Blood Test

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I sat in the courtroom and watched Richard Moody get the bad news from the judge.

Moody’d come dressed for the occasion in a chocolate polyester suit, canary yellow shirt, string tie, and lizard skin boots. He grimaced and bit his lip and tried to lock eyes with the judge, but she outstared him and he ended up looking at his hands. The bailiff at the rear of the room held his gaze on Moody. As a result of my warning he’d been careful to keep the Moodys apart all afternoon and had gone so far as to frisk Richard.

The judge was Diane Severe, girlish for fifty, with ash blond hair and a strong, kind face; soft-spoken, and all business. I’d never been in her court but knew her reputation. She’d been a social worker before going to law school and after a decade in juvenile court and six years on the family bench was one of the few judges who really understood children.

“Mr. Moody,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say.”

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