News of the World
Porter C. Bennett
We Will Rock You
"Objection!"
Leveling me with his steely glare, the Right Honourable Judge Alan Housteus frowns. As it is my first time presenting under his jurisdiction, his temper seems uncalled for; most judges are withdrawn and level-headed, whereas he seems alert and angry. I assume the fourteen years spent serving the bench has not taught him patience, and the odd protrusion of his lower lip -that could only be caused by an internal bite done to suppress a sigh- only further my suspicions.
As if his attitude wasn't off-putting enough, his robust build jutting out behind the judge's seat does not have quite the big-ol'-softy appeal it should. Rather, his vastness, the height of his seat, the angle at which I have to crane my head to get a proper look at him- it only grants him a larger than life aura, as the officers of the court stare up at their God-apparent. The judicial system, especially in Western society, has a mansion's room for improvement, and leveling the mind games within the courtroom would not be a bad place to start. Perhaps that God comment is not limited to my private impressions, as the notion may have seeped into Judge Housteus's subconscious years ago from the seating plan of the court, his position as King of the Court, the experience under his belt, or a mix of all three.
That could be the reason his face crinkles at the sight of me, as if recalling a bad childhood memory- no one within this tired system appreciates new, lively blood. Then again, my initial distaste of him was not due to his power; rather, just his demeanor. The man's essence can fill a room as big as this one with a bitter taste. Perhaps he simply detects something putrid emanating from me, the way I him. Or, perhaps, it is because my client is being charged with inciting and willfully promoting hatred, a crime that is on the same heinous level as homicide or sexual assault.
Your guess is as good as mine.
"Under what grounds, Counselor?"
"Leading the witness, Your Honour."
No matter how much he may dislike me, there is no way to deny that the Crown (the opposing lawyer, representing the government) had lead his witness to an answer. Simple rules of the court state that in direct examining your own witness, you may never retell the story and have them respond with a simple 'yes' or 'no'. This is the job of the opposing side; me, in this case. Though it doesn't do much in swaying the verdict of the case, it does help portray the Crown as unprepared for his load. I simply look better by default.
Jude Housteus scratches his brow, one massive claw of a hand marring the already aged skin, directing his attention to the court stenographer. "Please reread the Crown's previous statement."
She obliges, briefly skimming the gargantuan length of paper expelled from stenograph, until her eyes settle. Quoting, "You were angry, correct?"
Resentfully, the Judge meets my stare, hard-obliged to give in. "Sustained."
Without missing a beat, the Crown substitutes, "How were you feeling on that fateful night?"
Rolling my eyes, I examine the opposition's profile. Long, straight nose, narrowed, teal eyes, cropped orange hair, and lips closer to pillows than appendages used to allow entrance to food, Counselor Brooklyn Masefield should have his bone structure magnified by bouncing lights while posing haughtily at his age instead of pacing a courtroom. The situation at current is close enough; the incessant click of photographers, clatter of spectators, and husky whispers stroking the tips of my ears should be attention enough for any aspiring model. Though a very small and easily subdued part of me is reprimanding for judging one's counseling abilities on looks, I can't help but smirk when those full lips tremble upon catching sight of the crowd. Being attractive does help you get away with a number of things; apparently, a law degree is one of them.
"Horrible, for one thing," says Raul Fernandez, sporting a dramatic bandage over his right eye. "Canada has been good to us, but finding a job has been really hard. My wife and I were both medical engineers in Chiapas, but simple labourers here. And that whole disappointment tends to bring down the mood of all your days, let alone dark and dreary nights. So, to answer your question, I didn't feel so good."
Having been scribbling listlessly since the start of the Crown's case, I finally form something comprehensible. Bullshit Bandage, I write, drawing a lump of fly-infested excrement next to it.
"That must have been awful," says Masefield, yucking it up. "Could you please tell the court what happened on the early morning of January 1st?"
Fernandez shifts his attention to the microphone, speaking directly into it. "I remember it very well. Our family, my wife and son, always celebrate days important to Canada's Western culture as a sign of respect for our new home. We-"
My scoff snaps my client out of his stupor.
"What's wrong?" Bryan Kuznetsov whispers languidly, eyes sharpening upon catching sight of the victim. "Did he say something? Make some shit up? That son of a-"
"Relax," Squeezing his shoulder for good measure as a number of cameras capture the moment, I keep one ear on the trial before us. "Masefield's trained his nugget well. He's trying to get the all-Canadian sympathy of the jury."
Considering this, he asks, "That bad? You can handle it, right?"
I smirk.
"Bryan, I'm going to feed him his own entrails."
This seems to appease him, so he and his accompanying smile flash a big one for the press and spectators, who are there to drink up every moment.
Smirking behind my cupped hand, a chuckle escapes as Judge Housteus calls the court into order, interrupting Fernandez's testimony. The distraction of Bryan's fans- their cheering and chanting for justice initiated by a well-placed grin- has caused Fernandez's face to pale quite a bit. Though Masefield had, in all likelihood, assured him this was an open-and-shut case in his favour, I had told the same thing to Bryan. It's not a coincidence that lawyer and liar sound suspiciously similar- we have been trained since first year to assure our client, no matter how horrid the evidence available in the case, that they will surely do well if only they followed the practiced testimony we have written out for them. This is a pit fall. It only takes a few years actively handling cases to realize that honestly will get you a hell of a lot farther than a too-organized platter of lies. Being upfront and personal with a client is an important part of winning a trial. A more significant, and substantially bigger part is knowing what you're doing, but let's keep that between you and me. Seeing as how it's going, Masefield would probably take all the help he could get- even from the opposition.
"Counselor, control the accused."
According to the law, a judge is supposed to be impartial and entirely unbiased to any case, citizen, or officers of the court presented before him. However, referring to my client as 'the accused' rather than 'the defendant' has indicated Judge Housteus's slant in the case. That small voice is once again up to no good, trying to reassure me that it is only halfway through the Crown's case, and that I still have ample time to sway the judge. However, a precedent-setting and nearly legendary case, R v. Brown, is silencing my subconscious. The scene: A black man driving a high-end car slightly over the speed limit had been pulled over and subsequently arrested for an increased blood-alcohol level. Though this may just sound like a case of excellent policing, it was later revealed during trial that the arresting officer was nothing short of a filthy racist, with a 10-foot track record of racial profiling stretching behind him. However, the judge presiding over the case would tolerate not a single bad claim towards law enforcement, and Decovan Brown, the defendant, was subsequently jailed. It took weeks for his case to reach the Ontario Court of Appeal, who is responsible for giving the go ahead or the boot for trials that wish to be looked-over again by the highest court in Canada, the Supreme Court. It took months for the Supreme Court to recognize the validity of Brown's claims, and he was finally released from prison. After months. All due to a judge not being able to lift the veil of his bias. Looking to my left, Bryan seems to have caught onto my dismayed train of thought, and has sobered just as quickly as he had riled.
For all my anxiety, only half a second has passed.
"Yes, Your Honour," I respond, half-heartedly glaring at Bryan.
All the while, Fernandez's eyes show he has been re-spinning his ordeal, that horrible, god-awful, and absolutely inhumane story of his in his mind, building into a life of its own. A life merited by exaggeration and big doll eyes lubricated by artificial drops, but a life nonetheless.
"The witness may continue," says Judge Housteus, yawning into his over-sized judicial sleeves.
"As I was saying," he continues, his voice softer. "We were celebrating New Years in a housing shelter, and a group of young men were loitering outside; they looked like the type to cause trouble."
The Type To Cause Trouble, I write in block letters, sketching a winking Tweedy Bird beside it.
"I went outside to make sure no one would cause any harm-"
A Moron, I write in loopy, ornate cursive. Bryan chuckles. Masefield glances at our table, frowning.
"-because I thought maybe I could talk to them and find some level ground. That was, hands down, one of the worst miscalculations of my life. They were all carrying signs that said "Death to Chiapas" and "Down with Chia Pets", the derogatory name for my people. I called the police before I stepped outside, just in case. The second they caught sight of me, they started yelling. I couldn't catch everything, but someone in the crowd did yell out, "Bryan's right". After that, I was hit. It was a brick or rock or chunk of cement or something big and heavy someone threw. I don't know if it was the person who yelled about Bryan, but it was definitely someone in that crowd."
Tossing my notepad aside, I assess the mood of the room. Judge Housteus has stopped his utterly bored act and is soaking up Fernandez's testimony word for word, leaving Bryan sweating. Masefield has allowed himself the first smile of day, which I will be shortly wiping off. Half the jury is taking meticulous notes with the other half having abandoned their scribbles altogether, listening intently. The jurors writing are rivaling the court stenographer for speed and accuracy by the way they are hunched over their notebooks. The crowd behind me has finally grown silent, though the journalists can be heard slapping each other on the backs, congratulating one and other for the probable pay-raise they will be receiving by the end of the trial. To say the very least, Fernandez seems pleased; drawing the attention of the entire court for the first time in the case has seems to have calmed his frayed nerves. He continues, much more sure of himself.
"The next thing I knew, a police officer was standing before me. His drawn gun reminded me of the terrible treatment we had back in Chiapas, but then I noticed the officer had his gun towards the crowd, not me. He was protecting me."
After a drawn out silence, Masefield's gentle voice seems to vibrate over the court room. "What happened next?"
"A lot of police officers showed up. Some of the people in that big crowd were arrested. Some ran away, screaming "Bryan's going to be proud! We should call in tomorrow!" I don't really know what happened to them all."
"Tell me, Mr. Fernandez: at the time, did you know who this 'Bryan' was?"
Earnestly shaking his head, he seems the very picture of innocence. The jury has taken notice of this as well, sympathy evident between their brows, mouths, and eyes.
Fuck, I write, drawing a missile rocketing towards two stick figures that look suspiciously like a raven-haired lawyer and a bleached-lilac radio host.
"I had no idea who anyone named Bryan was. Of course, now I do," he gripes, glaring daggers to my left. "When I was told afterwards, it all seemed to make sense to me. Radio broadcasts on the last week of the year on anti-Chiapas propaganda would lead to something like this," he practically mumbles, looking into his lap.
Smiling at his client for more of a job well done rather than in sympathy, Masefield gathers his bearings. "Thank you, Mr. Fernandez. No furthers questions. I would like to ask you to remain on stand to answer a few questions from my… good friends,-" he manages to spit out the forcibly amiable line all lawyers of this country must say, "-the defense."
I am idly aware of Bryan's stare burning a hole through my face, urging me with his eyes to repair his sullied name. Turning to him, I smile reassuringly, grab the notepad with 3 points and a curse, and take stand at the podium, adjusting the microphone. Some jurors switch to the separate notebook meant for the defense's case. Taking one last glance at my notes, I look up, the picture of confidence.
I've always been such a good actor.
"Good morning, Mr. Fernandez."
"Good morning," he deadpans, looking past me to his Council.
I pretend to be settling myself further at the podium placed in the middle of the court. As I take a calculated yet casual glance up, I feign an excellent double take. Court cases move rather slowly, and they tend to paint a picture of complete innocence and absolute guilt during the Crown's case. Right now, Bryan is worse than Hitler while Fernandez could be Jesus's reincarnation. What they don't know is complete innocence is just complete ignorance. The second the defense can mar the Crown's case by screwing up the credibility of a witness, they can finally reach reality. And the before-glowing Fernandez's horribly nervous reaction to my double take is just enough to get a few points on my side. Interest has piqued behind me; whispers run rampant through the audience. A female juror nudges another awake, gesturing between myself and the wide-eyed Fernandez. Through my left periphery, Bryan smiles, picking up a spare pen and pad to indulge his inner artist. On the right, Masefield's spine has straightened to a point of near injury, his eyes attempting to grab his client's attention.
When I finally get around to voicing my discovery, the court room is so silent you could hear a pin drop.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fernandez. I'm not doctor, but does a man really need a full tarp around half of his head when he's only got a shiner?"
The conversation within the court flutters to life. A handful of the 12 jury members take what seem to be their first notes for the defense. The spectators behind me are fabricating their own theories (of which I only catch the words "liar" and "faking sympathy"), and the pens of journalists scratch louder than should be humanely possible. I glance to my right just in time to see Masefield bolt upright, his composure too calm to be natural.
"Objection! The defense is not a medical professional!"
I smile at the Crown, stopping Housteus's ruling short. "Withdrawn."
Cutting off a judge is never a smart thing to do, but planting a seed is the first step in starting a fire. It is the Crown's job, Masefield in this case, to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that my client is guilty. As the defense, I do nothing of the sort; I merely have to raise doubt- any doubt- regarding Bryan's innocence, and the jury must acquit him to freedom. On the stand for less than a minute, I have already succeeded in poking holes through the Crown's elaborate pity-generating machine. No one appreciates a thorough doctor's report more than a defense lawyer, I could tell you that much right now. Though my comment will be immediately thrown out and the judge will tell the jury to disregard that, it has opened up a small crack of hope in the window. If I can turn that crack into a full-blown entrance by the end of the case, Bryan's going to owe me one hell of a beer.
Thank the entities above for the lack of greenery within the courtroom; the Judge's glares are turning so destructive that a tuft of flame could sprout at any moment. Fuel to feed the fire would only waste my weeks of preparation, and this nice suit that I would have worn to subsequent funerals. "Objection sustained. The jury will disregard the comments raised by the defense. Watch it, Counsellor."
"My apologies, Your Honour."
The tenor of the court has changed. It seems as though all parties -the jury, judge, spectators, and even the witnesses themselves- are more alert. I swallow a sigh when I notice Masefield already taking meticulous rebuttal notes even though I haven't even asked one question.
"Mr. Fernandez, is it or is it not true that you stated the men who waited outside 'seemed the type to cause trouble'?" I read off of the notepad, trying to ignore Tweedy's wink.
He looks to his lawyer. I wait, crossing my arms. Ten seconds pass, so I strategically yawn and check my wristwatch.
Even Judge Housteus is on the same page with me in this one. "The witness will answer the question."
Swallowing, Fernandez looks me in the eye for the first time today, "Yes, that is true."
My staged smile eventually turns into a court-room laugh. Fernandez's frightened demeanor morphs into one of pure terror, which only makes me laugh genuinely. "Mr. Fernandez, relax. It's not like you're on the stand- oh, wait."
The entire court room breaks into a chorus of laughter, including the witness. If Bryan's previous glare burned a hole, this one could disintegrate an entire species. Both Masefield and Judge Housteus see right through me, their twin scowls pinpointed on both the front and back of my head. The saying 'if looks could kill' comes to mind.
Smiling charmingly at Fernandez's grin, 'hook, line, and sinker' follows directly after.
"Mr. Fernandez," I continue jovially, "By, 'the type to cause trouble', do you mean they had identifiable piercings?"
"Uh," he stops short, trying to find Masefield's face for guidance. I have strategically placed myself between them. "No."
"Do you mean they had visible tattoos?"
"No."
"Do you mean they were of a certain racial background?"
"No!"
"Do you mean they were dressed in a fashion that would suggest they were acting as part of an organized crime syndicate?"
"No."
"Do you mean they were dressed in a fashion that would suggest they were in poverty?"
"No."
"What do you define as 'the type to cause trouble', Mr. Fernandez?"
I hold my breath. I've pushed myself into a corner here; a basic rule on cross-examining a witness is to never give them room to answer a question with anything but 'yes' or 'no'. Law school has taught me that I can break these skeletal outlines if I feel it will positively help my own side of the case. But, that all depends on his answer, and witnesses have surprised me before. Being left speechless in front of a packed crowd, not to mention a trial by jury, will not improve my standing as a lawyer in the least. And being a new fish in a big pond doesn't help matters either; I've yet to make a single acquaintance, let alone friend, in the whole firm. Stuttering like a dope at a victim's response in not even within the realm of possibly. Regain my confident footing, I brace myself for Fernandez's response.
"Well… I don't know.. They-"
"You don't know?"
"No, I mean I do know. I'm just nervous."
"Why are you nervous?" The sharp enunciation could cut through bone, let alone Fernandez's wits. "You're not on trial, remember?"
"Objection!"
Rolling my eyes, I turn to face Masefield expectantly. No matter how good looking he may be, a bruise to match his client's would make anyone a notch or two less desirable. When I notice the photographers immortalizing my anger, I unclench my fists and smile at the Crown as if he were my life-long best friend.
"On what grounds?"
"Hostility towards my witness, Your Honour."
To my surprise, the judge dismisses his request. When I look up, his ever-lasting glare is still apparent, but no where near as sharp as an hour ago. Maybe I really am regaining some footing. Bryan seems to think so, as he sighs in relief. Masefield's pout (or perhaps he's just frowning; with lips those full you can never truly tell) only encourages me to plow forward.
"Overruled. You may continue, councilor."
I nod towards the judge, refocusing my attention to Fernandez. "Mr. Fernandez, can I put it to you that by labeling a group of people based merely on looks as 'the type to cause trouble', you had done to them the apparent injustice they had done to you only moment later?"
"No! No, of course not. People have thoughts that they can't control, no matter what. It's all caused by the media, and everyone has it, so don't you try to single me out. There's a difference between them and I: I did not assault anyone in the process of my thoughts. That is why I'm not on trial."
You win some, you loose some. At least the idea's out there. Pressing a poorly planned hunch for too long only leads to your own destruction. With the judge now also taking notes along with the jurors, the spectators quietly whispering among themselves, and the press trying to gather as much information as possible, no one is paying any particular attention to me. My breathing comes easier.
"Thank you for the clarification, Mr. Fernandez. Now, is it or is it not true that, even though the had previously called the police, you still decided to step outside into what you perceived to be a dangerous situation?"
"No. I mean, yes, I did step outside, but no, I didn't think it was dangerous."
Masefield's head sinks to the table, and the Judge's brows raise. I'm almost positive that some variation of a mock-surprise has made itself apparent on my lips, because the jury takes notice of all three of us.
Jackpot.
"I beg your pardon?" I ask much too dramatically, twisting a pinkie in my ear as if I had misheard. "By your own account, you said that there was a large group of young men who seemed the type to cause trouble, and the only reason you went outside was to stop this perceived danger. You are contradicting your own testimony. Are you aware you could be charged with perjury, and makes you liable to imprisonment for a term not exceeding fourteen years?"
I thought puppy dogs were pleading. With the expression he is shooting his council, Fernandez looks about ready to break into tears. I imagine Bryan is throwing himself a celebratory party on my notepad, with supportive onlookers wondering when his show will be back on the air. My own damned paranoia, however, will not let this slide. Masefield's no moron, much to my dismay; he's had to have prepared his witness better than this. Don't get me wrong; I'm ecstatic that one route has worked, but I'm also worried that it's all being staged to keep me off guard.
"I'm sorry, Mr, uh, Kon. You're right, I did think it was dangerous. I just forgot. Being up here is nerve-wracking, especially when lawyers treat you like you're the one who's done something wrong."
"I'm sorry if you have interpreted the legal system as a means to harm you, Mr. Fernandez," I saw, allowing myself a small smile of victory. The judge has now taken to glaring at the witness who has publicly voiced his distaste for officers of the court; the jury's sympathy has vanished quicker than Houdini; the spectators have grown more at ease; and above all, Masefield looks about ready to throw himself into an open hearth. With the credibility of his star witness shot, I could suggest his involvement in 9/11 and have the room eating it up. Since I value my career, I decide to take a more sensical course of action.
"Mr. Fernandez, you also testified that you were unsure of how many people were in that group, who ran away and who was arrested, or who even made that alleged 'Bryan' comment, correct?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Fernandez, it is possible that, since you were unsure of so many things regarding that night, that you may be unsure about other facts you may have testified?"
Wisely, he thinks about his answer before he speaks.
"No."
"So it's entirely out of the realm of possibility that during all that duress and panic, you may have maybe misheard something?"
Fernandez's cheeks turn pink, a tell-tale sign of wounded pride. Although it's cruel, making the witness look like an idiot is the best way to get the answer you want out of them.
"I could have misheard something, I suppose."
"So then, is it possible that you may have misheard the specific words of people in that crowd?"
He is adamant, and downright pissed. "No, absolutely not. I remember that better than I remember my son's first word. They said 'Bryan was right', I'm sure."
"Are we neglecting the realm of possibly again, Mr. Fernandez?
"Objection!"
"Withdrawn," I say, turning around to look Masefield dead in the eye.
He remains standing, refusing to break my gaze. The press must be in heaven; an apparent feud, in court, between two relatively young but well-respected lawyers? People who dictate the futures of everyday people, practically having a hissy fight over something as juvenile as court etiquette, right in front of their eyes? I can see the headlines now, and break contact before being subjected to reading them.
"No further questions, Your Honour."
The entire court, apart from the media, releases a breath of relief. Jurors shake their cramped hands, the Judge regains his posture. The spectators are silent, which is curiously uncharacteristic of this bunch. As I regain my seat, Bryan slides over the pad he has been defiling the entire cross examination. To my surprise, it only has three large, shaky letters on it: I O U.
I raise an eyebrow, meeting his glance. You're telling me, pal.
"Good afternoon, Your Honour and honourable members of the jury."
As part of the courtroom tedium, it is mandatory I introduce myself at the start of my case, even though the entire room full well knows who I am by now. Of course, I was hoping to skip this whole part altogether. Directly after the Crown had rested its case, I was up on my feet requesting a motion of dismissal. Being called to the judge's seat, I had tried to eloquently explain the entire case, including the charges against Bryan, should be thrown out on the grounds of insufficient evidence. After receiving a number of eye rolls from Masefield and a stern lecture on wasting the court's time from Judge Housteus, I was given five minutes to prepare an opening statement. Though I had one written and memorized weeks before, I had ignored Bryan with the excuse of going over it. Nerves can get even the best of us.
"My name is Kon R., which is spelled K-o-n, initial 'R' for the record, and I will be representing Mr. Bryan Kuznetsov, who is more commonly known as Mr. Bryan Kuss, in this matter. I am the defense counsel."
And here is the butt of the matter. This is where my case takes a sharp deviation from most other hatred lawsuits, and this is where I pray that the Judge interprets my defense as creative, rather than grasping at straws.
"The evidence that you will encounter from Mr. Kuznetsov is as such: he is the host of the Bryan Kuss Show, and uses that character during the show. Mr. Kuznetsov, acting as Mr. Kuss, used shock-jock banter during 'Chia-Puh! Week', which allegedly lead to an attack on a man hailing from Chiapas, a small, ethnic municipality within Mexico. He was not involved in Mr. Fernandez's attack, attests to the fact that he is very sorry, and never wanted to discriminate against anyone."
This is the reason why the press is gathered around; why there are listeners of Bryan's popular and critically-acclaimed radio show waiting outside the courtroom for news due to a lack of seats inside; this is why a seasoned and respected judge is giving a mere inciting hatred case the time of day; this is why, for once during a court case, the jury is attentive instead of catching up on some sleep; this is why one case can make or break my career. Eyeing Masefield meaningfully, I prop my chin higher.
This is why my best friend is on trial.
"Mr. Tala Ivanov, Mr. Kuznetsov's producer, will corroborate all of this to a tee. However, Mr. Ivanov will move beyond my client's modesty and put clear emphasize that he plays a part as Bryan Kuss, and is just doing a 'shock-jock' routine."
Proving an inciting hatred case is incredibly hard enough on its own; in Canada, you must show the action of speaking against an identifiable group along with proving that it was done with malicious intent to get a conviction. What this basically means that discussing it in a scholarly or neutral manner lets you off, scott-free. However, in the one case where it actually matters, there was recorded proof of Bryan committing the crime on both accounts. Since he was royally screwed, I had to come up with a way to bypass a conviction on more creative grounds, and had done that with the simple truth: Bryan is not a racist. All the stuff on his radio-talk show is scripted; he acts as the bigoted Bryan Kuss. It's not really him the same way Christoph Waltz from Inglorious Basterds is not really a deadly Jew hunter in real life. It's all an act, and this is how I'm trying to get this god dammed best friend of mine out of prison, pro-bono.
"Mr. Kuznetsov is faced with two charges: the first, a likelihood of breaching the peace, and the second, willfully promoting hatred, under s. 319 of the Criminal Code."
"However, s. 319, the exact same section of the Criminal Code, under subsection 3 (c), states that: No person shall be convicted of willfully promoting hatred if the statements were relevant to any subject of public interest and/or benefit. Mr. Kuznetsov gives voice to Mr. Kuss for the same reason we study the Holocaust; so that the public will be able to recognize bigotry and combat it. Is my client not doing the public a generous service? If a man listened to Mr. Kuss's show, and from then on vowed to always stand up for what is right; well then, has the public not benefited from it?"
Here, Masefield and Fernandez are visibly disgusted. Even I think that arguing Bryan's helping society is a stretch, but a defense depends entirely on how a lawyer decides to spin it. Wording, pace, volume; it's all crucial in swaying an audience, and most importantly, the jury. An argument can be as farfetched as humanely possible, but if the way I say it rings true with at least one juror on even on small account, then there's a shred of hope for acquittal.
"To address the first charge of breaching the peace, the defense asks: who is to blame in Mr. Fernandez's injuries? Mr. Bryan Kuznetsov, a man with no previous criminal record and a consistent donator to charities and cultural programs, or Mr. Bryan Kuss, the controversial and outspoken man who doesn't exist beyond a boxed off room in a broadcasting station? There is a clear divide between an actor and his character, and we cannot blame Mr. Kuznetsov for Mr. Kuss's actions anymore than we can blame Heath Ledger for the Joker's crimes, or the hundreds of actors who have portrayed Adolf Hitler for theirs. A democratic society cannot fault an actor for his character's actions."
A woman in the jury has stopped writing altogether and is listening as if I were the Messiah. I turn around, casually pacing, but catch her eye. She smiles encouragingly, and the first instance of encouragement for Bryan's side makes what I'm saying comes out with more conviction than I could have ever summoned on my own.
"The Crown has tried to make you believe this case is a run-of-the-mill hate crime; textbook; open and shut; black or white. Well, take a glance around you, ladies and gentlemen. The real world has colours. Lots of them. This matter did not take in place in a textbook, but in the real world. And Mr. Kuznetsov's trial will take place there. The evidence will show that, in the real world, not everything is black or white. More often than not, there are infinite shades of grey."
Bryan's sigh of relief reminds me to breath, and his mouthed 'thank you' prompts my next line.
"Thank you, Your Honour and honourable members of the jury. The defense would like to call Mr. Bryan Kuznetsov to the stand."
Judge Housteus holds out a hand, stopping Bryan from rising midway. "It seems we've run out of time, gentlemen."
Glancing at my watch, I'm shocked to see it is already 4 P.M. How had six hours passed by so quickly?
"The trial will resume tomorrow at 10 A.M. Court is adjourned," Judge Housteus's gavel sounds, and the entire courtroom comes to life. "Bailiff, bring in the next case."
Taking my seat, I watch Masefield collect his bearings, neatly placing them into his suitcase. Fernandez stands nearby, nervously twisting his sleeves.
I turn to my left to notice his source of distress. "Stop staring him down," I mumble under my breath, and Bryan diverts his death glare to his formal attire.
"That was good." He loosens his tie. "Your beginning speech was a lot better than that prick's," he gestures towards Masefield, who is now walking his client out the courtroom. New faces have appeared, including a lawyer and her client standing off the side of the defense table. Filing my papers and my two notepads away, Bryan and I exist the courtroom.
"All in a day's work," The corners of my lips twitch, tired.
"I never knew how hard it was, being a lawyer. That shit's nerve-wracking. They make it look so easy in the movies."
"Everything looks easier in the movies," We stop in front of the only elevator in the entire courthouse. Pressing the down arrow, I sigh. Twice.
"You did good, man," he pats my shoulder. "Relax. You can go home and shag Kai now."
My dopey smile brings out his only laugh of the entire day.
"You think he'll be innocent?"
"Not guilty," I correct, kissing his forehead as I pass by. "If he wants to be declared innocent, that's a whole other trial. Which, to add, I am not picking up for free."
Kai watches as I grab an empty mug from a cupboard and fill it with a generous helping of steaming, black coffee. Drinking his own, he never once takes his eyes off of my back. The living room couch sags with his weight, reminding me that the entire apartment needs a new set of furniture to make up for the previous tenant's misuse. Turning around, I smile. Unlike in court, it's not plastered on; seeing him nowadays does still make me happy. Both Bryan and Tala had warned me that the honeymoon phase would quickly wane away hitting the 6-month mark, but we've been together for a year and we're still going strong. I'll admit, I don't get butterflies or fawn over him the way I used to during our first week of being an official couple, but the deep-rooted love I feel for him now is a lot stronger than the superficial attraction from back then. I'd like to think Kai feels the same way, but he's very much the type of guy who rarely feels, and when he does, it's in the private sanctuary of his mind. I've often wondered how we've managed to stay together for so long, especially since he's as romantic as a hernia, but it's worked until now. Why should I question it?
"You know what I mean. You think he'll really go to prison?"
As much as Kai would hate to admit it, he would loathe to see Bryan in an orange jumper, behind iron bars. He has a hard time expressing his feelings (and an even harder time feeling them, period), but when you've been with him for as long as I have he's easy enough to read. Being overly curious is his way of being worried in secrecy, and if I didn't love him so damn much I'd just tell him to spill his heart, already. But I do, and I respect his coping mechanisms, so I string him along.
"I don't know, Kai." I ponder it honestly, trying to think of the most likely outcome. "Trial by jury is the worst, in the sense that you never really know who's going to win. With a judge, it's one person's decision, and you have a track record of all their previous work. You know how they've ruled before in similar cases. In a jury, it's 12 people with no judicial file, and if it's not unanimous there's going to be some problem. Besides, it's too early to tell yet."
"Bryan told me that judge is crooked."
"Crooked like gay?" I ask, grimacing.
Kai just oozes sarcasm. "Yeah, crooked like gay. Maybe I could get with him. He'd be less of a goddamn smart ass."
Laughing, I rest my head on his shoulder, watching him read the paper on Bryan's case. It's from this morning, so it's a bit outdated. Representing Her Majesty the Queen, Brooklyn Masefield has given an exclusive sound-bite to the Toronto Sun. "I'm confident that this will be a win for not only Raul Fernandez and the thousands of other Chiapas refugees within our great land, but for justice as well. We, as a nation, are nothing if not fair."
"I always thought the people in a country are the fair ones, not the landmass itself. Stupid me," Kai responds to the article, sarcastic. Throwing aside the paper, I feel his tendons of his arms tighten. His eyes are intent on my reaction.
"He'll be okay," I murmur, sipping my coffee. My voice grows strong with determination. "I'll make sure of it."
Upon a tingling on the roof of my head, I look up. Kai, staring down, is as unreadable as chicken scratch. "What?"
Grabbing my chin, he pulls me in for a kiss.
Author's note: The plot I've got figured out is pretty heavy, and if no one gives a shit, I see no point busting my ass to continue.
Read and review, please.