gossip magazines to the society