Cook County Redemption1

By Michael A. Kahn

Here’s where we are:

High above Dearborn Street in Chicago’s Loop, inside the chambers of the Honorable Harry L. Stubbs. It is an imposing room, these chambers. Fit for a pharaoh, adequate for a federal judge. Tall ceilings, dark paneling, large picture window opening east upon a royal view of Lake Michigan. A massive walnut desk. Behind that desk a high-back leather chair that’s more throne than seat. And on that throne, U.S. District Judge Harry L. Stubbs, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

His Honor leans to his right and releases another fart.

Fiber shock. Has to be. Christ Almight», I’m going into fibershock.

In the middle of the room, dominating the foreground, is a burled walnut conference table encircled by eight leather chairs. On one wall are floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with bound law books. On another are portraits of Abraham Lincoln, Ronald Reagan, and Henry Hyde, along with a framed DePaul Law School diploma and a plaque displaying a bronzed Illinois State Highway Patrol badge. On the desk, a standup family portrait of a plump blonde woman and three blonde daughters, all wearing glasses. Hanging from a brass coat rack in the corner: a black robe and a bright plaid sports jacket.

His Honor lifts his haunches and releases another fart.

Married to a fiber zealot, for God’ssake.

Yesterday morning Bernice had placed a homemade bran muffin next to his coffee mug. Had the heft of a waterlogged softball, the flavor of drywall. The Muffin from the Black Lagoon.

His Honor’s stomach rumbles. Gas pressure builds again in his colon.

This morning she’d kissed him on the forehead and placed a bowl before him. He’d stared down at what looked like a pile of hamster turds.

“What in God’s name is this?” he’d finally asked.

“Bran buds, Father. Just packed with yummy fiber.”

They’d tasted even worse than