Whiff had known better than to make way to the defense counsel’s table, for he was, as of yet, not even a rightful participant in this terrible box play where all but two of the puppets dangled from strings and the other two snaked about like evilly painted socks on long darting hands. The Colonel glowered like the Devil himself down at Whiff, and the dastard Yankee-looking Manhattan-suited Special Naval Counsel cast a long belittling glance in Whiff’s direction. He and the figures of his three Naval Policemen—even now wearing hats and glasses in this court—made the prosecution’s presence seem more like an invading force than a participating partner in justice.

Uncork the bottle of back sass!

Are you stupid negro?

Taking little heed of his own inner advisor, and mighty pleased with himself for having reflexively taken off his own gray silk fedora—with the stars and bars for a band—Whiff guided ‘Mister Texas’ his hopeful client into the care of Ed ‘Softhead’ Sowell, his senior business partner, who was in fact an idiot and nothing but his front man. Whiff then clicked heels, saluted sharply as he always did when playing Uncle Ben-Samson in the Ballad of Stonewall Jackson, regarded Colonel Wade Imbolden squarely, gathered his stage voice, and declared, “At your service Your Honor, Sir.”

The judge fumed at being referred to according to his militia rank in court by a non-military person—and a negro no less! The autumn-eyed old man absently reached for the snap on his pistol holster where it rode below his heart and above his hip—for this was one judge that sat his court seat tall!

The eldest active Confederate cuss of a colonel in all of The South glowered anew and hissed, “Boyyyy—I’m about to bypass ‘two’ and declare myself to have counted ‘three’. What is the meaning of this?”

Using his best ‘meek-in-your-shadow-but–strong-by-your-side-massa’ tone Whiff remained at attention and declared, “Sir, Your Honor, Sir, I Ben-Samson Gleason, stand before you as a Certified Son of the Confederacy, which shall be proved, as soon as the honor guard of the Special Naval Counsel does proper honors to your station, and your sacred court, Sir.”

A low “ooh” sounded to his left as the cripple chair of Notary Council creaked to his right and the ire-filled eyes of an aged Colonel who had been so disturbed over the entry of negro counsel into his court that he had failed to notice the three slights to his honor—six if you counted the glasses, nine if you counted each lens—standing behind the fashionably suited form of the Special Naval Counsel, for the Naval Policemen had not doffed their hats or removed their sunglasses.

“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” drawled The Colonel as he swiveled slightly to look at the three military police. He then pointed with his gavel at them and commanded, “Off with your ignorant hats and unmanly shades!”

The men—too slowly and two much in concert thought Whiff—complied, revealing stone-faced continences that might have been more easily regarded in their shaded form. The Colonel then pointed to Whiff with his gavel “two” for the sass. And pointed to the suited lawyer and said, “And you son, are on notice.”

The Naval Counsel then spoke up. “I would remind Your Honor that this is not a trial, but a formality hearing prior to naval extradition—a mere courtesy to The Court.”

The Colonel’s eyes gleamed balefully—seeming to have a range of negative emotion in direct contrast to the range of positive emotion described in the varied smile of a parlor girl. The old Confederate’s voice fairly hissed like Jove’s morning gust, “My court is never host to ‘mere formality’ and your sense of courtesy has been left wherever your boys misplaced their manners—one!”

The Special Naval Counsel must not have been too especially informed, for he seemed not to have understood the significance of that last word, that number of Imbolden Woe, known as legend by Maryland lawyers of all describe.

Here you be Whiff, back up at bat for the last game of your life maybe, behind in a count that counts no balls and only strikes—with but one to go. Wait for his regard.

The Colonel turned his gaze on Whiff and rumbled, “Boy, what gives you the right to salute this officer, and to remain at attention still?”

“Sir, Your Honor, Sir, I would like to call upon my counsel to present the evidence pertaining to my Confederate claim.”

The Colonel looked over to Softhead Sowell, rolled his eyes—“Go on with it Eddie,” and then regarded the Special Counsel and sneered, “While Eddie is racking his brain wondering what he has forgotten to arrange in his brief, I might as well have your particulars,” and he said to the policemen, “and you fellows can sit down!”

Oddly enough the officers did not sit until the Special Naval Counsel gave them an affirmative nod. This subtle slight nearly caused steam to issue from the ears of The Colonel who eased himself and sat back to consider the answer of the SNC, “Ira Bloomberg, Esquire, Special Counsel to the CSA Department of Naval Affairs.”

The Colonel was at his ease now even as Softhead—the great chink in Whiff’s vast scheme—fumbled with his brief. “You sound Kentucky bred boy.”

“Lexington, Sir,” answered the SNC.

“And your law degree had where: “Annapolis, Arlington, VMI, The Citadel?”

“No Sir, Harvard.”

“What you say?” keened The Colonel as he leaned forward in a startled manner.

“On an exchange scholarship, Your Honor.”

“On whose dollar might I ask?”

“Sir, the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank provide scholarships for nations that have fewer than the desirable number of lawyers per citizen.”

“Well I’ll be damned—a Yankeefied lawyer in my court.”

Just as it was getting good and the Yankee educated big talker of a SNC seemed ready to put his foot in his mouth again, Ed Softhead Sowell, worst counsel in all the South, and dumbest white man to wear a suit in Maryland, cleared his throat and brought down The Colonel’s baleful glare on himself.

“Well go on Eddie!” huffed The Colonel. “Enlighten this court as to why your negro puppet master should be permitted to represent this here piece of colored runaway CSA trash—despite being the wrong god-blessed color!”

All eyes were on Whiff’s weak-minded front man—as stupid as he was loyal and only in possession of a law degree because mindful men of the South eschewed such a duplicitous occupation, and his daddy had owned a Cuban sugar plantation and could not wait to send his dumbass off to school. Eddie’s eyes widely considered the document in his hand, which he had finally managed to sort from the one other document in his folder, and croaked, “Notary Council, of the Neg-ro Bond A-ssoc-i-a-tion is called to certify—”

The Colonel cut off Eddie with a sharp empty hand and turned to the pale man in the cripple chair. “No need to take the stand Notary. You do declare that this negro at attention before my bench is known to you as one of your own, in good standing and certified to argue in the lesser courts of your kind?”

As Notary Council raised his good hand and whispered, “I do” the SNC seemed irritated, an arrogant sort of man that Whiff thought could be got off of his good game with the proper prodding.

Good lord my butt is about to cramp.

Eddie, now somewhat relaxed, cleared his throat again, much to The Colonel’s irritation, and turned to his second document, speaking as if he had once actually passed an oral exam in law school, “Your Honor, I do call Mister Mike Trummel of the Union State of Pennsylvania to testify as to my client’s rightful status as a Son of the Confederacy.

Colonel Wade Imbolden then glared down at Whiff, still standing painfully at attention in his gray and red silk suit. Unsnapping the flap on his pistol holster the Colonel said, “Boy, this better be good!”

With those words he drew the old Colt .45 his great granddaddy was said to have used in the Second War of Northern Aggression, and which the Colonel here had famously used to gun down a Yankee bank robber back in the day, and placed it heavily on the dark stained oak of his bench.

The Colonel then pointed a finger fixedly at the SNC and quipped, “If this is the load of carnival crap I suspect you will be driving off down the road shortly with your colored son-of-a-bitch-in-heat to the music of my boy Jordy whooping this load of backsass at the post—I don’t suppose they had a post at Harvard—did they? Did they son?”

The SNC, seemingly numbed by The Colonel’s tone, shook his head slightly as if reviving himself from a bad dream, and answered, “No Your Honor, the Harvard School of Law does not have a whipping post.”

The Colonel then seemed to return to a joyful state of mind, as if he had found it drifting around inside after a long absence, smiled, and nodded respectfully to the sharp Yankee-schooled lawyer in his powder blue suit and navy blue tie, “Of course not Son—welcome home!”

The Colonel then turned to the tall thin, big-eared man in drab suit, who looked wearily upon the world from behind triple thick glasses, and leaned just now on the back of a court bench as if wondering if he should proceed to the witness stand. “So Sir, advance to the witness stand and answer my questions—sit your ass down Eddie. I don’t have all day. Miss Melon, swear the man in after he is seated.”

To this command a statuesque court recorder, fair of hair and full of figure in a knee length dress, set down her notation paper, took up a bible, and advanced to the witness stand to meet Mister Trummel, who looked weak and wan in his old age—not the keen mystery-hunting investigator that little Whiff once discussed that worm hole in the wind with.

Still standing at attention, Whiff was shocked by The Colonel’s next action. The octogenarian in ancient uniform leaned over the front of the bench leering at Miss Melon’s form as she strode in high heels to do his bidding, and then sneeringly said to ‘Mister Texas’ sitting in the defender’s chair, “That boy, is what you boys have been fighting to preserve—I do thank you for your service.”

And I thought I ran a carnival! My behind is cramping and these new loafers are too tight on my feet since they got flattened out on the tailgate of that truck.

And Mister Trummel was now seated and sworn, permitting Whiff to thrill about his famous ancestor who had always been his secret hero inside, whose ghost would hopefully rise to save the last of his line.