Cossack Cowboy: Red Ichor Trilogy, #1

By Richard Possett

Casimir Josper Czyznikiewicz grows into a rugged American cowboy. A boy, Kazik, is born in Poland and raised in East Texas as Charles Joseph Kane. Upon the murder of his parents, Kane executes eight Windstar Ranch hands. The action is blood vengeance, zemsta krwi. These are honor code killings according to the Cossack way, Kozacka droga.Now a fugitive, Kane is pursued by a posse of hardened gunslingers. He joins a Texas cattle drive to evade capture and the hangman's noose. On the trail, he makes friends and foes, confronting rustlers, stampedes, and savage Indians.With deceits and deflections, the manslayer outwits the Texas posse. In his journey, Kane tussles with drunken ruffians, has assignations with doxies and dolls, and brushes up against vigilantes. As an outlaw, the Cossack cowboy enters Rawlins Springs, Wyoming Territory, wanted dead or alive.Cossack Cowboy is Book One of the Red Ichor Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Possett
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386451693

Book preview

Chapter 1

Blood Vengeance

Polski Kozak

Commander and sergeant heard the horses in the still night air. The Lechian warriors were arriving one by one at the rally point. Hearty hellos were said, and assembly trumpeted. Then, roll call was taken, and orders were given. No one was missing. That was Kozacka droga, the way of the Cossack. The soldiers inspected animals and tacking. They rechecked firearms, swords, and daggers. They were all ready to ride for God, Family, and Honor. The battle cries … Za Boga, rodzinę i honor.

The band of brothers traveled to the hideout while staying in the dark shadows of the woodland. The bivouac was in the Katy Forest near the frontier burg of Zomuska. The rural town nestled in the bend of a tributary of the Bug River. The strategic location served as a Russian military outpost.

The day was cloudy, which was good. The Boykos shaman predicted no moon that night, which was better yet. Peasant reconnaissance said the Rus were unaware. The element of surprise was on their side, the best. These warring Polish Cossacks would take the advantage. The violent action was for blood revenge … zemsta krwi.

The troopers would strike at the break of dawn. The local Slavic serfs worked hard helping with tactics and scouting. The horses were muzzled with fabric tied to hoof and harness. A thick cloth was used to quiet the sabers; the swads would enter the military compound to execute the command of death. There would be no quarter given as decreed by the Rada Wojskowa … the military council directing the Cossacks of the Lechian Host.

In rode the twenty-five. No sentries or warnings. The fifth column did their job well. These clandestine patriots put the Russkie to sleep with wine, women, and song. Unknown to the unsuspecting prey, it was their last supper. Barracks to barracks, bed to bed went the Polscy Kozacy. The slayings went swiftly. The men-at-arms were quick and efficient, as there was no time to pause, no time to tarry.

The executioners stabbed, slashed, and slit throats ear to ear, one by one until the deed was done. Blood flowed thick over beds, boards, and bricks. Three Russkie Hussars were saved and escorted from town to live yet another day. The avenging town folks executed the Imperial Magistrate. He hung gutted and upside down from the high city gate. The local farm boys rounded up the Russian horses, weapons, and gear.

After many thanks and farewells, the Cossack unit trekked back to the assembly place, where they disbanded as easy as mustered. The Rus steeds were a tribute to the Hetman and Elders. Armaments and ammunition went to the armory. With few words, the two comrades said their goodbyes; Marcin Czyznikiewicz and Tomasz Sabinski returned to their backveld villages.

The Kozak military council of the Lechian Host didn’t expect reprisal. The honor-bound duty was zemsta krwi … blood vengeance. The horde required the action. It was retribution for a heinous act upon defenseless peasants, both young and old. The ruthless Russkie slaughtered scores of men, women, and children. Satisfaction demanded satisfaction, retaliation.

Furthermore, the Russian Imperial Army was now preoccupied. There was a massive Polish uprising in the large cities throughout Vistula Land. Kraków and Lublin were under siege. Warsaw was a liberated free state. Polscy insurrectionists had Moskwa on the run.

Gawd almighty, they’re pissin’ in the wind. It was unbelievable after days of roamin’ the East Texas countryside. Yeezus, Mary, and Joseph, he muttered. Damn, what a friggin chance! The four ranch hands had their backs to him with trousers down and prick in hand. Their pistols hung on saddle horns; their rifles lay in scabbards.

It was just fortuity as he rounded the tight bend. The four stood in the Mendenhall Meadow. The patch was on Hansen timberland. He had been right; the passage of time made them unafraid. The first reprisal killings had run their course. They were now lazy and overconfident waddies. That attitude would be the death of them yet.

He pulled up the reins on Malo. With a flick of the bit, the horse backpedaled. From the cover of the thickets, he viewed the killers. Hushed and calm, the Cossack approached on foot. With a sharp snap of a dry twig, they turned around. Without words or warning, he shot them one at a time. It was four quick straight rounds, as he placed bullets in their knees. The action neutralized any potential counterattack. The four cowboys were now helpless.

As a precaution, Kane collected their guns. He tossed the weapons into the dense shrubbery. Then the Cossack went back to their horses for lariats and untied the animals. With a slap on the hindquarters, he set them free. The steeds raised their heads, snorted, and kicked out their front legs. Off they went into the woodlands; from there they would find their way home.

Leave Jack be, beseeched an afraid Ike Hansen. I shot your father, he bellowed. The others were bystanders.

You’re all guilty and have blood on your hands! Pull up your dang britches and make peace with the almighty Maker, shouted the Cossack. He tied each knot and slung the nooses. The ropes hung from solid limbs of old mesquite trees. All was ready. Justice awaited doin’.

Please, cried out Jay Whitney. Luke and I got nothin’ to do with the murders.

You’ve got everything to do with the killings. Up you go. Ike, you’ll be last.

Kane strung them up one at a time. Before him, four bodies swung from heavy branches, strangling and kicking for dear life. There was no sudden drop; there was no quick broken neck and no piss in the pants. Their bladders were empty, but they did shit themselves.

For the Cossack, there was no remorse. There was no joy. The feeble boys pulled up off the ground to die. There was some sadness in the air; a lot had happened over the last half year. Otherwise, he felt little or nothing. It was a vendetta, the way of the Cossack.

Mendenhall Meadow

In the end, the boys cried and begged for mercy, but none was given. On the ropes, the brothers sobbed and asked forgiveness, but none was given.

Kane was cocksure there would be deadly retribution. Ol’ man Hansen would not let the termination of his bloodline go unpunished. The Whitney brothers were gone, and their memories would soon fade. It was a different bargain, though, for the Hansen boys.

In the breast pocket of Ike Hansen’s vest, he put the piece of paper. The handwritten note said … As angels weep, let justice praise. It was their epitaph. He was confident the town folks would know the assassin, and the executions would not pass unnoticed. Pruitt Hansen would travel the burning roads of the netherworld in Hades to have his revenge.

A stranger might come across the hanging cadavers. The wayward horses might alert a search party. Otherwise, the dead would move to a morbid state of decay. Time would have its sway, and the carnivores would tear on the flesh. Vultures would peck on the carrion; insects would nibble away. The heat of the sun would take a toll, as would the humidity. So be it; let them rot. Bloodshed required bloodshed. It was an eye for an eye, the code of retaliation.

Upon discovery, Hansen would feel shearing grief. The Cossack could care less. With that thought, he took one last look at the brothers and boys. Then, he wheeled and walked to the pinto. Mounting his horse, he spurred Malo and galloped out of the shadows. He headed back to the old Buckhorn slave cabin, deep in the Piney Woods.

At the lodge camp, he arranged belongings. The Cossack examined the bedroll, checked the war bag, and inventoried the duffel. He found that there was plenty of oats in the grain sack. He fixed the canvas panniers and covered the pack with a manta, tying off the cinch and corners. Kane rechecked the knots; they were fit and firm. Now, they were ready to leave.

With the deed done, he was neither happy nor sad, he felt neither good nor bad. For him, it wasn’t right or wrong. It is what it is, he said to himself aloud. It was his sacred duty, zemsta krwi. With that, he turned the horses towards the Brazos River with a course for Waco.

One by one the posse showed up. The armed band came from all over the Southwest to Huntsville. The last to arrive was the Irish twins, Curly and Cody Dolan. They had been christened Cronin Cormac and Conan Ciaran. The Culchies were Leesiders from County Cork of the Emerald Isle. Boot Hill found the doubles in Ellsworth, Kansas drinking and whoremongering with Squirrel Tooth Alice. The roguish Pogues arrived in East Texas by rail.

The Dolans were callow, mean cusses with unpredictable tempers. The lawman thought he could control the lads. They may be pesky, but loyal to the pay, and took orders without say. The young Paddies were longriders that could shoot fast and sure. Together they would stare down a wild bear with nothin’ but bare knuckles.

The first to show was Charlie Coulter, a roughneck, and former Confederate sharpshooter. His was the Whitworth rifle: one-shot…one-kill! Coulter was a real sonofabitch, a badass lawman of different shades of dark grey. Crusty ol’ Charlie was hiding out in the Delano District of Wichita, Kansas. Rumor said he was a person of interest in killing some fancy-pants rube near Deadwood.

Charlie did much to tame the mining towns in the Dakota Territory. He was a deputy sheriff for Wild Bill Hickok. Many challenged Coulter’s practices on legal and ethical grounds, but none were successful. The story was that Charlie, while in a drunken stupor, gunned down the Pactola City mayor’s son. The fuss was over the hire of a two-bit whore in a seedy rum hole.

Smitty Becker stepped off the Ark-La-Tex stagecoach from Bowie County. Becker walked the thin, crooked line between lawman and outlaw. His reputation preceded any appearance. Citizens had accused him of bank robbery and cattle rustling over the years. He was never convicted.

Some time back, Becker just missed the gallows in Langtry, Texas. The small border town nestled near the Rio Grande and Pecos rivers. Somehow, Smitty slipped out the back door of the Jersey Lilly Saloon. The tavern was the famed courtroom of Judge Roy Bean. The judicial tapster was the only law west of the Pecos. Becker had beaten off the face of Ranger Webb Bass with his two bare fists. The officer died in a pool of red ichor flowing over the barroom sawdust.

After his escape, Smitty worked as a sheriff in small stink holes. He skedaddled from West Texas to Poplar Bluff, Missouri. Becker chose to stay out of the big towns hiding in the hinterlands. Smitty left his mark on the prairie with the unnamed and unburied dead.

Next was Ricky Dawson. He was a famed tracker. Ricky could find the pony in the poop, no matter how much bullshit people shoveled. Boot Hill located the scout in Oak City. He was hunting renegade Indians in the Territory. Dawson was working for Judge Isaac Parker out of Fort Smith, Arkansas. The magistrate was the hangin’ judge of Indian Territory.

Ricky could trace on the open range and track in the crowded streets of towns. The human bloodhound had tenacious hunting instincts. The half-breed was part Kiowa and Negro. He was born in a tipi on the Red River. Dawson would be a prized detective in any large city. He blew into Huntsville on the Corsicana Railroad Line.

In rode Brownie Drudge, bigger than life. He was a troubled man, a mean badass black bearish brute. Drudge measured six-feet-five and two hundred fifty-five pounds. Everyone was wary of Brownie. He might shoot you for looking sideways out of the corner of your eye.

Drudge was a runaway slave from the Magnolia Plantation in Pinewood, South Carolina. That was until the Emancipation Proclamation. The black man had no use for whitey, except blood hatred. The gunslinger was a Negro regulator from Midland-Odessa. He worked for the West Texas Cattlemen’s Association. The black mug did love the blue-eyed devils’ money. He had one hard and fast rule. The buck dealt only in gold. No paper banknotes for this gunman.

Brownie did famously as a hired assassin and range detective. Drudge was in high demand as judge, jury, and executioner. He patrolled the countryside for ne’er-do-wells. Sodbusters, horse thieves, cattle rustlers, and sheep farmers were hard targets. He wasn’t particular or prejudiced. The brigand summarily killed them all, beaners, crackers, and niggras.

The triggerman had other meaningful talents. He could cook and was a noted sawbones. His medical skills came at the hands of a slave bokor. The witch doctor taught him the voodoo cures of brews and potions. Brownie had the know-how to black magic laying-on of hands. He could stitch and patch as a skilled surgeon. Homemade chow and healing were something the posse might need on the long ride.

Pruitt Hansen felt the marshal had chosen well. Boot Hill had an invisible network for locating these men. The Ol’ Man had his posse of seven bastard lawmen, hardened toughies. This rough-and-tumble gang would ride with the purpose to apprehend the killer, C. J. Kane. They would find the murderer, bring him to East Texas, and put his neck in a noose.

Hansen wished to watch the outlaw dance in the wind. Then, he would throw the worthless carcass for the coyotes in the backcountry. If the Ol’ Man had his way, Kane would be forever forgotten. With unforgivable force, vengeance would be his.

Down the steppes rode the Cossack. Arid grass sprouted from the barren ground as the horses’ hooves beat hard against the earth. Ahead lay a frontier town, where folks spoke little of the place. From a distance, it didn’t seem like much, just a dervish of dirt and dust.

Chimney smoke swirled, dissipating into the clean thin air. A faraway engine blew off steam, a triple shrill in a vast silent openness. The cowboy hoped it was a place where he could rest, as they all had worked hard, both man and beast. It was a trek of over fifteen-hundred miles.

Cottonwoods and lodgepoles laced the falling slopes. Giant snowcapped mountains sat far off in the backdrop. A bright blue sky arched in stark contrast to the gray shale rock and nut-brown sagebrush. This rugged landscape was a diverse scene of clashing colors.

The site was the Carbon County seat. Strange, it was once part of the Spanish Empire and the Republic of Texas. The territory was ceded to the United States government in 1852 by the Lone Star state. Off in the distance was a landmark, Elk’s Peak: the summit, part of the Medicine Bow Mountain range.

The pup cuddled in the lap of the panniers. The four of them were fatigued travelers as the adrenaline disintegrated near trail’s end. The ponies stayed steadfast throughout the journey; for him, the course had taken its toll on body and soul.

The trip had been hard, much like his flinty bones. The holes in his hip and abdomen closed, but they would never heal. The wounds ached in the rain and pained with the cold. The whole of his heart was still in pieces like a shattered looking-glass.

The sun baked his back as he looked forward to the end of the day. As he relaxed, fatigue was settling into his body. Still, the mind was active. To create another illusion, he rode around from the southeast to enter from the northwest. Someone might notice; that would be alright!

A signpost announced Front Street. A new Union Pacific Railroad depot lay to his right. To the left were offices and a stable. Tied to the corral fence of the livery barn were half dozen hard-ridden horses. They did look familiar: Gunny Sackers. The near surroundings said favorable, a burg of whitewashed wood painted on a canvas in random prime colors.

The day had been frosty and gusty. An ever-present wind drained his energy. The blowy noise was boundless as it rolled through the buttes and mesas onto the prairie. The surge of air flowed at a velocity that could unsteady man and beast. The wind whistled through his ears and chiseled his face granite hard.

Marcin Aleksander Czyznikiewicz

Considering everything, all seemed well. Kane wouldn’t worry about the pursuing posse. With confidence, he counted upon the many deceits to sidetrack the chase. They would buy time until spring. He would think more about them later, as his current concern was rest, a rejuvenation. The Cossack cowboy was entering Rawlins Springs in the Wyoming Territory.

His horse was a black and white pinto. The pack was a sorrel-colored animal. Grayish puppy fuzz covered the dog. The weary rider was Casimir Josper Czyznikiewicz, who was born in the spring of 1864. In childhood, he had been called Kazik. As a manslayer, he was now C. J. Kane. Others might know him as the Cossack.

The cowboy was tall and muscular, nineteen hands and fifteen stones. He had brown hair and hazel eyes. His mustachioed face was tanned by the sun and hardened by the weather. His big hands moved, unaware, to massage a noticeable facial scar. It was his badge of courage earned in an adolescent fistfight. A scuffle he didn’t lose.

He was a man of the trail, introspective, but not an introvert. Kane saw himself as an individualistic man and not a loner, but he did enjoy his solitude. His few friends mattered, but the family paramount.

Kane believed he was neither a romantic nor a doomsayer. He had a realistic view of man in an imperfect world and had a strong sense of being Polish. Kane lived by the cowboy code and the Cossack way. As a Roman Catholic, his faith was lazy, but he believed in God.

His father, Marcin Aleksander, was a fearless Kozak warrior from the Lechian Host. The tribe resided on the eastern steppes of Poland near Ukraine in the fertile lands between the Bug River and the Vistula. His mother, Antonina Zofia Sienkiewicz, was from Silesia. His parents met and married in his mother’s hometown of Opole. The place was on the Oder River, which was the site of his birth. The region was in the Polish-Prussian Partition, a province of the German Empire.

Still, in contemplative thought, Kane meandered in a slow trot down Front Street. He let the horse have free rein. His mind wandered back to the trial in Huntsville. The crimes were heinous. The outcome was hideous. What a damn-sham, a kangaroo court? These fatal events infected his whole being. It was at this time he grew up fast; he had gone from a carefree kid to a callous killer.

Chapter 2

Trial and Error

Opolesville

Aaron Perry Chisholm, attorney at law, was special counsel; he was also named for the Chisholm Trail. This cattle course ran from the grasslands of San Antonio north through Indian Territory. It intersected Wichita in the wild and wooly Delano District. From there it moved on to the railhead at Abilene, Kansas. The cow trod had been christened after his great-uncle Jesse. The Scottish-Cherokee trader was a famous peacemaker and pathfinder. Today, Perry Chisholm represented the estate of Martin and Annette Kane for the family businesses.

Mr. Chisholm, what do you make of this man Crockett? asked Aunt Eva.

"Charlie is the great-grandson of Davey, the hero who fell at the Alamo. As a criminal lawyer, he’s game as a banty rooster, the best. Under normal circumstances, he’d just practice law in Houston. The Ol’ Man and his associates are special folks with tremendous sway. Pruitt Hansen has lots of influence and status. That’s why he’s got this wise legal eagle.

"Crockett’s professional services are top-notch but aren’t cheap. The Hansen wealth won’t have any trouble paying his fees. Charlie is ethical, diligent, and intelligent. He’ll be stout for the

Cossack Cowboy

defense. Crockett will do it honestly, but with old-line savvy," replied Perry Chisholm.

I hear that the judge is a blam-jam scallywag, added Uncle Tom.

He’s a bloviating pissant; a narcissistic bag of wind. Bill Wilson’s ego is bigger than his brain. His Honor is only interested in power, prestige, and purse. Those who don’t support his positions are gutter punks. His biggest backer is ol’ man Hansen, answered the lawyer.

What’s with the county prosecutor? asked Kazik Kane.

Harris? That shingle-shyster is a carpetbagger. He’s chief attorney for Walker County; a hack lawyer from Baltimore. Hearsay has it he’s disbarred on the East Coast for graft. Scuttlebutt said a citizens’ mob tarred and feathered the jackleg and ran him out of town on a rail. He also has the political and financial support of Pruitt Hansen.

Is Lady Justice turning a blind eye to our cause? queried Aunt Eva.

"Fait Justitia is a Latin phrase meaning ‘let justice be done.’ For hundreds of years, Lady Justice has been depicted wearing a blindfold. The eye cover represents impartiality, the idea that justice should be applied without regard to position, power, purse, or prestige. But, in our case, you may be right, I’m afraid. Hansen does have his thumb on the scales." The family was dismayed by Chisholm’s observation and comment.

So then, the criminal trial began on a blustery spring day. It was in the District Court for Walker County, State of Texas. There were twelve white males in the jury box.

Judge Wilson, Charles David Crockett for the defense.

Good to get to know you, Charlie, answered the beak.

It’s Jorge Marion Harris, sir. I’m representing the good people of this great state, shouted the prosecutor. He jumped up and stood at attention, somewhat amazin’ and amusin’ the crowd in the courtroom.

I know ya. No need for damnable histrionics, Harris, retorted the entertained magistrate with a hidden half-smile. We all know that Texas is a great and wonderful place. Y’all don’t mess with us Texans.

Sorry, Bill, I mean Your Honor.

Dadblame it, let’s get on with the drat affair, implored Justice Wilson.

With introductions and jury instructions done, the legal proceedings began. It started with a loud whack of a hardened gavel against an old oak block.

At the defense table sat Ike Hansen, the eldest son, and Jack, the youngest. Next to the Hansen boys were the Whitney brothers, Jay and Luke. The brothers and boys were first cousins. Following was Smokey Joe Jackson and Al Cougar Claw. Behind them sat Bad Eye Martinez and Blue Duck Perez.

The Hansen boys were charged with second-degree murder. There was no premeditation. They were the chief culprits in the death of Martin Kane. If guilty, their punishment could be meted out on the gallows at Huntsville State Prison. However, they were sure their father wouldn’t let it happen.

The Whitney brothers were indicted as accessories after the fact. They had assisted in the commission and cover-up of the crime. The result was twenty years in prison with parole maybe in ten years, but the uncle might not let that happen.

The Windstar Ranch help consisted of an Indian, two Mexicans, and a Negro. They were all accused of manslaughter. In one way or another, the four participated in the homicidal death of Annette Kane. They were looking at maybe fifteen years of hard labor poundin’ rock. It was apparent the Ol’ Man didn’t give a damn.

At the defense rail was Pruitt Ashely Hansen. He was the high-and-mighty father of Ike and Jack. Hansen was a widower; his wife had died last winter of consumption. Upon the death of his sister and brother-in-law, he inherited the Whitneys. For him, the brothers and boys were his only living blood kin.

Behind the prosecutor's table in the first-row gallery sat Kazik and Mary Anna Kane. The son and daughter of the deceased were seated next to their Uncle Tom and Aunt Eva. Their cousins, Sissy, Sally, and Hank, sat behind them. The family still wore their mourning attire. The crimes had broken their hearts and fractured their souls.

The deaths had happened six weeks ago with the funeral twenty-nine days past. Judge Wilson wished a quick trial and, like most jurists in East Texas, it was suspected that he was on the deep Hansen dole. For the court, the pay was the same, whether a fast or slow event. The Ol’ Man did want a speedy process. So be it. You made Pruitt Hansen happy in Walker County. Some said the outcome might have been different after a whole-hog investigation. His Honor didn’t give two hoots about public opinion.

Following the fatalities, the Opolesville city coroner summoned a public inquest. The probe found the slaying of Martin Kane to be a vicious murder. A second grand jury determined the death of Annette Kane to be malicious manslaughter. Three days later there was a preliminary hearing in the municipal court.

The city judge ordered the accused to stand trial. He remanded them into the sheriff’s custody. The lawman released the brothers and boys to the Ol’ Man. The rest of the culprits whiled away time in the city jail awaiting trial by playing three-card monte and draughts.

The next criminal action was scheduled for Tuesday, in a fortnight. It would be in the Magistrates Court of Opolesville. The first order of business on the docket was to hear arguments for a new trial venue.

All rise, announced the bailiff. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Alka Stefa Bach is presiding.

Mr. Crockett, what’s the full meaning and measure of your motion? began Judge Bach.

Your Honor, we respectfully request a change of venue to the county seat in Huntsville.

What’s the basis of your petition?

Judge, in this locale, the jury would consist of members from this here town. There’s little doubt they’re predisposed to favor their kinfolk.

Pray tell, why’s that? What people do you mean? asked Bach.

"Jeez, they’re all Polocks, judge. Opolesville is full of Polish pioneers. The Kane and Fox families are prominent citizens, and the deceased were founders of this here foreign burg. The whereabouts of the jury pool would be pure poison; everyone is related by blood or race. In this town, them types stick together even if they ain't blood kin. Here, in this place, the defendants are dead men walking. We all know that the Hansen family and range riders can’t get a fair trial in this here Polock community. Please, it is prima facie, Judge Bach."

Counselor Harris, what do you say?

Your Honor, I can’t disagree. The prosecution doesn’t object, announced the lawyer to a loud outcry. People in public seating buzzed and hissed disapproval in raucous unison. It was an abomination of justice; the citizenry of Opolesville was furious and mad as hell.

True, it was disappointing, but a reasonable legal ruling. Harris didn’t make any arguments for a stay in the jurisdiction. Although it was his job, he didn’t do it. Thus, Judge Bach had little choice but to approve the defendant’s motion to move the case. Due process would now take place in the Wolf’s Den Saloon of the Yellow Rose Hotel: the notorious courtroom of Judge William Woodrow Wilson.

At the criminal trial, during voir dire, Harris seldom objected. It was odd. Crockett was quite puzzled but had his way, so stayed silent. The prosecutor didn’t challenge obviously biased jurors. The judge was quiet. He seemed uninterested. It appeared that Wilson was reading dime novels as he sat in a black robe at the oak table. Only a fool would be unable to see that the jurist was partisan, incompetent, or both. It seemed Lady Justice was taking a holiday.

In no time, a jury became empaneled. The bias was most transparent. Kazik sat baffled, and Tom dismayed. The frustrated Polish crowd stirred in despair. Hank stood and shouted an objection: gówno prawda…idiota! Judge Wilson held him in contempt of court. He didn’t know what the young fella said, but it did sound profane and disrespectful. Tom Fox paid the ten-dollar fine. The father did agree with his son, that it was bullshit and the judge an idiot … głupie gadanie.

The panel was composed