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.