Trickster – Chapter Four 'Self Defence'
"I call Mason McKinley to the stand."
A buzz ran around the court room as the young man dressed in grey combats and a football shirt that proclaimed his allegiance to a certain London team who favoured royal blue stood up and swaggered across from where he had been seated next to his solicitor for most of the morning, making his feelings towards the case for the prosecution's statements blatantly obvious. Usually by yawning.
It had taken four weeks to bring Mason's assortment of cases to the bench and in that time he had carefully been practising his newly-acquired skills of manipulative ability. He had discovered a natural talent for it. Even without the latent powers that contact with his father had awoken within him, Mason had always been strangely charming, convincing and affable – when he wanted to be. And right now, he really wanted to be.
And of course, the case in point was that he needed to be charming, convincing and affable - or else be prepared to spend quite some time in a proper prison cell in a proper prison, instead of in the psych wing of the detention centre where he'd been held until now.
Mason did so. The court clerk stepped forward and asked him to put his hand on the Bible that he held. Mason did so.
"Is your name Mason McKinley?"
"Certainly is."
"Yes or no please, Mister McKinley." The judge knew Mason's type. Petty criminals finally brought to heel. He narrowed his eyes and looked over at the young man with untidy brown hair. Mason met his gaze in return and treated him to a beaming smile.
The judge found himself wondering why he never got to deal with any truly juicy cases. Murders, manslaughters, that sort of thing. He determined to get this one sorted as swiftly as possible.
"Yes."
"Do you swear on the Holy Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? So help you God?"
"Which particular God would that be, then?"
This caused a buzz. Murmur, murmur.
"Mister McKinley, one more clever comment and I'll find you in contempt."
"I'm sorry, Mister Your Honour Sir, but there's lots of Gods, loads of beliefs and I think it's a very fair question. Don't you?"
Actually, the judge found himself thinking, the kid's right.
"Do you have a preference, Mister McKinley?"
"As it happens, yes, I do. I hereby swear by Loki the Trickster, the Sky Traveller, to say whatever it will take to convince everyone here present of my absolute innocence."
Over at the defence table, Melvin Rowbottom groaned softly and buried his head in his hands. The kid was going to prison. At the very least he was looking at permanent incarceration in a psychiatric institute.
"Thank you, Mister McKinley. Please, take a seat." The council for the prosecution stepped forward and nodded to Mason, who flopped down into the seat provided. The beaming smile remained on his face.
"You have heard the various charges brought against you. You initially filed a plea of 'not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility', but have retracted that claim and filed one of 'not guilty'. Would you like to tell the court exactly why it is that we should not convict you in the face of the overwhelming evidence?"
"Why yes, actually, Mister Council for the Prosecution," Mason said, getting to his feet again. "I would like to do that. I would like to do that very much indeed."
Mason then proceeded to tell the court exactly why it was that they should not convict him in the face of the overwhelming evidence. He stepped down from the dock and moved around in front of the judge, speaking from the heart and periodically stopping to wipe an imagined tear from his eye.
He spoke of his childhood, of the neglect and disinterest his mother had displayed. He spoke of having been bullied at school for not knowing who his father was, and he spoke of the hardships he'd encountered at the hands of heartless social services staff who wouldn't give him benefit on the grounds he never had a fixed address.
He spoke of how he had been forced to turn to stealing cars merely to make enough money to keep living. He spoke of how he felt dreadful regret and sadness for everything he did – oh, the remorse. Oh, the misery. Oh, the sleepless nights.
Oh, the lies that weren't quite lies.
By the time he had finished speaking, every single person in that courtroom – including Mason McKinley – believed wholeheartedly that he didn't deserve to be found guilty of anything other than being a victim of terrible circumstance.
Mason shone. He performed the role of that said victim to absolute perfection. He didn't miss a beat.
A silence fell over the room.
"Thank you," said Mason, sniffling slightly as he dabbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry to have gone on so long. It's just that it has been a wonderful opportunity to tell my story…"
Don't let the lie linger, Mason. Let it go, now.
"…thank you. Please, Mister Your Honour Sir, might I be excused for a moment to regain my composure?"
"I think we will call a recess, yes." The judge had never felt so moved to compassion by a speech and felt the need for a 'moment' himself. "Thank you, Mister McKinley. That was…most enlightening. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please retire and consider your verdict."
Three of the female jurors were crying openly, looking over at Mason with motherly affection as they filed out.
He gave them his best 'brave little soldier' smile and one of them barely managed to stifle a sob as she left the room.
Mason leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. Melvin Rowbottom slapped his legs and he took his feet down again.
"Well, Mister Solicitor," he said, "how did I do?"
"Mason, you are a remarkable young man." Rowbottom looked at his client with undisguised admiration. "I think you stand a pretty good chance. You'll have to wait until the jury have deliberated, of course. Come on, we'll go back to the waiting area." He clapped Mason around the shoulder in a friendly manner and they left the court room.
Despite the fact that Mason knew he had performed rather admirably, he still felt a strange sense of uncertainty when they were finally called back in for the jury's pronouncement. The jury passed the folded piece of paper that held Mason's future across to the judge who read it wordlessly.
Mason was told to stand.
He stood.
"Mason McKinley, the jury has deliberated on the charges brought against you and finds you not guilty on all counts…"
YES!
"…however…"
NO!
"…I personally feel that the effects of your actions cannot go entirely unpunished. You have, after all, destroyed a number of vehicles and there are a number of victims as a result of your previous behaviour. I have no choice, therefore, despite how sympathetic I am towards your plight, but to recommend an absolute minimum twelve month custodial sentence. In light of the time you spent in hospital and in the detention centre, this would be reduced to ten months. However…"
The judge leaned forward and considered Mason thoughtfully.
"I feel that in your case, this custodial sentence should be commuted to ten months worth of community service. I hope, sincerely, that in so doing, you might make an effort to change your lifestyle. Details will be worked out in conjunction with your solicitor. In the meantime, I am happy with the results of the police psychiatrist report and you are free to go."
The man banged his gavel and adjourned the court.
"Well done, Mason," said Rowbottom, looking hugely relieved.
Mason, however, was disappointed. He'd hoped to get off completely. But then, he rationalised over the next couple of hours as he sat, bored out of his mind whilst the prison clerk filled in endless reams of paperwork, he was new at this game. It wasn't going to come overnight.
So all in all, he decided, he'd not done too badly. At least he wasn't going to be spending tonight in a prison cell.
"And where will you be spending tonight, Mister McKinley?"
The clerk was a young man, maybe not much older than Mason's twenty-five years, dark-skinned and handsome, with a proud bearing that seemed oddly incongruous with his lowly position. He didn't even raise his head when he asked the question. This irritated Mason for a moment, and then he smiled.
"I was hoping to find a half-decent hotel for a couple of nights," he said, an innocent tone in his voice. "You know, just until I get my shit together. Shame I haven't got any cash."
"There's twenty seven pounds and forty three pence in your personal effects," said the clerk, still without looking up. "Along with a cash point card, three cigarette lighters, - all empty, a packet of Wrigley's chewing gum, a bottle opener, a receipt from Tesco for sixty Benson and Hedges and…" This time, the clerk did look up. "A humane mousetrap. I have to know, Mister McKinley. Why?"
"Why not?" Mason's smile was endearing and charming. "I thought it looked interesting. And humane, of course."
In a fit of drunkenness, he'd admired its shape and had wondered if it would make an impromptu bong. Mason had about as much interest in animal welfare as fast-food burger restaurants had in nutrition.
The clerk shook his head. "Your signature here, please," he said, pushing the paperwork over the table. "And here, here, here – and here." He pointed at several points on the paperwork where he had neatly marked crosses.
"It'd be great if you could loan me maybe twenty quid," said Mason, idly and conversationally as he signed the paperwork. "I could probably get somewhere half decent for forty seven pounds. Of course, fifty quid would be better. And here?"
"I'm not in the business of loaning money, Mister McKinley. If I was, don't you think I would be working in a bank?"
"Ah, go on," said Mason, cheerfully. "You know you want to."
This was the moment at which Mason discovered that his ability didn't work on another scion – at least not one who could lie and manipulate just as well as he could.
"I'm going to give you a word of advice, brother," said the court clerk, once again looking down at his paperwork. "Be careful what you do. I'm going to guess that you've just been awakened to your latent abilities. I suggest that you moderate usage of your skills until you have better control over them. What you did in that courtroom today was impressive, I'll grant you that. But it draws attention to you in a way I suspect that you aren't ready to handle. Not yet." He pushed the paperwork back again. "One more signature, please. Here. Then you're a free man." He stretched languorously, almost cat-like.
Mason stared at the clerk, his mouth open slightly.
"Who are you?" he said, when finally he found his voice.
"I'm like you," came the reply and the clerk glanced up and smiled briefly. "Although not exactly. I'm going to guess Loki, right?"
"How do you…"
"Keep your head down, my friend. There are plenty of people like us out there – and there will be plenty of those people who will be very quick to slit your throat given half a chance. I don't know if your – father – told you, but you're worth money to them now. There's quite a bounty on Loki's children."
Mason suddenly felt afraid. The clerk smiled at him.
"I will say nothing, don't worry. I'm happy in my life. I get on with what I do."
"Who – I mean, you know what I mean." Mason signed the form for the last time. He was now, according to the assorted statutes of law, a free man.
Only now he felt himself caught up in something that he couldn't control.
"That's my business, not yours. Here are your effects…" The clerk pushed over the polythene bag that contained Mason's paltry belongings. He'd added an extra fifty pounds to the mix. "Thank you for your patience, Mason. Have a good day."
Stunned for once into silence, Mason stuffed his belongings in his pockets, mumbled a polite 'thank-you' to the clerk for the money and headed for the door.
"Mason?"
He stopped, hand on the door and turned.
"Yes?"
"Try to stay out of trouble. At least for a while, eh? I don't want to have to file your coroner's report if you know what I'm saying."
"I will." Mason felt small and meek and very, very confused.
"You've got a second chance here. Don't mess it up. Goodbye now."
And just like that, Mason was dismissed.
He was a free man.
© S Cawkwell, 2008