Ovid 2: The Lawyer free porn video

This is the second story of the Ovid Cycle. As with all the Ovid stories, it contains adult content and should not be read by minors. Permission is hereby given to archive this at any site. Please notify me, though, if you intend to archive it. Return to Ovid: The Lawyer By: The Professor I was up to my eyeballs in work. If somebody had told me a little over a month ago that I would be the secretary to a municipal judge in Oklahoma, I would have snickered at them. If they had told me that the judge in question was in fact the Roman god Jupiter, I would have chuckled at them. If they had told me that instead of my normal male self, a college student from Notre Dame, I would be an attractive twenty-five year old woman with a husband and two children, I would have laughed so hard tears would have streamed down my face. But I wasn't laughing now. Here I was, that attractive woman I spoke of, trying to make sense out of my job. I had come to accept my new life, and even enjoy my roles as a wife and mother, but on the job, I was frustrated. I had been hired to tell the stories of the other humans who came before the Judge to be, against their will, transformed into the residents of Ovid Oklahoma. In order to do my job, I had to sit in the courtroom for every trial and watch as the Judge passed his unusual sentences. It wasn't all that hard, really. Court was held Monday through Thursday from nine until noon, if the Judge was in town. The rest of my time was spent trying to make sense of the records of the court. The Judge could hold about four trials an hour. I know that sounds incredible, but he didn't exactly pay attention to normal courtroom procedure. Usually he would just hear the charges and pass sentence. The defendants were usually too frightened to say anything or were in a virtual trance during which they thought everything was perfectly normal. The frightened ones would find themselves transformed over the next hour into residents of Ovid. They would be confused at first, but they would usually find themselves playing along before very long. What else could they do? I mean, look at me. Here I was, an attractive young woman whom everyone in town knew to be Cindy Patton. What would have happened to me if I had told them my real name was Matt O'Hara? I'd be in a rubber room if I did. Most other people realized the same thing, if they remembered who they were. About three out of four people were in a trance before the Judge. They would leave the courtroom, thinking they had gotten off lightly. They too, would transform into new identities over the next hour. The difference is, they would never realize it. They would believe they had always been whomever they had transformed into. Sometimes I thought they were the lucky ones. My husband and two children, for example, believed they had always been the individuals they were now. None of them realized they were my college classmates, and they never would. But here I was, as female as I could be, after twenty-one years as a male. As much as I was learning to enjoy my new role, it had its trying moments. Also, if I had remembered only my new life, I would have probably been given everything I needed to perform my job. In my present state however, there was no one to train me. The Judge was nice to me, but he wasn't a teacher. Most of it I had picked up with a little effort. I knew I was supposed to schedule the Judge's trials (but never other times; he took care of that himself). I had to submit dummy paperwork to the state to make it look as if Ovid was just another normal Oklahoma municipality. But it was the other part of the job I had the most trouble with. How was I supposed to report on the transformees if the Judge never gave me all the information? All I knew was what happened in the courtroom. When I would ask the Judge for some help, he would just smile and say, "Don't worry about it. You'll figure it out." Figure what out? I had never even been able to figure out what the Roman gods were doing in a small town in Oklahoma. The Judge never got around to telling me that, either. I was seriously thinking about finding a match to burn the pile of rough notes regarding the trials which I had assembled on my desk when the receptionist buzzed me. "What is it, Mary?" I tried not to snap at her. She was only a shade, but shades had feelings, too. "Dina Luna is here to see you." Who? I thought. I knew a Dinah - Dinah Moon but... Wait a minute. Luna is Spanish for Moon. "Send her in," I told Mary. In moments, a stunning Hispanic woman with long black hair and a perfect body encased in an expensive red dress which looked as if it had been painted on. It was Dinah all right, in a brand new body every bit as stunning as the black one I knew her in. I guess when you're really the goddess Diana, you can look however you want. "Buenas Dias, Chiquita!" she greeted me, swaying over to give me a sisterly hug. "Como estas?" "I've been fine, Dinah," I said, returning the hug. I was actually glad to see her. Of the gods and goddesses I had met in Ovid, Dinah was the only one I had come to consider my friend. "It's Dina now, hermana," she said proudly. Then, motioning to her body, she asked, "What do you think of it?" "It's stunning," I had to admit. "But so was your other body. Why did you change?" "Why not?" I guess when you're a goddess, why not? "But how about you, Senora Patton?" she said, taking a closer look at me. I was dressed in a rather flattering outfit if I do say so. It was proper business attire, but it was very feminine as well. It consisted of a silk blouse patterned with tiny lavender flowers and a gray skirt, nearly as short as hers. I had on two-inch gray heels and light, almost white stockings. I thought I looked pretty hot for a mother of two. "Do you like it?" I asked, striking a pose. "On you, it looks magnifico," she said. "You just bought it." It wasn't a question; it was a statement. "Yes, how did you know?" "Because I picked out all your other clothes." "You?" She shrugged. "Who else? You didn't think the Judge picked out your wardrobe, did you?" "I guess not." I really hadn't given it much thought. No wonder my wardrobe looked so good. Dinah had exquisite taste. "And have you lost some weight?" she asked with a critical eye. "Four pounds," I confirmed proudly. I had looked good from the beginning, but another two or three pounds and I would stop traffic. "Good for you!" she said, clapping her hands. "How did you do it?' "Oh," I began, "I just watch what I eat. And I try to lay off alcohol." "Then it's time to backslide," she said with a devilish twinkle in her dark eyes. "Let's go get a drink." "Oh, I shouldn't," I protested. I hadn't had a drink in weeks - too many empty calories. "Why not? It's Friday and ten minutes until quitting time, and the Judge is out of town." True, and why not? Jerry and I had planned a romantic evening. I had been out of action for a few days with my first period. It was almost enough to make me run screaming to the Judge renewing my demands to be male again. But at least it was over for another month. Bother Mike and Michelle had been invited to sleepovers, so Jerry and I had planned a nice dinner at Winston's and then... whatever came naturally. Then disaster struck. Jerry's night manager had gotten sick, so Jerry had to fill in for him until the store closed at nine. By then, he would probably be too tired for any fun. The thing that really annoyed me is that Jerry's night manager was actually a shade. That meant he wasn't even real, so he couldn't really get sick, or at least I didn't think he could. So now, instead of a pleasant evening out with my husband, I was at loose ends until the store closed. "Oh, all right," I said. At least I could kill an hour or so of my wait with Dinah - or rather Dina. "Bueno! Let's go." I left the pile just where it was on my desk and locked the door. I would have to get in a little early on Monday before the Judge saw it, but I couldn't face it any more today. I was closing up ten minutes early with work still on my desk and was about to drink wine with my friend. I was a bad girl. And it felt good. "We'll walk over to the Greenhouse," Dina said. "It's only a block." "Sure," I agreed. It was only a block, and although late fall could be bitterly cold in Oklahoma from what I had heard, it was remarkably mild, even though the afternoon sun was very low in the sky. I slipped on my trench coat just to be safe since the temperature would probably drop before we left the Greenhouse. Dina didn't bother with a coat. I guess goddesses don't get cold. We walked briskly toward the restaurant, causing Dina to remark, "You're walking lot better in heels now." "I've had a lot of time to practice." She laughed. The Greenhouse did a decent lunch business, but the dinner crowd was usually a little sparse. Also, people in small towns don't spend much time in the bars after work, so the place was practically empty when we entered. I think Dina really liked it like that. It meant we could talk without eavesdroppers picking up our conversation. I was a little excited at the prospect since I had questions for her. We each ordered a glass of Chardonnay and talked of inconsequential things until our drinks came. After a sip each, Dina began, "So let's hear it." "Hear what?" I asked. "The interesting cases. What else?" "Okay," I agreed, swirling the wine in its glass. "But first, tell me why all of the gods are here in Ovid." "They're not," she replied. "Then what are-" "Some of the gods are in Ovid," she corrected. "Some never come here. Take my brother, Apollo. He's never been to Ovid and will probably never come here. He didn't even like Rome. He used to spend all his time in Greece being the god of beauty and truth and poetry and soothsaying and whatever else they could hang on him." This was off the subject, but I was intrigued. "I thought he was the sun god." She shook her head. "No, he was never that. He was the god of light, whatever that meant, but never the sun god. He's probably sunning himself on some beach in Hawaii right now, waiting for the big wave. He usually looks like the god of surfing." I took another sip of wine. It tasted good, but I hated to think how many calories were in it. "So, back to my original question. What's Ovid all about?" Dina just shook her head and chuckled. "Girl, you won't give up, will you? I can't really tell you. It's the Judge's idea and only he can tell you. Don't worry though, he will. You just have to be patient. Now, about those interesting cases..." I shrugged. "There haven't been that many interesting ones. Just your standard transformations and sex changes. Besides, I haven't had time to write any of them down." "Write them down?" she repeated, laughing. "Hasn't the judge told you? You don't have to write them down." "I don't?" "Of course not, silly. All the stories are in your head. All you need to do is call them up. That's the power the Judge has given you." I thought about that for a moment. When I first went to the Judge and asked to be returned to my old sex, he had somehow made me see our arrival in Ovid. It had been for a few minutes as if I were back in my old body. Apparently, I could do this with others as well, if I could figure out how to do it. "What do I need to do?" I asked. Dina smiled and replied, "Just think of the case and remember who the defendant was. You'll slip off into a little trance, and I'll be able to see and feel what happened through you." "Well, okay," I agreed reluctantly. "I'll try. I guess the most interesting case happened about two weeks after I went to work for the judge. You see, there was this lawyer..." *** Damn, this car was hot! I felt ten - no, fifteen years younger as I put my Lexus GS400 through its paces on the less-traveled highways of Oklahoma. I was really glad I had decided to drive instead of fly this trip. To fly from Oklahoma City to Little Rock would have involved either a small commuter airliner (which I hate) or changing planes in Dallas, Houston, or St Louis. Why bother? They weren't that far apart, and it was a weekend, and I did have a brand new car - the hottest sports sedan on the market, I had been told. I had to thank the guy who sold me the car when I got back to Dallas. He told me to really appreciate it, I'd have to go on a road trip. He was right on the money. I hadn't felt so relaxed in years. I had just finished up a trial in Dallas, getting Billy Bob Dooley off on the murder charge for killing his girl friend. He was a rising country western star with a couple of best-selling CDs, and his studio was willing to pay big bucks to get him off the hook. It wasn't easy, either, because he did kill her. I mean, everyone knew that. He even admitted it. But it took an attorney of my stature to get him off the hook by making a jury believe that he was acting in self defense. How a jury could be made to believe that a two- hundred pound man was defending himself against a slip of a girl was a real test of my abilities. How did I do it? Well, the beauty of the American judicial system is that you don't have to prove you're innocent, but the prosecution has to prove you're guilty. The deck is pretty well stacked in the defense's favor. All you have to do is make the jury unsure. If there is any doubt in their collective minds, the jury must rule in favor of the defendant. With Billy Bob, I had to make him look like a big old country boy who wouldn't hurt a fly. Then, I had to make his dead girl friend look like an unstable person who was capable of anything - a real Lizzie Borden type. Then, when Billy Bob testified that he tried to break off with her and let her down gently, only to have her attack him with a pair of sharp scissors, he tried to defend himself. But the poor guy didn't know his own strength and pushed her too hard, forcing her to fall down a flight of stairs landing on the sharp point of her own scissors. Was it true? Maybe. Did I believe it? Not for a minute. Billy Bob is a crass character who wouldn't have given a damn about her feelings. She may have made a threatening gesture with the scissors, but he wasn't the sort of man who would be frightened by it. He probably pushed her to put her in her place, and down the stairs she went. Did he kill her on purpose? I don't know. I like to think that he didn't. In any case, if the DA had settled for involuntary manslaughter, he might have won. But the DA was after something bigger. He thought a win against a star like Billy Bob would have set him up for higher political office. His reach exceeded his grasp, though, when he came up against me. Now, he would be lucky to get re-elected as DA. A small portion of my fees bought this $50,000 Japanese Rice Rocket, so I was in tall cotton. Then, a chance to consult on a couple of cases, one in Oklahoma City and one in Little Rock, gave me the perfect excuse to go on a road trip. After I was finished, I would be off for Branson, Missouri, where I would meet up with Talia Moore, the hot new singing sensation. A few days shacked up with her and I would be rested and ready for the next case. How did I meet Talia? Oh, I got her brother off on a murder charge last year, and she was so grateful that one thing led to another. One thing often did lead to another when you were Brad Monroe, "Mouthpiece to the Stars," as one pundit had named me. How did I get to be Mouthpiece to the Stars? In law, timing is everything. I went through law school at Yale. It was supposed to be the best law school in the country, and I planned to be the best criminal lawyer in the country. So after law school, I took a job with a firm in Dallas. Now, Dallas is sometimes called the "Murder Capitol of the World." It's really not that bad, but it's bad. I was very idealistic when I graduated from law school. I came from back east, and I had the impression that Texas justice was designed to railroad innocent victims onto Death Row. I was going to protect their rights and see that justice was done. Unfortunately I began to realize that justice often was being done. Don't get me wrong. I don't believe in the death penalty and I never will, but the felons I was suddenly faced with were often vicious, heartless killers who deserved to be put away (although not killed, I believed). Still, I did my very best to defend them. They were entitled to that. Then, five years ago, right after I turned thirty, the big break came. A movie producer on location outside Dallas beat the hell out of local prostitute. She died, never regaining consciousness. The DA went for the whole enchilada again: Murder One. I ended up with the case because my firm had hired me out to the producer as a technical expert since the film was to be about a murder trial in a small Texas town. Life began to imitate art suddenly, and instead of advising the actors on trial procedure, I was defending the producer against real charges. He claimed he left earlier that evening, before the girl was beaten. That explained why his prints were all over her room. The evidence was purely circumstantial, and like most prostitutes, she had more than one john on any number of occasions. The local DA never had a chance. The word got out about how there I was, a bright young lawyer who had gotten off one of the most notorious hedonists in Hollywood. It turned out everyone back in California thought he did it. Did he? He said he didn't, and that was good enough for me. Even if he had admitted it to me, he was entitled to the best defense I could provide. Suddenly I was on every studio's list. If there was big trouble for any star of stage, screen, television or music, call Brad Monroe. If he could get that producer off, he could get anybody off. Unfortunately, as my professional star was rising, my personal life was in a nosedive. My wife, Brenda, and I had met in college. We were both from the east, both young and idealistic, and both likely to be in the top of our fields. She was two years younger than me, but she was closing in on a Doctorate. She had majored in Literature, and several universities had put out feelers to her. Her Master's thesis was widely read, and her reputation would have netted her a great teaching job except for one thing: she married me. Dallas isn't a big college town, and teaching jobs were scarce. Her sterling reputation in the east was not as great in Dallas, but we needed her to work at first since starting attorneys aren't rich from the getgo no matter what you've heard. The only job she could find was as an Assistant Librarian in Plano, the Dallas suburb where we settled. The job was beneath her, but she was happy. We were both happy in those days. Then things started going downhill. First, we found out we couldn't have children. I never blamed her for it. She couldn't help the flaws in her reproductive system, but she blamed herself. She felt it made her less of a woman. I didn't really notice how it had affected her. I was too busy becoming the Mouthpiece to the Stars. I didn't notice when the drinking started, but start it did. At first, she drank mostly wine. There would be a glass with me and most of a bottle at dinner. Then it would be a glass or two at lunch at the club with her friends. Then it became too much to drink at parties. She was hurting my career. I gave up drinking entirely, hoping she would follow my example. She didn't. It all came to a head almost three years ago. I had just won the Andy McConnel rape case. You may remember it. They were calling him another River Phoenix until he was accused of raping a young girl while on location in Italy. The girl was only fourteen, and McConnel was rushed out of the country before he could be indicted. It was up to me to fight his extradition. The girl was alive, but it had been dark when the assailant pulled her into a dark alley and sexually assaulted her. McConnel was seen in a sidewalk bar, and witnesses said he had watched her walking down the street with interest. She went into a store while McConnel paid his tab and left. He was obviously drunk. The girl was seen walking in the direction he had gone minutes later. It had been dark, I argued, and the girl could only say her assailant "looked like Andy McConnel." There was no proof. No one had taken semen samples. McConnel may have been too drunk to rape her, and so on. I won as I always did. I had gone home, happy in my victory to be greeted by Brenda. She had been drinking and could barely stand as I told her of my latest victory. "So another lowlife is still on the street thanks to you," she sneered. "There wasn't sufficient evidence to extradite him," I tried to explain. "That doesn't mean he didn't do it," she countered. "Don't you ever get tired of helping these animals escape justice?" "Justice isn't the only issue," I pontificated. "What is important is the law. How can there be justice without law? The burden of proof is always on the prosecution. The defendant is always entitled to the best defense-" "That money can buy!" she finished for me. "No, that's not it at all." "Quit deluding yourself," she practically sobbed. "You used to have ideals. You wanted to make a difference." "I am making a difference." "You are making a mockery of decency. You don't care if your clients are guilty or not." "That isn't even an issue," I protested. "Guilty or innocent, I'm required to defend them." The argument was an old one. We had had it before, but this time, all of the frustration and resentment bubbled over. She moved out that night and began divorce proceedings the next day. I suppose I was lucky in a way. She was well off in her own right since her parents had died leaving a substantial amount to their only daughter. I was worth a couple of million on my own by then, but she went after almost nothing. Again, my reputation among my colleagues was enhanced. Brad Monroe had beaten his own wife in a divorce settlement. I said nothing, but the fact was, she asked for very little, and I gave her whatever she asked for. In spite of our problems, I still loved her. Now I was respected, powerful, wealthy, and single. The combination drew women to me in droves. I was never without female companionship if I so desired. At first, it actually seemed an improvement in my life. What man wouldn't view a steady diet of women as an improvement? But as the weeks went by, I found myself comparing each of them to Brenda. Many were better looking, for while Brenda was attractive, she was not glamorous. Some (only a few, if the truth be known) were intelligent, but they lacked Brenda's keen wit. Many was the time that I almost called her up, but pride always got in the way. I kept thinking that the very next girl I found would be her equal, but she never was. And then, one day almost a year ago, she was gone. She had planned to move back east, to Albany, New York, ever since the divorce. I had heard that through mutual friends. Then, late last fall, she made the move, and I hadn't heard from her since. I had tried to call her once, but there was no listing for her in Albany. It was apparently unlisted. Since her friends had blamed me for the breakup and felt I had screwed her over the divorce settlement, I knew better than to call them for her number. They would never give it to me. "I miss you, Brenda," I said to myself as I soared through the Oklahoma countryside. "I should never have let you go." I snapped out of my reverie as I pulled the Lexus through a sharply banked curve in the road. It was stupid of me to even think about Brenda. Here I was, on my way to a rendezvous with Talia Moore. I'd be on the cover of a magazine or two after that and be the envy of half the men in America. Maybe Talia would be the one. I could have driven Interstate 40. It was the most direct route between Oklahoma City and Little Rock, but I knew it was heavily patrolled, and I had no intention of being restricted to the speed limits while driving a GS400. I chose more challenging two-lane roads which wound through the hills of eastern Oklahoma as they slowly became the beginning of the Ozarks. I pushed the car through the straightaway to well over a hundred, never getting even close to its governed top speed of 148, but fast enough that the telephone poles were going by almost too fast to count. I would slow down in the curves, but not enough to miss the sensation of torque as my marvelous machine gripped the road. It was on a small unmarked section of what I assumed to be a state highway that I saw a white car in my rear view mirror. I couldn't tell from where he had pulled out onto the road. It was almost as if he had appeared from out of nowhere. I had been watching carefully for patrol cars. Perhaps, I thought to myself, it wasn't really a patrol car. That hope was dashed when the dreaded red and blue lights on top of his car began to flash. Damn! How fast had I been going anyway? I looked down and saw that I had unconsciously brought the car down to a tepid seventy miles an hour, but I must have been doing nearly a hundred when I went past his vantage point. It was time to stop and face the music. With any luck, he would recognize me, at least by name and I would be able to charm him into letting me go with a warning or, at most, a minor ticket. The last thing I wanted was to be bogged down in some little tank town waiting for some small-time traffic court judge to tell me what a bad boy I had been. I looked back at the car. A single officer was in the vehicle. As we both stopped by the side of the road, I watched him as he got out of the car. He was tall and slender to the point of being almost thin. His movements were fluid and graceful, almost like a dancer as he approached the car. His eyes were hidden behind the mirrored sunglasses that were always popular in law enforcement. I rolled down the window and said as charmingly as I could, "Good afternoon, officer." "Good afternoon, sir," he said formally. "Sir, do you have any idea how fast you were going back there?" "Well," I said slowly, as if I were giving it some thought as I read the name on his name tag, "I'm not really sure. But you see, Officer... Mercer, is it? Well, Officer Mercer, you see, this is a new car and I'm not entirely-" "Step out of the vehicle, please, sir." "Oh, yes, of course. Do you want to see my license and registration?" I asked, climbing out of the car. "Yes, please." I handed him my wallet, telling him that the registration was in the center console. He examined both, then looked at me from behind the mirrored glasses. "Sir, do you have any idea how fast you were going?" "No, I'm sorry, but I don't," I said abjectly. "You see, I was thinking about a case I had been working on, and-" "You were clocked at ninety-six miles an hour." I knew he was correct, but I feigned surprise. "I had no idea! Well, Officer, if you'll just give me my ticket, I'll be on my way." Sometimes, when you're willing to accept the ticket, they let you go with a warning. Maybe I would get lucky. "I can't do that sir," he replied, the deadpan expression never changing. "I beg your pardon?" "I said I can't do that, sir," he repeated. "You were thirty-one miles per hour over the speed limit. State law requires me to impound your vehicle and place you under arrest pending trial." I had no idea what Oklahoma law said on the matter, but my cooperation turned to recalcitrance. "Officer, I'm in no position to be delayed. I'm due in Little Rock in the morning to consult on a very important trial. Detaining me may cause a delay in a court date which would be frowned upon by your superiors, I'm sure." "The keys, please, sir," he said, ignoring my tirade. "And please get in the vehicle on the passenger side. I'll drive your vehicle." "I can drive it," I argued. "Otherwise, you'll have to leave your vehicle here." "That's been taken care of, sir," he answered, nodding to his police cruiser. I looked up at his car and was surprised to see an officer sitting behind the wheel. Where had he come from? I was sure there had only been one officer in the car. Wordlessly, I handed him my keys and got in the passenger side. I rode in silence as Officer Mercer drove, his partner driving just behind us. The two officers must have worked together for a long time, I thought, since the two cars seemed to move almost as one, the interval between the cars never changing. At last, I asked, "How long until I can see the judge? As I told you, I have to be in Little Rock in the morning." "The Judge won't be back until morning," he told me. "You'll be a guest of the city of Ovid tonight." Ovid? I had never heard of a town called Ovid. "Surely you don't plan to keep me in jail until tomorrow morning." "I'll have to do just that, sir," he said. "I'll post bail," I offered, trying to control my rising fury. I had no intention of being incarcerated, even for one night. "There's no judge to grant you a bail hearing," he explained, "and Oklahoma law requires you to be held until the Judge is available." "That's ridiculous!" I finally exploded. "That can't be the law. You're denying due process." "I wouldn't know about that, sir," he replied innocently. "You'll have to take that up with the Judge in the morning." The rest of the trip was conducted in grim silence. I was quietly fuming, trying to decide my best course of action. It appeared I had no choice in the matter of my confinement. It was afternoon on Sunday. By the time I got hold of anyone who could help me, it would be late evening or maybe even Monday morning. This was going to screw up my schedule for the entire week. I would have to wait until morning and raise hell with this judge he kept referring to. With any luck at all, I would have Officer Mercer's head on a platter before I left Ovid. As we drove into the town, I was surprised to find it was much larger than I had expected. It looked like any of a number of small Midwestern farm communities. I estimated the town to be at least ten thousand people, maybe half again that. It was clean and well-maintained, with the usual assortment of small businesses clustered along the highway and a small business district. Most of the downtown buildings were two and three story affairs with retail shops on the first level and offices above. We pulled up in front of a small complex of buildings with a sign on one of them which proclaimed it to be the city hall. The police department was right next to it. The buildings had that timeless look of modern government buildings, except for the Doric columns framing an area which was probably the city courts. I estimated they were maybe fifteen or twenty years old. Since I was going to be staying at the Steel Bar Hilton for the evening, I was grateful it wasn't one of the old court house jails built back before the Depression. Evenings were cool in Oklahoma this late in the year, and I didn't want to spend the night in a drafty cell which should have been condemned back when Truman was President. Officer Mercer showed me to my cell and personally brought me a clean shirt, fresh underwear and my electric razor from my bag. That was one advantage of a small town jail. In Dallas, I would never have been allowed personal items in my cell. He even let me keep my briefcase so I could get a little work done. It appeared as if I had the entire cell block to myself, so it was quiet and clean. Even the bed was fairly comfortable, so my evening wasn't too bad, but I wouldn't have let Officer Mercer know that. He looked in on me a couple of times to be greeted by my best scowl. I seemed to be his only entertainment since I was apparently the only prisoner. Come to think of it, I mused, I had not met any other police officers. When we had entered the station, there was no one at the front desk. There were no voices coming from any of the offices we passed either. I finally chalked it up to life in a small town. With little crime, probably most of the force took Sunday off to go to church and barbecue in the back yard. Whoever was minding the station had probably been in the back room getting coffee when we came in. At least it would be quiet and I could get some sleep. I was awaked the next morning by a tapping on the bars. I opened my eyes and turned my head to see Officer Mercer standing there. "It's six thirty," he told me. "The Judge wants to see you at eight, so I got you up so you could take a shower and get some breakfast." "Yeah, thanks," I muttered. After a shower and dressed in a clean shirt and underwear, I was beginning to feel human again. I thought about asking for a suit, but if I looked too sharp, I wouldn't be able to press home my point to the judge that I had been inconvenienced. I wondered what the judge would be like. To me, judge was a title, like the banker or the plumber. When Officer Mercer said it though, it was as if "Judge" was the judge's name. Apparently, they only had one judge in municipal court. Maybe I could impress upon him all the people I knew who might be able to get him a seat on a higher court. If I could convince him that I was important enough, he should go easy on me. I'd have to wait and see before trying that, though. If he decided he was hot shit in this burg, I could get myself in deeper by playing the big city lawyer. Breakfast was served in my cell. I was surprised to see it was like something out of a small town restaurant instead of institutional jail food. It went down pretty good. Even the coffee was hot and fresh. I found myself wondering if Miss Kitty had brought it over from the Long Branch covered in a little gingham napkin. I actually chuckled at the thought. Officer Mercer led me into the courtroom right at eight o'clock. I was actually surprised at the appearance of the courtroom. The decor was fairly recent and very stately. Walnut wainscoting surrounded the room and the bench was quite imposing for a municipal courtroom. There was only one person seated in the visitor's gallery. She was a very attractive woman with dark blonde hair. In her navy blue suit, I assumed she was probably an attorney waiting for a client for a morning hearing or trial. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. I couldn't get close enough to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. She probably was. I couldn't imagine someone like her staying single very long. "All rise!" Officer Mercer intoned, acting to my amazement as bailiff as well. That I would have expected in a small town. "Municipal Court for the City of Ovid is now in session, the Honorable Judge presiding." I wondered if my hearing was going bad. I hadn't heard him announce the judge's name. I must have missed it, I thought. The Judge (for upon seeing him, he rated the capital "J") was an impressive figure. With his dark hair just starting to turn to gray and his scholarly beard, he didn't even need his gold-rimmed glasses to look like one of my professors at Yale. His robe was perfectly draped around him, as if he were sitting for the annual picture of the US Supreme Court Justices. "Be seated," he intoned. I heard the rustle of a skirt as the blonde sat. Since Officer Mercer at my side remained standing, so did I. "First case," he ordered as Officer Mercer placed a thin folder in front of him. "Mr. Bradley Monroe, you have been charged with speeding. We're a little short of time around here, so let's just proceed with your sentence." "Your Honor!" I interjected. "This is not proper courtroom procedure, even for something as relatively informal as municipal court." "You don't say," the Judge said with a soft Oklahoma twang. "And just what gives you the authority to tell me this?" "I'm an attorney," I said, almost as if I had said, "I'm Batman." If I had expected the Judge to react to this, I was disappointed. "I know who you are, Mr. Monroe, but that doesn't give you the right to challenge the procedure in my courtroom. Are you licensed to practice in the state of Oklahoma?" Actually, I wasn't. I had consulted in the state, but never appeared before the bar. "Not exactly, Your Honor, but-" "I don't understand 'not exactly,' Mr. Monroe. The only two available responses would seem to be 'yes' or 'no.' Now, which is it?" "No, Your Honor," I admitted. "Is it my understanding that you wish to defend yourself against these charges?" I had been willing to plead guilty, pay my fine, and move on, but the Judge had riled my legal dander. "I do, Your Honor." To my surprise, he stood and intoned something which sounded like Latin. I picked up a word or two. Every attorney knows a little Latin since so many legal terms are in that language, but I couldn't catch enough words to make any sense of it. Then he sat down again. Was it my imagination, or had the lights dimmed while he was speaking? "Very well, Mr. Monroe," he said, writing something on a slip of paper. He handed the slip to Officer Mercer, who in turn handed it to me. "This is the name of one of our local attorneys. With her help, you will be given everything you need to practice in this court." I looked at the slip of paper. The name "Susan Henderson" was written on it, as well as an address and phone number. "How long should this take, Your Honor?" I asked. "You will be able to practice in this court by the end of today's session. Normally, we adjourn at noon, but I've had to double up since I'll be out of town tomorrow. You may appear before me this afternoon at two if everything is in order." Two o'clock! What was I thinking? I was supposed to be in Little Rock. Now I would shoot the entire day here in Ovid. Well, there was nothing to be done about it, I supposed. I would have to see this Susan Henderson and go from there. "Until two then, Mr. Monroe." Officer Mercer escorted me from the courtroom. As we reached the outside door, I stopped him and asked, "Where are you taking me?" "The Judge wants me to escort you to Ms. Henderson's office," he replied. "I didn't hear him say anything about that," I commented. "It's standard procedure," he replied from behind his sunglasses. It wouldn't do any good to argue, I realized. "All right," I agreed, "but can I use a phone first? I need to call Little Rock and tell them I'll be a day late." "You can call from Ms. Henderson's office." As I was led out to the police car, I noted another officer with a pair of teenagers dressed very punk. He was leading them into the courtroom. There were two things that struck me as odd, though. First, both teenagers, a boy and a girl, appeared to be almost in a trance, walking in a shuffling step with their eyes looking forward but apparently not focused on anything. The second thing was that the officer leading them in looked like a virtual clone of Officer Mercer. Before I could get a better look, Officer Mercer nudged me gently into the passenger seat and closed the door. I rubbed my eyes. It was only nine, and yet this had been a tiring morning. I actually felt a little light headed, and there was a tingling sensation throughout my entire body. I began to wonder if all of this frustration had played havoc with my blood pressure. I worked out frequently to keep in shape and keep my blood pressure down, but maybe Ovid had driven it up. The doctor had warned me it was getting a little high the last time I saw him. I resolved to get a checkup when I got back to Dallas. We turned on to the main business street, and for the first time, I noticed something which had evaded me the day before. On Sunday, few people will be walking around in the business district of a small town, so I had not seen anyone other than Officer Mercer. Today, though, was Monday, and there were people everywhere going about their business. The problem was that many of them didn't appear to be complete. It was as if I could almost see through them, like a double image in a photograph. Other people - normal people - appeared not to notice anything strange and even stopped to talk with the strange ones. Before I could ask Officer Mercer about them (although I honestly don't know what I would have asked him), he said. "That's Susan Henderson's car over there." He was pointing at a Honda Civic diagonally parked in front of a Radio Shack. It looked to be about three years old. Apparently being a lawyer in a small town didn't pay all that well. "So where is her office?" I asked. Officer Mercer pointed to the gray stucco building next to the Radio Shack which proclaimed itself to be the Farmer's and Merchant's Bank. "Second floor. The entrance is over there next to the bank entrance." "Thanks a lot," I said, not really meaning it as I opened the car door. "Don't you want to escort me upstairs, just to make sure I don't skip town?" "You won't," he said so matter-of-factly that I paused to wonder how he could be so sure. "And when you get a minute," he called after me, "you might want to move the Civic. The meter is expired." I turned to ask him why in the world I would want to move someone else's car, but he had already driven away. As I climbed the stairs, I found myself hoping Susan Henderson had a good working relationship with the Judge. I needed to get out of Ovid and back to work as quickly as possible. I realized the Judge intended for this woman to be my attorney of record. Then, she could use me in court as a consultant on my own case while she defended me. It would cost me the amount of her fee, but it was preferable to waiting for approval to practice in Oklahoma. Her office was at the end of the hall toward the front of the building. The door was open, so I went in. It was a two office suite. The outer office was obviously used as a waiting room with a desk for a secretary/receptionist while the inner office must have been Ms. Henderson's. It appeared that no one was home and might not have been home for some time. While there were the usual guest chairs and desks and filing cabinets, there were no other signs of life. There were no pictures on the walls or potted plants in the corner or magazines in the waiting area. The secretarial desk was completely devoid of any personal items. There was a computer on it, but the screen was blank. Then I noticed a telephone on the desk in the inner office. I still needed to call Little Rock, and since no one was home, I didn't think they would mind if I used the phone. I would reimburse them later. I dialed the number of Mayberry Jessup, the firm in Little Rock where I was already an hour overdue for my appointment. When the receptionist answered, I asked for Henry Mayberry. "Mr. Mayberry is in a meeting right now," she told me. "Yes, I know," I told her. I had given her my name, but she apparently didn't connect me with the meeting. "Again, my name is Brad Monroe, and I'm supposed to be in that meeting with Mr. Mayberry." "Oh. One moment, please." I listened to innocuous background music for perhaps two minutes, growing more annoyed as the seconds passed. At least I heard someone typing on the keyboard in the out office. Apparently, Ms. Henderson's secretary had just stepped out for a potty break. "Mr. Monroe?" the voice on the phone asked. To my disappointment, it was the secretary - not Henry Mayberry. "Yes?" "I'm sorry, but Mr. Mayberry said he did not expect you for this meeting." I was suddenly very confused. "But isn't the meeting to discuss the Nichols case?" "Yes," she said hesitantly, as if I had dragged top secret information out of her. "Then I'm supposed to be there." "Mr. Monroe," the secretary began in her most imperious tone, "I'm afraid Mr. Mayberry has never heard of you. Now, good day." The line went silent. What did she mean he had never heard of me? I had presented a paper at the Arkansas ABA Convention three months ago and met Henry Mayberry then. He had asked me to consult on the Nichols case and we had discussed it by phone at least once a week. This whole think was starting to make my head spin. I sat down behind Susan Henderson's desk. The tingling sensation was stronger, and I was so light headed that I was actually dizzy. The entire room seemed to be going in and out of focus. Then, as I looked at the blank wall in front of me, a picture suddenly formed on it. It was a still life of a very tasteful wildflower arrangement, frame and all. A bookcase suddenly appeared with a little pop as it displaced the air. As I watched, law books began to appear neatly one by one on the shelves. I tried to get up, but I found I couldn't. I seemed to have lost partial control of my limbs. I looked down in distress as my clothing seemed to be crawling over my body, like ants at a picnic. My shirt and pants seemed to be reshaping themselves. Then suddenly, I realized that it wasn't just my clothing. My entire body was shifting as well. I managed to push the chair away from the desk and look down as my pants changed color, from gray to a light tan. Then the legs of the pants grew short, moving up my legs and fusing into a... skirt? I looked down at my legs. They were hairless and less muscular, and a thin film of nylon was knitting itself over them. My black oxfords were becoming smaller and more open, and a two inch heel formed on each of them as they changed into a soft brown color. Something was crawling on my neck. I managed to turn my head to see a fan of light brown hair drift over my shoulders. I could feel the hair growing longer by the second. There was a sharp pin prick on each of my ear lobes, and I felt a sudden small weight on each ear. I knew what was happening to me. How could I not know? It was impossible; it had to be, but the impossible seemed commonplace in Ovid. There was an abrupt contraction in my groin, and I knew at once that where my penis and testicles had happily resided moments before, there was now only a feminine slit in their place. Something soft and clinging covered the new anatomy. I crazily wondered what color these new panties were. Breasts were starting to grow under what was now a silky beige blouse with a scoop neckline. A delicate gold necklace looped itself around my neck. The breasts continued to grow. I knew they were not inordinately large - probably only a B cup - but I didn't want to have breasts of any size! I was now wearing a tan jacket which matched my skirt. On my right wrist, a gold bracelet appeared out of nowhere balanced by a small, feminine watch on my left wrist. My fingernails were actually growing as I watched them, tapering into points. They weren't terribly long, but they were obviously feminine. As I was changing, the room was changing as well. A coat rack was suddenly standing in the corner with a woman's trench coat and multi- shaded brown scarf hung over it. Files were appearing on the desk, as were pens and pencils. On a chair near the windows, a brown purse suddenly popped into existence. Just when I thought the changes had stopped, a pair of glasses appeared on the desk. They had small wire frames and oval lenses. I looked up to see if anything else had changed, but the room was now blurred to my vision. Great, I thought, realizing whom the glasses were for. It wasn't enough for them to change my sex; they had to make me nearsighted as well. With a frightened sigh, I put on the glasses. The world drew back into sharp focus again. The popping and swishing noises of the changes had stopped, and the only sounds I could hear were the sounds of someone typing in the outer office and the nervous breathing coming from my (my?) own body. I could move again, but I didn't want to. It was almost as if I thought that as long as I didn't move and feel the movement of breasts and hips, it would all go away. All I had to do was sit still until I woke up from the nightmare. It had to be a dream. There couldn't be a town where all the police officers looked alike and teenagers walked around in a trance and offices rearranged themselves and some people were almost transparent and other people changed sex, could there? I thought back upon my recent exchange with the Judge. How had he phrased it? He said something to the effect that with the help of Susan Henderson, I would be able to practice - no. What he said was I would be given everything I needed to practice in his court. Everything I needed? A vagina, for example? I was dealing with a clever man, if "man" was the right term. There was no doubt in my mind that what had happened to me was the work of the Judge and his minions. Officer Mercer was certainly one of his cohorts. Were there others? What about the attractive blonde who had been sitting in the courtroom? I had a court date at two that afternoon. That left me a little over four hours to figure out a strategy. Did the Judge plan to leave me like this? With a sinking feeling, I realized he probably did. I wondered how many other residents of Ovid had been changed by that... creature. But would he leave me a way out - a way to get back to my old life? Maybe he would. I suspected he was playing a game with me. If I won, I would have my old life back, but if I lost, it would be pantyhose and heels for the rest of my life. There was no doubt in my mind that my two o'clock court date would be the most important of my life. I had to prepare. I needed first to find out as much about who I had become as possible. That might provide some clue as to how to approach the Judge. I got up slowly, balancing for the first time on heels. I had thought it would be no more difficult than walking in cowboy boots, but I was wrong. I was required to walk in an entirely different manner which caused my hips to sway back and forth in what I considered an exaggerated motion. I managed to figure it out pretty quickly. I walked back and forth between the desk and the purse three or four times until I got the hang of it. Still, I wondered how women I knew managed to balance themselves on even higher heels. I hoped I didn't have the chance to find out. The purse contained the usual collection of garbage all women seem to carry around. There were tissues, credit card receipts, keys, a compact and lipstick. I shuddered when I held the lipstick in my hand. Then, tentatively touching my tongue to my upper lip, I felt an odd taste and realized I was already wearing some of it. I shuddered in disgust. At the bottom of the purse (why is whatever a woman is looking for always at the bottom of a purse?) was a wallet. I extracted an Oklahoma driver's license and winced at the picture. Was there ever a good driver's license picture? This one had what I could only assume was my new face. It was an attractive face, but falling short of pretty. The gold framed glasses I now wore were posed on the girl's face in the picture. She wore long dangling earrings and only light makeup. The picture was cropped above the breasts, but she (I still couldn't think of her as me) appeared to be wearing a mauve sweater, very light and feminine. She looked more like a college student than an attorney. I thought she would be more at home picketing the Student Union than arguing in a courtroom. Perhaps this was part of my handicap. Instead of a dynamic attorney like Brad Monroe, I would have to sway a judge in the guise of a neophyte lawyer. My age was listed as twenty-five, confirming my suspicions that Susan Henderson was a fairly inexperienced attorney. I was five seven, so at least in heels I wouldn't feel like a midget. Hair color was brown, eyes were blue, and the weight was... well, I guess the weight is nobody's business. That was an odd thought, I realized. If someone had asked me the day before what my weight was, I would have proudly told them one seventy-two. At a little over six feet in height, that was a pretty good weight for a man in his thirties, and I would have been proud of it. Now though, although a quick glance at my body told me I was well proportioned, and if anything, a little on the slender side, it was still a subject I didn't want to discuss. "Susan?" I looked up just because I heard someone speak, but I realized in a heartbeat that I was supposed to be Susan, so I replied, "Yes?" The speaker was a woman, probably early forties with soft brown hair just starting to go gray. She was dressed in a conservative dark blue dress and was fairly attractive in a motherly sort of way. To my dismay, she was also one of the semi-transparent people I had noticed. I realized it must have been her I heard at the keyboard. "Norman Collier just called," she said, as if I would know whom she was talking about. "He said he is running about fifteen minutes late." "What time was he supposed to be here?" I asked, pleased that my voice, although feminine, was the type of voice that would be effective in court. I had been afraid I would have a high, childish voice, but this pleasant alto voice would do. "He was due here at ten," she said in a voice that told me that I should have known what time he was due. "Okay," I said. "I'll be back in a minute." I had passed the restrooms on my way in, so I knew where they were. I didn't have to go (thank God), but I did want to get a preliminary look at my appearance. If I looked as bad as my driver's license photo... well, let's just say that if I had to be a woman, I would rather be an attractive one. With trepidation, I entered the women's restroom. I felt like a voyeur. If the Judge really wanted to play with me, he would change me back as I entered the restroom and have me picked up on every perversion charge imaginable. I would have gladly taken my chances on that, but when I looked in the full-length mirror along the far wall, I saw the face of a woman. I was relieved to see I was actually fairly attractive. I mean, the cosmetics companies would not have been climbing all over themselves to sign me as a model, but I wasn't bad. I had that fresh-scrubbed average all-American girl look. I hated it, but if I had to be a girl, I was happy to be a normal looking one. As far as the details were concerned, my hair was pretty long, flowing about half way down my back. It was as brown as brown can be and looked shiny and healthy. There were small pearls on gold settings hanging from my ears, and my makeup was feminine but a little understated. My lashes appeared naturally long, and I was surprised to note that my glasses actually made them look more alluring, like a picture in a frame. I looked down my breasts, hoping no one would come in at that moment. I suppose I could make it look like I was adjusting my bra. As I suspected, my breasts were fairly small. I think the term one might use for them would be "pert." That was fine with me. I had heard too many women with large breasts complain endlessly about how uncomfortable they were. That was one distraction I didn't need. Probably my best feature was my legs. They were long and smooth with well-shaped ankles. I felt as if I had forgotten to wear any pants as I looked at them, encased in that tight tan skirt. I resolved to be careful of how I sat. I would have to keep my legs very close together, as unnatural as that was for me. All in all, I could have done a lot worse, I realized. I looked feminine without looking dainty; I looked professional without looking butch, and I was attractive enough to feel good about myself without being so stunning that men would be spending an undue amount of time staring at my body. I never stopped to think at the time that these thoughts ran through my head how uncharacteristic they were. When I got back to the office, a man was waiting for me. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, leather jacket, work pants and boots. And he wasn't transparent. From the look of him, I suspected he was a farmer. I didn't know if he was my appointment, or if I should know him or not, but he solved the dilemma for me when he said, "I'm sorry I'm late, Susan, but I had a little trouble finding everything." "No problem," I said smoothly, unsure if I should call him Norm, Norman, or Mr. Collier. "Let's go to my office." As we sat and my secretary offered coffee, which he gratefully accepted, it was time to get down to business. Unfortunately I had no idea what the business we had to get down to was. Was this our first meeting, or was this part of an ongoing process about which I hadn't a clue? Again, he saved me by saying, "I brought these papers in for you to look at." He placed a neat file folder on my desk. I opened the file and found several documents pertaining to a property sale with subsequent financing documents. It was easy to see what his problem was. The seller had backed out, refusing to return his deposit, claiming that Mr. Collier had not obtained proper financing in the requisite amount of time. It was a simple case that any first year law student could have handled. I hadn't done property law in years, but I was confident I could help him and told him so. He left, pleased that he had found a competent lawyer to handle his problems. I only hoped that by the time it was actually settled, I would be back in my own life. Let someone else be Susan Henderson. My appointment had taken almost an hour. I checked with my secretary and found I had no more appointments for the day. That was both good news and bad news. The good news was that I would have time to prepare for my two o'clock trial date with the Judge. The bad news was that if I was stuck in this life very long, I would need more than one appointment a day to pay the rent. I was wondering idly if I could get in to see the Judge any earlier when an opportunity to do just that presented itself on my doorstep. The opportunity was in the form of a sixteen year old boy named Johnny Lavelle. "Susan?" Dori said (I had finally looked up my secretary's name in her file in my drawer - it was Dori Smithwick). "There's a young man out here without an appointment, but he says it's very important that he sees you." "Okay," I agreed. The young man looked like a high school football player. He was about six two, in good shape, and handsome (now where had that thought come from?). He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that bore the legend "Ovid High School." He muttered his name almost too low for me to hear. Of course, it didn't help that he was busy looking down trying to see down my blouse. This was Johnny Lavelle. After introductions, we sat down and I asked him, "Aren't you a little young to need an attorney on your own?" "Look," the boy began, "let's cut the bullshit. I know you aren't who you look like and you know I'm not who I look like." What did he mean? Was it that obvious, or was everyone in Ovid not who they seemed to be? "Go on," I prodded. He peered at me. "First, I gotta know, were you a lawyer before, or were you something else?" I was something else all right, I thought, but I answered, "I was a lawyer. A very good one, too." "Okay. Now," he said, satisfied, stretching out in the chair, "I'm - or at least I was a twenty-four year old man until I came to Ovid. The Judge, he changed me into a fifteen year old kid. He claimed I was driving reckless and endangering people, so he made me fifteen so I could be young enough to take Driver's Ed. He put me in a family of shades and - " "Excuse me," I said, "but what is a shade?" He grinned. "Boy, you are new here, ain't you? Shades are like your secretary. They're not real. I mean, you can talk to 'em, though 'em, even screw 'em, but they ain't real." "But where do they come from?" I asked, genuinely interested. "How the hell would I know? Now, do you wanna hear my problem or not?" "Go ahead," I said, really hoping there was a reform school in Ovid. "So that pig, Mercer, he picks me up for speeding. He said I was doin' fifty in a school zone. What a dork!" "Did he clock you?" He shook his head. "You don't know Mercer very good, do you? He don't need no speed gun to tell you how fast you're going. He just knows." That was a little factoid I filed away for my own defense. "So when is your trial?" "Noon today." I shook my head. "Why didn't you come to an attorney earlier?" "You gotta be shittin' me, lady," he said. I cringed silently as he called me 'lady.' "All the other lawyers in this fucked up town are shades. They'd just do whatever the Judge told them to do. He'd probably make me into a tree like that other guy." "He turned someone into a tree?" I asked, horrified. There were apparently worse fates than being changed into Ovid's answer to Ally McBeal. "Yeah. Some pervert. I don't know the whole story. Mostly, people are afraid to talk about this shit." I could understand why, but he seemed to be willing to talk about it, so I asked, "Just who is this Judge anyway?" A scowl appeared on his face. "That's one thing we can't talk about." "Why won't you talk about it?" "Weren't you listening, lady?" he snapped. "I said 'can't.' We all figure out who he is, but we can't talk about it. I figure it's part of the spell." He slumped back in his chair. "So can you get me off?" "Well," I began, "if he didn't clock you, we may have a chance." Actually I was starting to get excited. If this defense worked for this obnoxious teen, it might work for me as well. It was worth a shot. I got all the pertinent facts from him: the time and place and so on, and at eleven thirty, we left for court. Susan Henderson's Honda Civic was not much of a car, but it got us to court in time. I was actually looking forward to this. Even though Johnny Lavelle probably deserved to have the book thrown at him, I thought I had a good chance of beating the rap. We would call Officer Mercer to testify and destroy his testimony since he didn't have the readings from a radar gun to back him up. This could work. We entered the municipal building just as Officer Mercer was coming out of the courtroom. He was holding the leash of a very unhappy Basset hound. "Ms. Henderson," he nodded, ignoring my client. Then, to the dog, he said, "Come on, Sam. Your new master's waiting." The dog looked up at me with sad brown eyes and whined. I could guess he was trying to say, "And you think you have it bad..." I gave an involuntary shudder. "Jeez," Johnny muttered, "the Judge is in a piss poor mood today. You'd better be damned good, lady." So help me god, I thought, if he calls me 'lady' one more time, I'm going to... going to... what? Hit him with my purse? Beside, lady was probably the best he could do. After talking with Johnny for awhile, I'm surprised he didn't call me a cunt. When we entered the courtroom, the Judge was nowhere to be seen. I assumed he was in chambers. I was surprised to see Officer Mercer acting as bailiff, though. "I thought you just left," I said to him. "I did," was all he said in reply. The blonde was still there in the visitor's gallery. She was as attractive as ever, but I found to my surprise that I was having some odd thoughts as I watched her. I kept wondering what I would look like if my hair was styled like hers, and where had she gotten that dress? Be careful, Brad, I told myself. These are not thoughts to be thinking. Apparently more than my body had been affected by the change. It was time to get down to business and get my old body back. "All rise!" I hurried Johnny to stand next to me at the defense table as the Judge entered the room. "Be seated," he said without looking at the audience. When he was seated, he looked up at me, one eyebrow raised. "Ms. Henderson, I was under the impression that you would be here at two o'clock. I believe it's just now noon, and I have a trial with Mr. Lavelle." I stood, trying to look imposing and failing. "Yes, Your Honor," I agreed. "I am acting as legal counsel for Mr. Lavelle." "Legal counsel?" "Yes, Your Honor. I believe I am authorized to represent defendants in this court." The Judge was silent for a moment. Then he nodded and said, "Very well, Ms. Henderson. I hope you know what you're doing. Your client is charged with speedin