Chapter Seven

He stood in his post at the courtroom, his features arranged in a grim visage, as of war, or, rather, as of a statue created by an overachiever of an artist depicting the sort of grim solemness great people arrange their faces in when they are relaying the story of their heroism long after the shattering fear of the event has ceased to wibble their knees. That is how he stood, because he faced no enemy, no great fearsome task that must be done for the good of all mankind, no, he faced merely a courtroom. He arranged his features thus to augment the gravity of the place, much as a priest becomes beatific when looking on high from the pulpit, or a harlot becomes slatternly when predating on a mark. Such an arrangement also led to far fewer altercations with the sort of scum normally found in this sort of environment.

The criminals, yes, they came. The judge sternly dealt with them, as was his professional duty, even though, in happier places, their frequent meetings would indicate an increase in friendship, so often did the criminals achieve the status of repeat offender. The judge often felt sorry for the criminal, having some story or other about a life of hardship, a life led slowly by steps in dispair to crime by parts until finally a crime came to the attention of the constabulary, and thus to the attention of the judge.

We aren't talking about the judge. He assumed an air of great suffering most of the time, as he need not assume more authority than he had in his splendid robes and thick hardwood between him and any assault. No, in the court, the threat of violence that underpins orderly society exists in the body of the bailiff. Nice work, if you can get it, with a crowd of people guaranteed to be bereft of weapons, those who posed any real danger already handcuffed, and only the need to stand with a grim visage, the grimmest, the more to cower those who came here into following the dictates of the court.

For the most part, the criminals did. So did those supplicants at the court's mercy, seeking redress for some grievance or other, often petty to any outsider, but dearly important to some litigator. No, it was the dross that seems to accompany great need, either the need for freedom, thus the need to avoid incarceration, or the need for expiation of some wrong, great or petty. These of the dross are termed, loosely, lawyers, that necessary breed of malcontents and miscreants happy to argue any side, any time, so long as it advanced their career or paid them sufficient money.

It has been argued that the rich get off because they can afford better lawyers, although some of the best lawyers can be found tirelessly defending the refuse of society, people for whom mercy should not be reserved, guilty as the day is long, but defended by principled, competent men because these principled, competent men know that it might be the case that they are innocent, and, besides, the prosecutor is malevolent and must be kept on a chain in order to reduce the damage he can do to unsuspecting innocents.

So, each misstep must be contested, each liberty must be challenged, each advantage pressed, every dirty trick tried, until the prosecutor has satisfied the jury that there is no doubt he has his villain, or the risk exists that an innocent man may be punished. That innocent man could be you or me, but for the efforts of the public defender.

No, our man the bailiff seldom had ill words for the public defenders, harried and overworked, who struggled to prise the boot of the oppressor off of the neck of the common man; our man the bailiff reserved his dread judgement for the class of lawyers who prey on misery, by siphoning off settlements for the bereaved. Such payments seldom made anyone happy, and the prolonged court cases caused the wounds to fester and refuse to heal. Each side trotted out emotional works of art, broken down people, victims of whatever the case was, whether in the affirmative or the negative, and, often as not, magnanimously handed them a tissue during their greatest duress, adjuring them to take their time and continue when they can, because so great is the matter of the death of Fifi the poodle that this thing must be resolved in the favor of the client.

There sat the jury, a group of amateurs, the greatest safeguard of liberty, allowed to be swayed by the majesty of the defense, to be awed by the ferocity of the prosecution, or simply provided with an emotional roller-coaster by both sides. The jury, of course, know not that this is a serial, that in every court in this land, the same exact show is repeated, that lawyers learn this stuff in school and take it to their practices where they rehearse with their witnesses such that the quality of the opera is not tarnished in any way, because a jury not entertained is a jury that will not vote for you.

If you really wish to know the way of the court, ask our man the bailiff. Ask him of the starched but slightly rumpled suits, the glad hands of people clearly devoid of souls, the constant rolodex of pain and suffering, both real and imagined, that enters the court, in which the truth cannot be determined with any degree of reliability, and in which the only recourse for victory is to get a better lawyer than the other guy.

Our man the bailiff had often pondered these facts, casting about for a better way. He knew he was limited in capacity, or he would be a judge or a lawyer, but he also knew they could not see the great evil this system wrought, nor the time ultimately wasted because every citizen is provided his day in court, often whether he wants it or not. The theater, or game, or both, proceeds, often turning as much on a point of technicality as a point of truth. Each side moves their piece, here knight to queen's three, there rook to king's four, trying to gain an advantage of any sort, yet it is not the clinical cerebral moves that win the day with the jury, so while playing that game, refereed by the judge, the lawyers must provide great emotion to the jury, painting their evidence with grand strokes, in grand colors, as if every piece were as great as time itself, and showing their client in the best of light, such that it is now well known that nobody commits any crime whatsoever, ever.

Of course, the other lawyer then hauls out the tar and the horsefeather brush and tries to convince everyone that his opponent's client is merely the devil incarnate, of the lowest form of groveling criminal ever seen, and this is just a divorce hearing. In the end, were the efforts equal, the colors balance, perhaps providing a proper picture of a human, with all the evil in his life free for all to see, but, also, in the end, he is the more damaged for it, because a court allows the public airing of all manner of grievances, as they pertain to the character of one of the parties.

It is this threat that often keeps people out of court, rather like the threat of being thrown to the lions reduced the ranks of early Christians. To be subjected to the rapaciousness of two teams of bloodhounds, presided over by a chessmaster, and then judged by those of your peers who could not shrug off jury duty is a frightening proposition. Oddly enough, given that your own lawyer is mostly interested in winning, often only getting paid if he wins, he may try to drive you to do things damaging to the one and only life you are granted here on this planet, and, if you hope for life in the hereafter, consider carefully that Jesus himself counsels that you avoid court altogether, rather coming to an agreement quickly, that your good name and Jesus' be not besmirched. See? Jesus is so afraid of court that he'd rather his followers not go to it, because he has to follow wherever they go.

Chapter Six

There in the fourth estate were men of noble aspiration. To make ones name was to take a pelt, the skin of a person who had otherwise gained notoriety. It was the dream of every cub reporter to bring down a famous man or woman, to lay low a great person, in the name of reporting the truth. For some reason, this dragging of character through mud is noble in the ethos of the news man.

Fortunately for our man the industrialist, the news man had long ago quit all efforts to discover his skeletons, though they presumed those skeletons were merely well hidden, believing that no man, no matter how noble, how principled, how brilliant, could achieve that greatness without having broken a few necks. Satisfied that the whitewash went at least several layers deep, they had cast about for others to pursue, settling on our man the prosecutor.

No man of mere whitewash he, having the finest gilt on his cane, the whitest clothing, so white it shone in the sun like the very angels, proving his purity. Ah, but such purity rarely is more than clothes deep, and, knowing this, some cub reporters set about exploring him as those embarking on a treasure hunt with a whole island to explore.

Stripping off gilt is easy, but doing so without damaging the underlying material is difficult. While the fourth estate cares little about the members of the other estates, they do care about libel, so tread lightly while searching, and only carefully do they lay their snares. Often, the searching takes the form of a profile report, something to provide the readers with background into the greatness of the subject, such as our whiteness, the prosecutor.

Of course, the profiles were numerous on the industrialist, many of them truly wondering, expressing delight, genuine and sweet, that such a man exists that these sweeps for information did fail. Few profiles existed for the prosecutor, those that existed having been bought and paid for and thus devoid of content of interest, being appropriately worded nothingnesses of marketing. Although it seemed to the public the men were of similar caliber, given that the effectiveness of a proper paid writer is great, as great as the effectiveness of the professional journalist in genuine thrall, so that the casual reader cannot tell the difference.

Remember that many of those in wealth and power, many who hated the industrialist, were willing to do anything to see his fall. Many more were there who saw the rise of the great prosecutor as just the thing, as he would be a mouthpiece for change, to save the world, or at least, save their individual fortunes. It is essential to the upkeep of the modern democracy that men of such fine hair, such a great turn of smile, given to gilt worn as if real solid gold, given to a majesty of delivery, of carriage, such men that cause other men to be in their thrall because they are just so gosh-darn cool, it is essential to the upkeep of a democracy that these men be allowed to lead so as to detract from the necessary policies to aid the bankers in keeping their fortunes. The loss of even one banker's fortune is a miserable thing, given that they are unsuitable to any other work, or, indeed to playing any game with their own money. So do they stack the deck to protect themselves, finding in the vessels such as our prosecutor willing allies in the climb to power and the exploitation of the masses.

So we watch the newsmen in their customary garb of worn clothing to show their seriousness in their poverty, supping the traditional sup of spirits on the rock, and discussing these things, for it is the worldly-wise sageness that is the hallmark of the newsman, that he knoweth all and deigneth to tell us some. They sat and discussed, wondering the angles, searching the relationships, always returning to that canard dearest to the heart of any investigator, to wit: 'Cui bono?'