If he appeared in court the following day, there would most likely be reporters around, and they would be more familiar with his name than the cop had been. Using Alexander, instead of Alec, wouldn’t fool them, and the subsequent publicity could well lead to public knowledge that the Black was once again in the United States.

He had let Henry down, and he didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing the Black could beat Satan. He was confused, worried and angry with himself. But he realized there was no backtracking now. He would have to do everything possible to keep the Black’s identity from the press.

GUILTY!
7

Early the following afternoon, Alec walked from his home to the courthouse in downtown Flushing. He stopped before the building and his hand found the summons deep within his pocket. He didn’t have to look at it again to know where to go. His offense of galloping a horse in a public park was classified by the Police Department as a traffic violation, and he was ordered to appear before the Traffic Court at two o’clock. It was two now.

Without moving forward, he watched the people hurrying into the building, some of them already holding their summonses in hand. Alec felt for the wallet in his hind pocket. He had twenty-five dollars there, and he knew that it would be more than enough to pay the fine. He should be getting inside now; no use putting it off any longer. If Dad had been along, it would have made things easier. But he had decided not to tell his father what had happened. He had assumed full responsibility when he had taken the Black to the park, and now he had to go through with it … alone. If he wasn’t recognized, he’d pay the fine and no one would be the wiser.

But what if he was recognized? What would he do? What could he do? Alec walked toward the steps. He didn’t know. There was no sense in thinking about it now. He would have to wait and see.

He followed the crowd inside the building. They were all going to the same room as he. They went up a flight of stairs, the well-worn wooden steps creaking beneath their combined weight. A policeman stood at the head of the stairs, directing them down the corridor. Alec followed the others into a large room where a dark-cloaked judge was presiding on the bench. The court was already in session, and Alec took a seat in the back of the room.

A police sergeant stood in front of the judge’s bench, calling off the names of traffic violators; one at a time they went forward, pleading guilty or not guilty to the court’s charge. If they admitted their guilt, they went to the cashier and paid their fine. If they believed themselves innocent, they pleaded not guilty and retired to one side of the courtroom, where later the judge would hear their defense.

While Alec waited for his name to be called, he looked around the crowded courtroom and wondered if among these people were any reporters from the newspapers. He knew that most editors assigned reporters to cover the city courts, hoping to pick up stories. One could be here now, but whether or not a court reporter would recognize his name was up to chance. Alec sat on a chair near the aisle; he was prepared to go to the bench promptly to avoid having his name called more than once by the sergeant.

He waited fifteen more minutes, listening to people plead guilty to speeding, overtime parking and going through red lights; then, suddenly, the police sergeant called, “Alexander Ramsay!”

It seemed to Alec that the sergeant’s voice had risen to its highest pitch and that the room was much quieter than it had been since his arrival. He jumped up from his chair, tripped on a leg, caught himself, then hurried down the aisle.