It was June 22nd and George Leroy Marlin was not thinking about Christmas. With a name like Marlin, you can bet he was thinking about fishing. Not deep-sea fishing, though. The family finances wouldn’t extend to that, or a bass boat, or even a fishing license, truth be told. This is why George Leroy was not thinking about Christmas. He was thinking about what he was going to say to the game warden scrambling down the bank of his favorite and most secret fishing hole.
The game warden slid down the last few feet of scree to the bottom. He regained his footing and said, “George Leroy, you know I got to ask you for your fishing license.
“Warden, you know I ain’t got one,” George answered. “I just got to catch dinner for the family.”
The warden sighed. “You know you can’t fish here without a license.”
“C’mon, Warden, can’t you let it go this once? I ain’t takin’ more than three or four, just enough for me and Marlene and the kids.”
“Not this time, George Leroy. It’s always the same old story. Steal hungry or steal full, it’s still stealing. I gotta take you in.”
So on June 22nd, instead of getting half a dozen catfish to fry up for supper, Marlene got a call from the jail.
“Sugar, I’m sorry. I’m not going to be home with supper tonight. Warden thinks I got to talk over the license situation with the judge.”
Slightly hysterical squawking poured out of the receiver, peppered with some choice cuss words. “Now, honey, it’ll be straightened out by tomorrow.” More squawking. “Darlin’, you know you can make a great supper no matter what we don’t got. You’re that good.” The squawking died down to a coo as the two exchanged endearments and hung up.
George Leroy enjoyed a jailhouse supper that was a good deal tastier than most of the meals Marlene fixed him at home. He had been stretching the truth when he encouraged Marlene about her cooking. The only thing she could cook was fish. She cooked fish well enough to explain George Leroy’s reluctance to give up fishing just because he couldn’t afford a license. George Leroy was reluctant to give up fishing period; he like it better than working, any day. Sometimes he wondered if he was a lazy, lying thief, but most of the time he saw himself as a misunderstood man who was meant to spend his life with a fishing pole in his hand.
After a breakfast that rivaled all of Marlene’s efforts except cereal, George Leroy tucked in his shirt and went before the judge.
“How do, Judge Conyers,” he said, respectfully removing his fishing hat.
“Good morning, Mr. Marlin,” the judge answered. “You are charged with fishing without a license. Failure to show an officer your license is a Class C misdemeanor of the Parks and Wildlife Code. How do you plead?”
“Your Honor, you know I need that fish to feed my family. You know I ain’t got money for a license.”
“Were you, or were you not fishing without a license, Mr. Marlin?”
“I ain’t got no license, but I dare anybody to say I was fishing!” George Leroy puffed out his chest defiantly.
The judge sighed. “You’re pleading ‘Not Guilty,’ then?”
“You bet I am, Judge!” George replied.
“George Leroy,” the judge said, “This is serious. You can be fined as much as $500.”
“It might as well be a million, Judge, ’cause I ain’t got that kind of money, besides the fact I wasn’t fishin’.”
Judge Conyers lowered his reading glasses from the top of his shiny bald head to the end of his nose and pored over the game warden’s report.
“Says here you had a pole and a can of bait.”
“Layin’ on the shore. I wasn’t fishin’.”
“But you were going to fish,” the judge insisted testily. “Besides, the warden asked you for your license and you didn’t have one.”
Why would I need a license if I wasn’t fishin’? You answer me that, Judge.”
“But you were going to fish.” Judge Conyers’ face began to turn an alarming shade of magenta.
Leroy folded his arms across his chest and said, “Can’t prove it.”
“Then you’re going to trial! Bail is set at $200.” The judge relieved his feelings with a sharp rap of his gavel.
“Two hundred dollars?! Where’re me and Marlene gonna get $200?! How long before the trial? This ain’t fair! I wasn’t fishin’!” George Leroy protested as he was led away to the cell that looked like it was going to be his home away from home. But not for long, surely.