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“I don’t have anything to say,” she said. “I want to see a lawyer.”

She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, another plain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.

And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn’t just sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to the endless boring lectures on art and culture.

“Name?” he asked in a tired voice.

She knew the statistics he wanted. “Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Prints on file.”

The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who left and presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran his fingers down one of the pages.

The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and a fine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record for shoplifting.

A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the government suddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She could hear a little of what he said: