A/N: This is the prologue to what will be a three-shot. My Riddler muse has popped up and demanded I write. This is set in the New 52 universe. Ten Years after Zero Year.
Silence laid over the room as twelve pairs of feet shuffled from the side door and into their chairs of the jury box. The jury itself filled with a mixture of Gothamites. One from the upper East side, lounged in jewels and fake fur, another barely managing to put on a shirt without a stain from the local deli, and another working three jobs to pay their rent. Each juror had their own story to tell, there own experience in Gotham, but each juror was also a Gothamite who understood this town better than any outsider ever could. Because if you spoke to an outsider about Gotham's justice system, it only left them confused or cynical. Even though criminals like the Joker and the Scarecrow continuously terrorized the city, killing hundreds if not thousands of people, the Gotham jury box often deemed them criminally insane sending them to the revolving door of Arkham Asylum where in a few weeks such criminals would be back on the street. Yet it happened. Again. And again. Scholars from outside the city from the big fancy colleges such as Harvard and Georgetown speculated on whether the jurors had been threaten, whether the law written in Gotham had a lower definition of criminally insane, whether the criminals had become so celebritized that even the citizens victimized by them have turned to idolization. The theories spanned multiple books in the field of criminal research, yet any person in Gotham could answer the question.
I don't need no fancy scholars telling 'em what is insane. Any guy that dresses up in his knickers' is freakin' insane.
Therefore, the press waiting in the audience with their notepads had already set in their minds the evening headlines. They seemed rather disinterested in the actual proceedings, basically waiting for a known fact. Unable to bring cameras into the courtroom, they were left with describing the scene through their notes. The audience itself was filled with the latest victims' families from a four-day affair of a criminal rampage on the city, officers personally involved in the case, other reporters, and oddly Bruce Wayne. Mr. Wayne had attended a few court proceedings in the past of some of the big name rogues, but there were rumors that the real reasons he was here was the newly appointed Assistant District Attorney who stood at the prosecutors table.
Marylou Evans. She stood straight, wearing a black sleeved dress with her hands held behind her back. Her brown hair had been pulled into a messy bun with a few strands framing her face. Her face pale as the rest of her, but looking even paler from her exhaustion. It had been one of the more engaging trials of a criminal in the rogue gallery. It was her first large case, and she certainly came in wanting to prove something to Gotham. Reporters had wrote a few quotes in their notebook from her through the weeklong trial.
"Do not be fooled because that is what he expects. He expects to fool you. He expects to fool all of Gotham. But he doesn't understand Gotham. He never will."
"He murdered fifteen people. Fifteen. Fifteen families who lives will never be the same because of this man's actions, yet he does not want to take responsibility. He does not want to take responsibility because he was miles away off in his own mind. Yet it was his hands who built it. His mind who created it. His intelligent clear head that connected one point with another."
"This is not insanity. A costume does not create insanity. A costume is merely an outfit similar to an outfit we all wear to work. Do not doctors and nurses put on scrubs? Do not police officers put on their blue uniform? It is understandable that even a criminal career professional in our town has their own outfit for work. Thus it is not the outfit that determines insanity, but their mind."
Even with the tired appearance, she had smoothly delivered witness testimony and closing argument that left many nodding their heads. Yet this was Gotham. There was only one result in Gotham. Guilty but criminally insane. She looked stern and ready to take the results. Her smaller lips in a straight line as she waited.
All the jury sat in their chairs and everyone in the room followed suit. The judge looked to the jury. "Have you come to a decision?"
One of the jurors stood and nodded, "We have your honor."
The judge nodded and the bailiff took the paper from the juror who brought it to the judge. The judge read over it and then handed it back to the bailiff who returned it to the juror.
The judge then looked to the defendant. "Defense, please stand while the jury reads the verdict."
Everyone looked towards the defense table, and there stood Edward Nigma, aka. The Riddler. He lacked his green suit being forced to wear a black one in court, still expensive and custom made. No matter how many bank accounts the GCPD and the FBI froze, Edward Nigma always found access to his finances and made use of it even from a cell. His three expensive defense attorney showed another evidence of that fact. This wasn't the first time Edward had been to court, and it likely would not be the last. Like most of the criminals Gotham deemed in the rogue gallery, he treated these very criminal proceedings as a mere waste of time until the end result of Arkham. Mr. Nigma almost appeared inpatient as he stood, and arrogance still evident as he waited, as the court waited.
The judge turned to the jury box. "What is your verdict?"
The head juror opened the white paper and coughed to settle their voice. "We find the defendant guilty," the juror stated.
The entire courtroom stayed silent as if expecting a mention of "but criminally insane". Yet as the courtroom waited, the juror only waited as well.
"What?" Mr. Nigma bit out and turned to his lawyer who tried to silence him. Whispers started to fill the crowd and reporters started to take notes.
The judge hit the gavel down. "Quiet. Quiet in the courtroom," the judge demanded and the courtroom silenced again. Mr. Nigma's eyes were sharp and glaring as the judge continued, "Do you have a sentence?"
The juror shifted. "Yes, your honor," the juror paused and looked towards Edward Nigma. While the juror had at first appeared nervous, a sense of confidence seemed to flood them. The entire jury box actually looked equally resolved with what was about to be said. All focused on the defendant that had terrorized their city for close to a decade. "We sentence the defendant to death."
"WHAT!" Mr. Nigma shouted with the result slamming his fist into the table. The room went into chaos. Press quickly tried to leave to get outside to tell their other reporters of what had happened and potentially get interviews with the first ADA to successfully gain a death penalty against one of the notorious rogues. Victims' families burst into tears of happiness, hugging one another and thanking Ms. Evans.
"This is absurd! Do you know who I am?! I'm the god damn Riddler! You want to sentence me to death! I can have you all killed!" Mr. Nigma shouted as the bailiffs grabbed the man to control him. The judge kept shouting order as he slammed the gavel down. Though the courtroom was still out of control until Mr. Nigma was dragged out, screaming and shouting in handcuffs. Once he was gone, the judge sighed and turned to the jury. "You are free to leave. The criminal proceeding on Edward Nigma are officially closed." He banged the gavel once more and the headlines across newspapers and mainstream news read:
The Riddler Sentenced to Death!
