"All rise," the bailiff said as the magistrate swept in, black robe billowing behind him.
      Obediently, we got to our feet, Crown attorney to the right, defence counsel to the left, court regulars murmuring behind, me thinking how the hell did I get here?
     Break, enter and theft at the city's elite country club. Sheesh. What had I got myself into? It was supposed to be a lark, a way to get some extra cash.
     I'll kill Rolly and Bob, I remember thinking, I really, truly will....

     The cops usually took their own pictures of crime scenes and accidents, but occasionally their man was busy or on holidays, and then they called on Dave, the head photographer of the paper to do it for them.

     The morning of the break-in, Dave was either away or tied up, and Donna, the assistant, was out on assignment. The city editor asked third-stringer me if I'd like the job. The cops were offering $50 for going out, taking some pictures and then printing up a bunch of eight-by-tens.

     Sure, I said. It was damned near a full week's pay.
 
     So off I went. Wherever Rolly and Bob, the investigating detectives, pointed, I took pictures. Jimmied window. Pry bar found at the scene. Matching the pry bar to the damaged window frame. Jimmied desk drawers. Jimmied safe. General exterior shots. General interior shots. Maybe 25 or 30 altogether. A few hours work in the darkroom ... and done.

     They got the two clowns (and their take was less than mine) about ten minutes after they shot their mouths off in a bar. And that was that, or so I thought.

     Until Rolly and Bob showed up in the newsroom, armed with a subpoena and wearing shit-eating grins.

     "Gotta appear as a witness for the Crown," said Rolly. "No big deal. Just come to court and say you were the guy who took the pictures. 'K?"

     Rolly, I said, I'd hate to appear in court. Bad enough that I have to cover it.

     "Tough," said Rolly, slapping the subpoena into my reluctant hand.

     So, on the appointed day, there I was, a star witness in a two-bit break, enter and theft trial.  

     Loring, the Crown attorney, was a tall, patrician looking man with a very fine legal mind. He was also the next thing to stone deaf.  
 
     "Can you identify these photos," he asked loudly.

     I assured him that I'd taken them.

     "Speak up," he said. "Now, is this the complete set?"

     Yes, I said.

     "Good," he said. "Now, what direction were you facing when you took this one," he said, holding up the pry-bar-cum-damaged-window shot.

     Uhhhhhh ... the window?

     "No, no, no. East? West?"

     I have no idea, I responded, glancing over at Rolly and Bob, who were beside themselves. Bastards.

     "You mean you didn't take notes?"

     Notes? NOTES? No one told me to take notes.

     I looked this time at the defence lawyer, Simpson, another fine legal mind, whose usually florid face was turning purple with the effort not to laugh.

     "You understand that these pictures are a significant part of the Crown's presentation," said Loring.

     Uhhhhh ... no. No, I didn't. All I thought I had to do was come in and say I was the one who shot and processed them.  

     "Well, it's important," Loring said, continuing for an eternity of questions I couldn't answer.

     Finally, "I ... uh ... oh, never mind. Your witness, Mr. Simpson."

     Simpson, his right hand shielding his eyes, was quaking so hard he merely waved his left hand in a dismissive gesture, indicating I could step down.

     And so I did, much relieved. It was past 1 p.m., the bucket of blood was open, and I was of legal age....

     I should say that my testimony -- or lack thereof -- didn't put a spoke in the wheels of justice. The two clowns were duly convicted and sentenced.

     Rolly and Bob? Oh, they paid for setting me up, which they admitted later they did to see how I'd react. And me? I never did another paid job for the cops.

     Not never.