The Judge

            Nature, red in tooth and claw

                             –Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H. 

The courtroom was stuffy. The jury and prosecution sat, sweating into their pressed, woollen suits. The defendant sat comfortably. Playful patterns of cacti, weeds, and vines danced up and down the pale-yellow fabric of her sundress. Initial looks of scorn had turned to envy, as the courtroom sat in their soggy clothing. No one was more displeased by the defendant’s comfort than the prosecution, who, in a last-minute decision to garner esteem for himself in such a high-profile case, had dressed in formal business attire. His jacket hung limp on his chair, but the vest remained, pressed onto his back, soaked through from his saturated, starched shirt. A little squeak resonated throughout the room every few minutes. No one could be sure, but the sound was either coming from the rubber soles of the prosecutor’s shoes in the growing puddle of sweat beneath him, or from the grinding of his molars as his gaze cycled through his watch, the clock on the wall, his damp notes, and the jury. He occasionally broke the cycle to flare a venomous look towards the defendant. The only redeeming sight was the jury. Twelve familiar faces. Beads of sweat rolled down their puckered foreheads one after the other like unruly children on a water slide. Their cheeks were various shades of red. The prosecutor knew that he could count on those men to rule in his favour. Officials stood at the doors to ensure nobody left. To add to the growing discomfort, the case was being heard in a room without windows of any kind. The prosecution presumed that this too was a security measure. He looked at his watch and shortly after another squeak was heard in the courtroom. The trial had been set to commence almost two hours prior. The judge had not yet entered.

            Minor conversations had filled the room for the first twenty minutes. As the heat grew and the minutes ticked away, conversation gave way to speculations and confused questioning. Questioning and speculation lasted a long while. The jury chatted amongst themselves, not hiding their indignation. At the one-hour mark, speculation and questioning congealed with the humidity blanketing the room in thick, surly silence. The heat had continued to build.

            Everyone had been talking. Everyone except the defendant. She sat calm as a crane throughout the commotion and onward. The prosecution now glared at the woman, daring her to look back at him. The charges alone were enough to stir even an innocent person into a nervous fidget. As he scowled, a bead of sweat dropped onto his neck and began to trickle down his spine. Another squeak in the courtroom. The defendant reached down into her bag and retrieved a pack of gum. She popped a piece into her mouth and then turned and met the prosecutor’s gaze.

            “Gum?” she offered.

            The prosecutor shot up; his chair flew out from under him. “That’s it! Where the hell is this judge?” He looked around the courtroom, wild-eyed. A dozen sets of eyes stared back at him from the jury, a few dozen more from the gallery. There were a couple of murmurs, a few shrugs, but no response. The prosecutor looked savagely at the officials standing at the doors. Their faces were unresponsive. “Huh?” he prodded. “Fellas? This is too much. If he’s not coming, then saunter on out that door and find someone else to oversee this case.” The officials didn’t budge. The prosecution flailed around only to find the defendant calmly chewing her gum and looking at him with detached curiosity. He swung back towards the officials. “It’s not enough to sit in the same room with this woman, after what she has done to me, hell, done to us all, but then she has the audacity to come in here and thumb her nose at the rule of law in such an egregious manner with this flowery abomination of a smock. And then! And then! If that isn’t enough, the damn judge is nowhere to be found! What the hell’s going on, guys?”

            “Would you have preferred a different smock?”

            He windmilled around to glare at the defendant again. “No!” Addressing the gallery, “You see. It’s a joke to her. A sick joke. And, frankly,” he said whirling around again to the officials by the door, “So are these proceedings, or, should I say, lack thereof.” He looked towards the gallery. A sea of silent faces stared back.

            “The prosecution is right.” It was Oleum. He had been sitting on the far side in the back row of the jury but now had stood. “It’s criminal to let us all stew while this barbaric harpy is given hour after hour of unwarranted freedom. You there, by the door.” The two officials that stood by the judge’s door raised their eyebrows synchronously. “Go get that damn judge in here so we can be done with this.”

            “Please be seated, sir.” It was one of the officials.

            The prosecutor did as was instructed.

            Oleum did not. “This is preposterous!” he bellowed. “At least have the decency to get us some water for Christ’s sake while we wait for this meandering magistrate.”

            “I’m sorry, sir. There has been issues with our supplies and shipping has been delayed.”

            “So, there’s no water?”

            “The courts are fresh out of water, I’m afraid.”

            “Where’s the propriety? The forethought? The hottest day of the year and the courts don’t think to replenish their water supply? Barring that, a rescheduling until water can be procured?” Oleum huffed indignantly to punctuate his point. His jowls waggled as he did. “I take it the air conditioning is broken too?”

            “Correct, sir.”

            “What dullards they hire at this place!” He shook his head incredulous. Several of the other jurors grumbled audibly to display their shared displeasure. The outburst had caused Oleum’s whole face to glisten. From his pocket he produced a tar-black handkerchief and mopped his brow. In a moment his face slackened, and he swayed only to regain his footing again and reseated himself.

            The prosecutor stood and looked out at the gallery. He did not find sympathy. Rather, apathy. It looked like the entire gallery had been anesthetized. How could they just sit there and take it, he thought. Won’t they do anything? The prosecutor picked out a young woman in the second row and stared hard at her. She reminded him of the young women in law school he was so frequently able to persuade into joining him in his office with luxurious promises for the future. The young woman met his stare unflinchingly and he realized his mistake. She was filled with neither apathy nor frustration. Rather, disgust percolated and bubbled up curling her autumn brown eyes with rot. The prosecutor shifted his focus. The young man beside her also met the prosecutor’s gaze. The young man’s face was glum. A familiar despondence sagged his features limp. The prosecutor had seen so many young faces with the same look. Faces of defendants. Faces of up-and-coming prosecutors. Even the faces that had apprenticed under the tutelage of the powerful men currently sitting on the jury. Pathetic, the abjectness of modern men, he disdained. Angry women and sad men. Pitiful, all of them. He shook off the glare from the woman and left the man with a contemptuous smirk and turned back to the jury; to powerful men, worldbuilders, unappreciated by youth.

            Heat consumed the prosecutor’s attention shortly after and he reseated himself and looked at his watch. He was going to turn back to the defendant and noticed Politico standing up from the jury.

            “Excuse me, might I address the courtroom?” Politico looked around patiently. No one confirmed or denied his request. “I think I can say that I speak for everyone, or at least the majority of you.” The rest of the jury all nodded their heads. Politico, the only gangly man among the jury slithered out from the jury box and walked to the front of the room. His silky voice danced nimbly between the harsh jets of heat, “We, the jury, know how difficult this is for everyone. Officials, the prosecutor, and, most of all, the people who join us in the gallery. This case is of the utmost importance, and we would be doing ourselves a disservice if we dilly-dallied any longer. The arguments must be heard. Justice must be served. And the will of the people must prevail.” The other jurors continued to nod their agreement. “Now, I’m no lawman, per se, but I have some background knowledge. If the good people would permit, I would be happy to sit in for the judge; temporarily, of course, to overhear the opening statements.” The only sounds in the court were the other jurors mumbling their satisfaction with the proposition. “Would that be agreeable with the prosecution? Before you answer, I must establish, we have never met, correct?”

            “No, sir.” The prosecutor stood and turned to the gallery. He raised his hand to his chest, and the other to the air, “I solemnly swear that I do not know this man. Considering the circumstances, I see no problem in his acting as stand-in so that arguments can be heard. Further, I recommend a brief recess once the judge has arrived so that he may be brought up to speed on the proceedings.” He looked to the stenographer. The stenographer did not motion one way or another.

            Politico waved his hand at the stenographer before happily agreeing to the recommendation. Politico looked at the officials guarding the doors and slowly walked to the judge’s podium. None of them reacted. He proceeded up to the judge’s seat and lowered himself into the leather chair at the head of the courtroom. He scanned the room, a half-smile smeared across his face. He took no small amount of trouble ensuring that all proper proceedings were honoured, having the courtroom rise, as he himself rose and reseated himself again as well. “Well, now that things are in order, shall we begin? The prosecution may proceed with an opening statement.”

            “Thank you.”

            Politico cleared his throat audibly.

            “Thank you, your honour,” the prosecutor corrected. He stood and addressed the room, “Now, may I first draw the court’s attention to the crimes at hand. We are not just talking of death. We are talking of fates worse than death. Displacement. Debasement. Debilitation. The defendant’s very existence upon our earth depreciates the freedoms, the lifestyles, the existence that I and everyone in this courtroom today are entitled to. Her crimes have stripped her victims, of all of us, of the very qualities that make us human. What makes her devilish crimes so dastardly is the scale on which they were and continue to be committed. A scale so staggering that the numbers bury the tragedy of the suffering of the men, women, and children upon which they have been committed. And make no mistake, they continue. Those numbers grow larger every passing day. What she has set in motion is unfathomable and when it will stop, we can only speculate, but they will stop! And it begins with justice brought today.” He paused and allowed his words to settle. “I reiterate, this woman, is no human being.” He felt vindication in his words. His voice grew in a slow crescendo, “She is a monster. A remorseless beast with no regard for humanity. She kills for fun and giggles at our agony. She lacks even the basest courtesies, as is evidenced by her attire in the courtroom today. The outcome of this trial, regardless of the severity of the punishment, could never sufficiently discipline this unholy villain for all that she’s done. All that she’s done and continues to do. To me. To you. To us. Humans. I reiterate again to make it absolutely, perfectly clear. Explicit. We are not dealing with one of our own. We are dealing with the devil! Thank you, your honour.”

            The prosecutor retook his seat. His speech hummed in his ears. Each syllable dispelled his irritation. He looked over and grinned at the woman. She sat solitary at her table. The prosecution ruffled his papers loudly. Politico looked at him. The prosecutor prompted his head towards the defendant.

            “Thank you, dear prosecutor. Now, the defendant, who has chosen to represent herself, you may present your opening statement.”

            The woman did not rise.

            Politico wasted no time in exerting his authority and after a silent moment banged the gavel, “The defendant will rise and present her opening arguments!”

            “I don’t think that’s necessary.” Her voice was light and airy.

            Politico cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me? You are acting as your own defense, are you not? You will present your opening statement at once! After all the misery you’ve caused, you owe an explanation at the very least.”

            “No. I don’t believe I will.”

            Politico looked over at the prosecutor in bewilderment. The prosecutor shrugged his shoulders. Politico banged the gavel again. “I declare, uh…”

            “Yes, that is the issue with a stand-in, isn’t it? You don’t have authority to make decisions, despite presuming a position to do so. No, I’d rather wait. The judge will be here soon, I’m sure. I will wait until they arrive.”

            Politico looked to the jury. They stared back, baffled.

            Taking up the cause, Lignum stood from his position among the jury. “Defend yourself, missy!” he commanded. “Let’s hear it! After what you have done, you have no right to refuse! You can’t choose to, to just wait. We demand you defend yourself!”

            Beside him, Negotium stood up, “Answer for your crimes!”

            The entire jury stood in a raucous cacophony of commotion. Eget, Caro, Cibum, Nolebant, Inscius, Quisquiliae, Ego, and Pecunia all standing, all berating the defendant, ordering her to plead her case.

            An eventual silence settled over the courtroom, as a blanket of heat suffocated the words and anger and blame that still reverberated into a necessary stillness. Sweat poured from every brow in the jury and the gallery, the prosecutor, stenographer, and the officials. Everyone except the defendant. She chewed her gum patiently.

            Into the silence, she offered, “Gum?”

            No one answered. The jury looked at her, stupefied, and then looked to Politico who remained in the judge’s seat. Politico looked towards the prosecution. The prosecution looked over to the defendant. She sat serene, chewing her gum.

            Politico looked beyond the immediate proceedings and out into the gallery. His eyes widened. Face after face after face. A sea of youth. He had not taken notice of the gallery before because the gallery encompassed silent inconsequence. Enormous waves of exhausted anger poured out from every iris and crashed against the wooden banister, the only thing separating the gallery from the proceedings. Formality, the court’s salvation.  

            Oleum rasped from the back of the jury, “How would you like to proceed, your honour?”

            “We continue!” demanded Negotium just in front of him.

            Politico looked at the officials. They betrayed nothing. “I–I guess we wait,” he answered.

            The defendant blew a bubble that popped with a loud snap.

            Minutes dragged heavy. Each one its own excruciating burden. The jurors grumbled intermittently until they could no longer. Their jackets and ties had all been removed and many had undone the buttons on their shirts to reveal their patchy, bloated flesh.

            The prosecutor resigned himself to leaning on the edge of the table, his forehead rested on his arms. Sweat pooled by his feet. Politico, who had not relinquished his seat or his suit jacket, wore a glazed, semi-conscious expression. The temperature in the courtroom continued to climb. The gallery remained in static silent suffering. The officials stood steadfast, guarding the doors. The defendant sat comfortably, waiting.

            The prosecutor watched with his head perched on his desk as the depleted looks of the jury began to play out. Inscius had begun to weave back and forth in his seat. His eyes fluttered. His face had gone dry. Another huge weave and his head collided with the railing in front of him. The whole room looked over with delayed reaction. Nolebant and Ego looked between them at the old man whose blood had begun to leak out by their feet. Neither deigned to check on Inscius. Cibum passed out a minute later.

            Politico looked to the officials. “Surely, a recess must be called, and we be allowed to leave. These men need medical assistance.”

            “We wait,” stated one of the officials by the main exit.

            “Sure, a young burly chap like yourself can wait, but these men of the jury, myself included. We are not young. We should, we must get medical attention. For us and,” he gestured, neglecting to include the defendant with his sprawling hand, “For all the good people in the courtroom today.”

            The officials didn’t move, nor did they answer.

            “What if–” it was the prosecutor. He lifted his body from the table. It was all he could manage. “What if we just continue the trial despite the defendant’s refusal to participate?”

            “And come to what conclusion?” asked Politico. The heat had acted like a powerful solvent on his previously varnished demeanour. “The officials won’t let us leave. We’re powerless. What significance does it have of me declaring her guilty?”

            “What about, if we declare the defendant not guilty?”

            Politico looked at him puzzlingly, “You’re the prosecution.”

            “I don’t care. If it means that we can leave that’s all that matters.”

            Politico looked at the defendant. She looked up disinterestedly. He looked at the officials and gained nothing. Politico looked now to the jury. “Well? How do we find the defendant?”

            “Don’t say it!” It was Ego. “This harpy is an ev–”

            “Get over yourself,” interrupted Pecunia. “Not guilty,” he declared.

The jurors that were still conscious looked at one another and came to a silent agreement. A single cold drop of relief rippled deep within the prosecutor’s mind. This was it; she would be found not guilty, and he would lose the case. He found himself panting at the thought, picturing himself crawling out from that room. One by one, the jury and prosecutor voiced their judgment of not guilty. Politico stepped down from the judge’s podium and the jurors began shuffling out from the jury box, stepping over the unconscious and dead to do so. The officials at the doors didn’t move.

            “Didn’t you hear?” Politico gasped. “She’s not guilty. We agree. Unanimously, we agree.”

            He did not receive a reply.

            The prosecutor who could only manage the thought of standing up turned to the gallery. They too remained seated. His breath had grown ragged. To twist his torso was to run a marathon. The blurring image of the defendant in her sundress paused his eye. His pants clung to his legs. His throat ached; nausea churned his stomach, and a cold wintery cocoon had started to spin numbingly around the nerves in his feet.

            “You’re innocent,” he choked. “You can go.”

            The defendant looked over at the huddled mass of terrified faces by the door. “Doesn’t seem like it,” she answered.

            The prosecutor’s brain struggled to tread water in the muddled ocean of half-conscious thought. Coherence was stripped away layer by layer in a powerful undertow. “Please.” It was all he could say.

            “I’ll wait,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

            “Please,” he repeated. He could feel his mind submerge and begin to sink. “Please.” Numb cold stole up his legs and into his body. His head lolled and the cold continued to climb up his spine. “Please.” His vision blurred as he sank deeper. “Please.” Darkness tunnelled in around him. “Please.”

            The defendant looked down at the prosecutor who now lay helplessly at her feet.

            Clinging to consciousness, he could no longer see her, could no longer speak. As he slipped into black, he made out her reply, “I’ll wait. I’ll be fine.”