The judge discreetly glanced at his iPhone. It was past lunchtime and he was hangry. “Counselor!” he barked. “Could you please illuminate the main point of this case without going off on one of your usual irrelevant tangents?”
“Of course, your honor,” Bartholomew said. “I wouldn’t dream of drifting from the meat of the topic, as it were, or try to sandwich my personal thoughts between layers of legal—“
The judge smacked down his gavel. “Just get on with it, Barty!”
“Objection,” defense counsel Philomena said. “Those are not cherry trees. In fact, I have taken the liberty of making wine with the fruit of said trees to prove they are plums, albeit miniature ones. And my expert witness will testify it is indeed plum.”
“Miniature plums?” The judge frowned. “Never heard of ‘em. But that’s clever of you, Philly. I also consider myself a wine connoisseur, so pass a glass up here. Don’t forget the ice, baliff.”
“Crushed or cubes?” the bailiff asked.
“Don’t overcomplicate this. Just ice!”
The bailiff handed him a glass.
Barty jumped up. “I object! Attempt to influence the judge with yummy drinks.”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “This is tasty. Try a little sippypoo, Barty.”
“Okay, fine.” Barty obliged the judge and took a glass from the bailiff. “Hmm, I need another glass to make sure.”
“Me too,” the judge said.
As the bailiff refilled the judge’s glass for the third time, Philly said, “Motion to dismiss, your honor.”
“Granted!” The judge banged his gavel down on his iPhone. “Oopsy.”
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