The old Sergeant didn't take kindly to civvies shouting in his cells. "Mr. Blacke, we should leave your son to sober himself. Things'll be clearer and calmer in the morn."

Bill looked at the Sergeant offended, but then realized that he was shouting at Joe in the wrong place. He took a deep breath, looked at Joe one last time, but didn't say anything, and then marched out of the cell.

The Sergeant stepped aside to allow the elder Blacke to leave. Looking back into the cell, shook his head at Joe and offered a non committal shrug. He wasn't the first lad to make silly mistakes, he wouldn't be the last.

When they were back at the counter, Bill turned to the Sergeant. "I apologize, ser. For... well, everything. Could you please tell me what time he's in t' dock tomorrow?" He suppressed a shudder.

"Think none of it. Happens all the time. Let's see, 9:30 tomorrow. The judge likes to do easy cases in the morning."

William nodded. He began at nine in the morning tomorrow, and it was already late. It would be hard to find someone to take over his shift, but he would try. "Thank you, Sergeant. Have a good night."

Gavel bang

"Next case!"

Joe was ushered up the stairs that led to the directly to the dock at the court.  His gait was slower than normal because he was terrified.
His throat was bone dry and his knees were weaker than usual. He dared not look around to see if his family were present.
There was some low whispering from the gallery behind him, but mostly oppressive silence. Gripping the railing that surrounded the box he stared at the elderly magistrate in his robes.  The room's dark panelling, vaulted ceiling, and massive coat of arms all oozed presence, serving to only heighten Joe's fears.

Could they hang him? Transport him to Australia?

The magistrate cleared his throat, studied Joe for a moment. Joe felt burning gazes from the judge and from those behind him.  He had fastened his top button, his jacket, and run his had through his hair to make himself presentable, but he could only do so much. The judge finished looking at Joe and then glanced down at a piece of paper.

"You are Joseph Blacke, 18, of -- Osway Street, Whitby?"

At the mention of her son, Lottie stiffened and she scanned the court below, her eyes settling on the lonely figure in the dock. She had insisted on being there to support her Joe, whatever he had done, he was her son and she would support him. William had told her last evening that Joe had lost his job and been reckless. It had been a fitful night's sleep thinking about her boy.

Bill had managed. It hadn't been easy and Mr. Andrews, who had agreed to take over his shift, had been very irritated with him for calling so late, but Bill had managed to be here. It had been late when he had come home at last and then he had been forced to tell his wife what had happened. He could hardly hide from her the fact that their son was appearing before the Magistrates the next morning. By the time he had gone to bed at last, his body had been filled with so much tension that he had hardly slept.

He was nervous. Not so much for what would happen to Joseph. A fine was his best guess, and that would be bad, but not the end of the world. What did bother him was what this would do to his son's reputation, whether this might make finding a new job more difficult.

But what really made him nervous was this room. The tension. The sight of the Magistrate with his wig. The sight of the dock. It was enough to make him sick. He sat very still, hands clenched to fists on his thighs, and his eyes piercing the back of Joe's head with such intense, anxious concentration that it was uncanny.

"Yes sir." Joe muttered, still cowed by his surroundings

"Speak up!" The magistrate demanded forcefully.

"Yes sir." Joe repeated loudly

"That's better. Now, let's see why young Mister Blacke is in my courtroom today?" the judge asked rhetorically. "You stand accused of three offices contrary to Common Law: public drunkenness, breach of the peace, and insulting a police officer."

"How do you plead?"

"Guilty, sir"

"Insulting a police officer? Just what exactly did you say?" the elderly advocate asked curiously. Joe was curious too, he didn't remember himself.

The judge studied the paper in his hands, "The arresting officer, Constable Neil, reports that you called him 'the son of a whore and a haddock'."

The judge blinked and then snorted with laughter. The public gallery also tittered with laughter at the remark.