Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 18: Going Off the Rails
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 18: Going Off the Rails - The ninth book in the long-running Intemperance series finds Jake Kingsley balancing family, music, and media chaos as his world grows stranger—and more fiercely loyal—by the day. With fame fading and life deepening, the Kingsleys and their inner circle face new challenges in love, trust, and the price of peace.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa BiSexual Fiction
Octavia Boulevard, California
July 18, 2004
The voice from the dashboard is soft but unwavering.
“In two hundred feet, turn left onto Franklin Street.” It’s a pleasant, female voice. English accent. Soothing. Like the voice of an angel, guiding him on his holy mission.
Judge Michael Olson does not see a city. He sees a battlefield.
The buildings rise on either side of him like the walls of Jericho—facades of secular arrogance and indulgent sin. His sedan moves between them like a blade between ribs. He has been driving for hours, though time has lost shape. He follows the angel’s voice. He obeys the instructions. The way has been prepared.
“Turn left onto Franklin Street.”
He nods—once, solemn. His blinker clicks in a rhythm he finds pleasing, almost mesmerizing. He makes the turn. The tires hum across the pavement, his eyes scanning for the next revelation.
“Continue for one mile.”
That mile is his Garden of Gethsemane. He is calm now, as he always is before it begins.
His suit is the same one he wore to church—a three-piece, charcoal gray, finely pressed. His shirt is still crisp. His tie sits just beneath his throat like a blade in waiting. His Bible rests on the passenger seat, pages dog-eared, annotations in red pen crawling across the margins like blood on linen.
Next to the Bible: the kitchen knife. Eight-inch blade, full tang, good German steel. He did not bring it to kill. He brought it to cut away evil. Evil does not die—it festers, unless lanced.
He does not look at it now. He knows it is there. He has readied himself in every way. He will not use it unless he is forced to.
“Turn left onto Jackson Street.”
Another nod. Another turn.
Jackson rises gently through a decadent neighborhood, where old money clutches pearls behind stained glass, and the enemy hides among gallery walls and editorial desks. The sun dips through the canopy of manicured trees, casting patterns on the windshield—like latticework in a cathedral. He takes it as a blessing.
Halfway down the block, the GPS says: “Your destination is on the left.”
The angel has guided him true. He slows.
The house is just like he remembered it from the records. He accessed the address this morning, using the database privileges his position as a judge had bestowed upon him. Her address, phone number, even known acquaintances and basic background.
She was one of them. It had been in the record. Not explicitly stated, but implicitly. She lived with another woman. A woman identified as her “domestic partner”.
Blasphemy upon blasphemy. The Whore of Babylon, yes—but now paired with the scarlet sin of Sodom. A woman who defiles not only men, but the sacred order itself.
He was here. After many miles of travel, after delving into modern day city of Sodom itself, it was time to confront that bearer of false witness upon him.
Because he saw what she wrote.
Because she dared to publish it.
Jen Collins.
The Whore of Babylon in the modern cloth—snakeskin heels, poison pen, heart black with vanity. It was her who had turned the people. Her pen that carried the lies. Her voice that cut him loose from his robes and his bench and the body of Christ.
And now? Now they show videos. Her doing. Her connections. Her deals with devils.
He parks the car neatly, precisely, in front of a fire hydrant. He does not care. He is on God’s errand, and God does not worry about municipal codes.
He reaches across the seat. His fingers graze the worn leather of the Bible’s spine, then close around the knife. He lifts it with reverence.
With one smooth motion, he steps out of the vehicle, tucks the knife into the back of his waistband, beneath his suit coat. The handle presses warm and firm against the base of his spine. He does not mind the weight. It anchors him.
He walks toward the house. The breeze is light and clean, but he does not feel it. His mind is full of fire and glass. He climbs the steps without pause, without fear.
“Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”
The words come unbidden.
“Strike down the liars, O Lord, and root out the scribes of wickedness.”
This is where it begins. The first trumpet. The first plague.
He will not kill her. Not unless forced. Not unless she refuses. She will open the door, see his face, and know. She will recant. She will issue a retraction. She will beg forgiveness.
Or she will face the wrath of the vessel.
He raises his hand. It shakes slightly—not from fear, but from power restrained.
He knocks. Three times.
Hard.
The wood beneath his knuckles sounds hollow, empty, deceitful.
He waits.
Then knocks again.
Harder.
“Come forth,” he calls, “and face the Word.”
At Kingsley Manor, all Celia knew was that the judge was still missing and the Nerdly family, plus special guests, were on the way. There were logistics to be planned. Plans to set into motion. Unfortunately, her two loveable, usually quite reliable spouses were still cataclysmically stoned to the eyeballs, and were having a little trouble keeping on task.
Celia stood at the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching Jake eat pretzels like he was solving a puzzle with them.
Laura was leaning over the stove, stirring a pot of enchilada sauce with the focus of someone who might be using it to decode the structure of the universe. Her other hand held a wedge of sharp cheddar, which she occasionally nibbled directly from the block. Celia had no idea what she was planning to do with enchilada sauce and cheddar cheese, but she was sure it made sense to Laura.
“They’ll be here in fifteen,” Celia said.
Jake looked up like the sentence had to travel a long way to reach him. “Who?”
“The Nerdlys,” Celia said, exasperated. “Bill, Sharon, Aurora, Kelvin. Our incoming guests from the Kingdom of Rational Panic.”
“Oh,” Jake said. He nodded. “Right. I knew that.”
“I just got off the phone with Sharon. They’re bringing overnight bags, a week’s worth of clothes, all of Sharon’s supplements, two educational board games, three laptop computers, and a dehumidifier,” Celia continued.
Jake nodded again. “They travel light.”
Laura looked up. “Should I make a salad?”
“No,” Celia said. “You should not make a fucking salad! In fact, what are you going to do with that enchilada sauce?”
“I’m going to put cut-up hot links in it and then melt the cheese on the top of it.”
“That sounds really good, hon,” Jake said.
“Madre de Dios,” Celia said, shaking her head. “You can’t just crave spray cheese and Triscuit crackers like every other stoner?”
“Do we have any of that?” asked Jake.
“Westin would burn the house down if anyone ever brought spray cheese into his pantry,” Laura said.
“He would say it’s defiled for life and must be rebuilt,” Jake added.
They giggled a moment and then Laura asked, “What exactly is spray cheese anyway? Is it actually ... you know ... cheese?”
“It’s like cheese’s shameful little cousin from the trailer park,” Jake said.
Celia sighed. “Look,” she said. “I know your Every Given Sunday got interrupted by this crisis and that’s totally bogus, as Tif would say, but I need your input here. Can we focus a little?”
They both gave her what passed for focus in their world. It would have to do.
“Okay,” Celia said. “Time to solve this thing. We have room for everyone but I think it’s time to change the dynamics a bit.”
She stepped to the table, grabbed a notepad, and started diagramming like she was blocking a tour bus layout. “Kelvin gets the fold-out in Caydee’s room. Done. Bill and Sharon get the secondary suite and Aurora will sleep with them. That’s the easy part.”
“What’s the hard part?” Jake asked.
“I know a hard part that I’m thinking about right now,” Laura said slyly, that impish smile on her face.
“Oh yeah?” Jake asked, obviously open to the idea.
Celia ignored them and kept writing.
“That leaves two standard guest rooms occupied by Liz and Stevie—separately. And one regular guest suite free.”
Jake made a thoughtful sound and pulled a stray pretzel from his shirt collar. “So Tif and Owen get the suite?”
“That was the plan,” Celia said. “But it just hit me.”
She paused, looked up.
“It doesn’t seem fair.”
Jake blinked. “What doesn’t?”
“That Liz and Stevie, who have been with us for years—who’ve played every show, every tour, every fucked-up fundraiser gig we ever agreed to—are stuck in the boring standard rooms, while the horny little trauma couple gets the ocean-view spa suite just because they’re young and dramatic and in crisis.”
Laura tilted her head. “Are we finally calling it?”
“Oh, I’ve been calling it,” Celia said. “But I’m done pretending. I think it’s time to offer Liz and Stevie the suite.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “So Tif and Owen take a regular room, and Liz and Stevie upgrade—if they’re willing to admit they’re not just platonic bandmates with overlapping laundry schedules?”
“Exactly,” Celia said.
Laura grinned. “Oooh. I hope you say it just like that.”
“I’m not going to shame them,” Celia said. “But I am going to put the truth on the table and let them choose between it and a smaller bathroom.”
Jake smiled. “I love it when you go full logistics queen.”
She set the pen down, gave each of her lovers a kiss on the top of the head, and headed down the hallway to find her pianist and her guitarist—her two favorite liars.
As she walked away, she heard Jake say, “Hey, babe. You want me to cut up those hot links for you? That smells really good.”
Laura answered dreamily, “Yeah, diagonals. It feels more gourmet.”
Crisis? What crisis?
Celia just shook her head and kept walking.
She walked down the least used hallway in the house, the one that led to the guest rooms, the laundry room, and the gym. Her bare feet were quiet on the cool tile. As she neared the gym, she could already hear the dull thump of bass from the sound system and the occasional clink of free weights being re-racked.
And then—something else.
Low laughter.
A teasing voice. Stevie’s.
“ ... yeah, keep doing that stretch. I swear I’m gonna break my personal best just thinking about what you got in there, baby.”
Followed by Liz, laughing, mock-scolding: “You’re a goddamn menace. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
Celia sighed, cleared her throat loud enough to echo, and stepped into view like the principal entering a locker room.
They were mid-rep and mid-flirt.
Stevie was shirtless, his tattoos slick with sweat, shorts clinging just a bit too well. Liz was in black yoga pants and a neon sports bra, hair pulled into a messy knot, gleaming with effort. She looked good. They both did. And, yes, that was definitely an atypical bulge in Little Stevie’s shorts.
Celia kept her eyes on their faces. Mostly.
“Hey, you two,” she said casually. “How’s the workout?”
Liz sat up straighter, her mind undoubtedly going over the last ten seconds and wondering if her boss had overheard it. “Hey, C. We’re doing good. It’s legs day.”
“Nothing like a good set of legs,” Celia said. “Anyway, we got some new shit going down, as Rev would say.”
Stevie, who was blushing and not meeting her eyes, processed that. He finally looked up at her. “Is everything okay?”
“Not yet. But it will be.” She took a sip of coffee. “We’ve got some new guests inbound. Nerdlys are on the way. Whole squad.”
Liz blinked. “Kelvin and Aurora, too?”
“Yep. And Tif and her recently disowned boy toy. All of them. Staying at least a few nights. Maybe longer.”
“Why?” Liz asked.
They already knew about the judge and Owen situation so she only briefed them on the latest development with the judge and the sheaths and the harlots and Whores of Babylon (wherever Babylon was).
Neither of them looked surprised. Just mildly amused.
“Another Kingsley crisis, huh,” Liz said. “You guys don’t even flinch anymore.”
“The life we choose,” Celia said, invoking deep Kingsley philosophy. “In any case, things are going to get a bit crowded around here. We can make it work the way things stand, but ... well...” She sighed. “Here’s the deal. Right now, you two are each taking up a guest room. Which we were willing to tolerate during the studio phase because we were being polite.”
Liz raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember anyone being polite.”
“You’re right,” Celia said. “We were being practical. But now we’re at capacity. The Nerdlys are relocating and things are getting shaken up.”
Stevie wiped his face with a towel. “So ... someone is going to get room-bumped?”
“No,” Celia said. “I’m offering you two the secondary suite.”
That got their attention.
“The spa suite?” Liz asked.
“Yup. Ocean view. Double vanity. Rain shower with the body jets.”
Stevie let out a low whistle. “We turned that down when we moved in.”
“Because you weren’t a couple,” Celia said flatly.
There was a pause.
“C,” Liz said, tired but amused, “I’m old enough to be his—”
“—mother, yes, I know,” Celia cut in. “But you’re not. You’re his girlfriend, life partner, secret camp-fuck buddy—pick your label. The point is, you’ve been with him longer than most marriages I know, and the charade is costing me real estate. So, how about you just admit what everyone already knows anyway. You two are tuning each other’s instruments, you’re doing the nasty, you’re fucking. Tell me it’s true and the ocean suite is yours and nobody gives a shit either way because we already all know you’re fucking.”
Liz looked over at Stevie. He shrugged like it wasn’t even a question.
“All right then,” he said. “I’ll move my shit right now. That bed’s like a cloud and you steal all the good pillows anyway.”
Liz looked back at Celia and finally smiled. “Is this really what gets us outed? A housing crunch?”
“No,” Celia said. “This is what gets you upgraded. The outing happened years ago, Lizzie.”
She turned to go, then paused in the doorway.
“Oh—and Stevie?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you’re working out in shared space, maybe give your compression shorts a second look. Or third.”
He looked down reflexively.
Liz started laughing as Celia disappeared down the hallway.
Pacific Heights, San Francisco, California
July 18, 2004
3:25 PM
Jen Collins had the kind of house people assumed she’d married into. A high-ceilinged Victorian with real hardwood floors, thick crown molding, and arched bay windows that gave you a clean shot of the Bay if the weather cooperated. She hadn’t married into it. It wasn’t legal for her to get married to the spouse of her choice. She’d hunted it like a story, closed on it in a down market, and paid it off one expose at a time.
Inside, it was cool, quiet, and sharply organized. Afternoon light slid in through the front parlor windows, softened by trees and old glass. The place smelled like fresh lemons and floor wax.
Jen sat cross-legged on the couch in gray sweatpants and a black ribbed tank, sipping Glenfiddich and scrolling with purpose. She was a butch lesbian and goddamn proud of it. Her hair was buzzed short. Her jawline was a fuck-around-and-find-out geometry test. At the San Francisco Chronicle building, where she worked, her typical work outfit was baggy blue jeans, a belt with a wallet chain, and a checkered flannel over a wifebeater. She lived in The City and was a reporter for what was arguably the most liberal newspaper outside of the communist world. Her look was considered quite vanilla there.
Her laptop was balanced neatly across one knee. The browser tabs were a mess—Metafilter, three separate alt.religion threads on Usenet, a fringe political blog from Ohio that hadn’t updated since May, and something called watchtowertruth.org that she was pretty sure was run by a doomsday prepper with a DSL connection and mild schizophrenia.
She wasn’t looking for anything specific. Just sniffing. Patterns, phrases, inconsistencies. The usual trickle of crazy that occasionally turned out to be prophecy. It was a bad time for truth but a great time for journalism.
Across the room, Kenzie was curled up on the chaise lounge, one foot poking out from under a lavender fleece blanket, eyes locked on Charmed. First season. She always said the early ones were better, before the show got too into itself.
Kenzie was soft, femme, twenty-eight years old, distractingly gorgeous, and about as deep as a sidewalk puddle—but she loved hard, stayed loyal, and almost never snuck off for dick anymore. And when she did, she made them use a condom. In Jen’s world, that made her a goddamn unicorn.
She wasn’t complicated. She didn’t try to be. And Jen was more than happy to let her lie around watching TV and doing baseline housework, spending two grand a month with the credit cards Jen gave her, as long as she kept loving her the way she did—with full devotion, zero shame, and a kind of sweetness Jen never expected to tolerate, let alone crave.
The knock came mid-scroll.
Three sharp raps on the front door. Not aggressive. Not friendly.
Jen paused. Looked up. Took a sip.
“Did you order food again?” she asked, not looking over.
Kenzie shook her head. “Nope.”
“Expecting anyone?”
Kenzie peeled the blanket back to show that she was still in her Hello Kitty pajamas. “Do I look like I’m expecting anyone?”
Fair.
Jen set down her drink and stood, barefoot steps silent on the wood. She moved to the front hall, past the coat rack, the narrow table with its dish for keys, and the bookshelf. Sitting next to the two sets of keys—Jen’s BMW and Kenzie’s Mini Cooper—were two identical cans of commercial pepper spray, the largest legally available to private citizens. Jen and Kenzie lived in San Francisco. It was the nice part of The City, but it was still San Francisco. Pepper spray when out and about was mandatory.
Another knock.
Then, a voice:
“You need to come out. I know you’re home. The lies must be withdrawn.”
Jen stopped cold.
She knew that voice. Not personally. But professionally. Intimately. Every inch of it had been scrubbed, logged, and looped during her reporting.
Judge Michael Olson.
He was supposed to be in SLO. Under watch. Under pressure. Possibly under sedation. Not here. Not in her fucking neighborhood. Not on her porch.
“The Whore of Babylon must repent,” Olson called out. “You will take it back. You will print the truth or the sword will not stay sheathed!”
Jen turned and picked up her can of pepper spray. She looked at it. Full tank. Safety off. She seated it in her hand.
Kenzie sat up, alarmed now. “Lovey? Who is that?”
“Stay back, Tasty,” Jen said, using the term of endearment she had coined for her. “Don’t come near the door.”
Another knock—louder this time. Followed by the unmistakable rattle of a doorknob being tested.
“Open this door!” Olson’s voice cracked now. “You will face the Word!”
The knock came again—harder this time. Three deliberate thuds on steel.
Jen stepped into the hallway, peering through the peephole. Through the ornate ironwork of the outer security door, she could see him. Michael Olson in fisheye view. Standing on her front porch like a goddamn prophet in a heatstroke.
In one hand: a Bible, clutched like a holy shield.
In the other: nothing—yet.
She took a breath. Another.
Then she opened the main wooden door.
The steel security door was locked between them—open air but solid as hell, a lattice of strength and ugly reassurance. She had no worry that he would be able to get through it if he decided to try. Even a bullet might not penetrate it.
She didn’t speak right away. She just stared.
Olson lit up the moment he saw her. “You!” he hissed, stepping closer. “Consort of the Whore of Babylon. Liar. Scribe of filth. I demand your repentance!”
Jen didn’t flinch. “Step back from my door.”
“You know what you did!” he shouted, gripping the bars now, knuckles white. “You twisted the Word. You exposed sacred truths to the children of Gomorrah!”
“It was footage,” she said calmly. “You screamed it on camera. In your front yard. Twice.”
“Because you forced me!” he barked. “You conjured her with your ink and your blasphemy!”
“Her name is Tiffany Moreland, and she’s an adult woman. You want to talk, we can talk. But you need to back up. Right now.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he shook the door once. Then again.
When it didn’t budge, he tried the latch. Rattled it.
“I demand entry!” he screamed. “You will retract your blasphemous words and remove those videos from Satan’s video store!”
“I will not,” she said. “And the videos are fuckin’ everywhere now. They spread like a virus. They’re out there and anyone can look at them. And millions have.”
“You have the power of retraction, you cursed Sodomite!”
“Sodomite?” She asked, shaking her head. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my career, but never that.”
“I demand entry!” He bellowed.
Then he kicked the door. Hard.
Kenzie gasped behind her from the hallway.
Jen stood still. Cold now. Focused.
“Back. The fuck. Away,” she said, bringing the pepper spray around, front and center, her aim at his face.
He didn’t move. Instead, he reached under his coat.
Her finger tensed.
From beneath the lapel, he pulled a long kitchen knife. Eight inches, gleaming, already nicked near the tip like it had been used to open boxes or carve at drywall.
He held it in both hands and—like an idiot—started trying to wedge the tip into the side of the security door.
“You can’t keep the truth out!” he bellowed. “You can’t lock judgment behind steel! The fire is coming!”
Jen had seen enough.
She centered the canister. Adjusted her aim for his new head position.
And sprayed.
Direct hit. A tight, controlled blast to the face—across the eyes, into the open mouth.
Olson screamed like something holy had just turned against him. He staggered back, slamming into the porch railing, clutching his face with one hand while the other kept a white-knuckle grip on the kitchen knife.
“The abominable fire! The angel of salt! The scroll of judgment!” he howled.
He didn’t drop the knife. Didn’t even think about it.
Instead, he turned and bolted.
Still blind, still ranting, he charged down the porch steps and into the yard. He clipped the hedge hard, stumbled into the rose bushes, and kept going—knife outstretched, voice rising with every step.
“The harlot shall be scattered! The city shall fall! Her name is Legion!”
He hit the sidewalk at a sideways sprint, shoes skidding on concrete, one eye streaming and the other clamped shut. His suit flapped as he fled. The knife caught the sun once—just a glint—and then he was gone. Down the block, past parked cars, out into the city like a fever let loose.
“The Lord is come! The vessel is rising! You cannot bind the vessel!”
Jen stood there a second longer, breathing hard, door still open, spray canister in hand. She watched him disappear, his voice echoing down the street until it was just noise and then not even that.
She slammed the inner door. Locked it.
Kenzie was frozen in the hall, barefoot, eyes wide.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded.
“Someone who disagreed with the text of a recent article I composed,” Jen said blankly, putting the pepper spray back on the shelf. “Do me a favor, Tasty. Go run around as quick as those sexy legs of yours can carry you and make sure all the doors and windows are locked.”
“Okay,” she said, not asking a question, just doing what she was told. That was one of the reasons Jen loved her little Tasty snack so much.
“I’m calling the cops,” Jen said, already grabbing the phone.
Kenzie nodded fast. “Yeah. Do that.”
Bernie and Miriam Feldman had lived on Buchanan Street for forty-eight years. They bought their house new in 1956 for $46,000, which had felt like a fortune at the time. Miriam had loved the kitchen, Bernie had liked the yard, and the view wasn’t bad either. The real estate people had not wanted to sell the house to a Jewish couple back then—not even if he was a doctor and could afford it—but they had put their stubborn heads down and had make the deal happen.
Ever since, they’d been a welcome part of the neighborhood.
These days, they were long since retired. Now they played golf on Thursdays with the Goldsteins and sometimes the Rabbi and his wife, depending on who had grandkid duty and whose sciatica was acting up.
They still went to synagogue. Still read the paper. Still knew all the names and birthdays of their four children, eleven grandchildren, and—so far—nine great-grandchildren.
They were sitting on their patio sipping red wine—cabernet for her, merlot for him—when a man in a dark suit came directly into their backyard, just walking in through the gate like he owned the place. He was carrying a large kitchen knife in his right hand.
The Feldmans looked at each other and then back at the man. He looked at them without seeing them. And the look in his eyes was more than a little frightening.
“Uh ... hello?” Bernie said slowly, carefully.
The man’s eyes now focused on him. “Hello,” he said with a voice that sounded like it had died a few days before. “I need to use your pool.”
“Who...” started Miriam.
“What...” started Bernie.
But the man ignored them both. Knife still in hand, he waded into the pool, shoes and all. Into the shallow end. Suit soaked instantly. No hesitation.
Bernie set down his wine glass and squinted. “Do we ... know that man?”
Miriam lowered her sunglasses. “I don’t think so.”
The man bent forward and dunked his head into the water, face-first, held it for a few seconds, then came up gasping. He looked around wildly. Muttered something unintelligible.
Then he did it again.
And again.
“Bernie,” Miriam said, “this is perhaps the oddest thing we’ve ever seen.”
“I think you’re right.”
The man raised both hands toward the sky, gripping kitchen knife like it was a torch.
“The fire of Babylon is extinguished in the righteous depths!” he cried to the heavens. “The vessel must be cleansed in chlorine and mercy!”
Miriam blinked. “Did he say ‘chlorine and mercy’?”
Bernie rose slowly. “Let’s go inside now.” The knife hadn’t scared him nearly as much as ‘chlorine and mercy’ did.
They gathered their wine glasses, their dignity, and their forty-eight years of seeing things less strange than this, and retreated to the patio door. As they slid it shut behind them, the man dunked one more time—longer this round—and burst up coughing and sputtering like he’d just rebuked the devil.
Miriam locked the door with practiced ease.
“I’m going to call 911,” Bernie told his wife.
“I think that the situation calls for that,” she agreed.
“You go get that video camera that Barb and her husband gave us for our anniversary.”
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“I want to film this for documentation purposes,” he said. “I don’t want this schmuck trying to sue us later.”
Miriam rushed to the den to get the camera. Bernie picked up the phone and dialed 911. The first time in his life he had ever done so.
The police were already in the neighborhood.
Three marked units were cruising the block, doing slow laps around the side streets between Buchanan and Webster. Each carried two officers—standard patrol setup for SFPD. A fourth unit was still at the original location, taking the statement from the reporting party, a well-known Chronicle journalist who had calmly and very precisely identified the subject as Judge Michael Olson of San Luis Obispo County.
That name carried weight. Not because the officers were following every twist of the Kingsley media circus—most weren’t—but because the name had been floating around the station all weekend. Some had seen clips on the evening news. Others had caught the newspaper headlines. Nobody had missed the general picture: unstable judge, screaming Bible verses, big scandal, big press.
Now he was here. In their city. And he had just tried to kick in the door of the reporter who had just written an unflattering article about him.
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