The View from the Gallery, submitted by Mistress V

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The courtroom gallery was filled to capacity. Front row center was dominated, rather testily, by a pair of females at opposite ends of the age range.

One, barely a teenager, was scribbling furiously on a yellow pad, pausing only to wipe away a tear whenever Hogan's name was mentioned. She was dressed like something out of a WW2 era bad spy film---oversized putty colored trenchcoat, a moth eaten beret perched on an elaborate, raven-hued chignon. The girl's enormous topaz eyes shimmered in the recessed lighting.

The other was a Rubenesque, well past middle-aged woman with short, mousy dark hair, 50's librarian-styled glasses (complete with neck chain) and stout Birkenstock sandals over white crew socks. Her eyes followed Wil Riker constantly, even when he sat at counsel's table. Wheezy, asthmatic sounding sighs escaped her chapped lips at regular intervals. She wore a button on her faded sweatshirt that read "SlashGurl".

Word of the trial had spread throughout the courthouse and a long line of would be spectators filled the hall outside. As observers came and went (usually attorneys, on break from another, more boring proceeding elsewhere), the guards let in new viewers when there was a break in the action below.

So it was that a pair of oddly attired males made their way down the aisle, rather awkwardly, and stuffed themselves into the second row. One was obviously a skateboard bum, from his tattered Vans slip ons to his scratched Ray Ban sunglasses. But the other was a bit of an anomaly. He didn't quite seem at home in his tennis gear, and he'd obviously been a recent victim of some kind of hepatitis, given the sickly pallor of his skin tone. His eyes were obscured by equally dark Ray Bans, which must have been giving him issues. He tripped over his own feet and slid an elbow into Miss Marple, who jumped with a loudly whispered "I SAY!"

"Hey!" hissed her companion, tapping a riding-booted foot in annoyance. "Watch where you throw those things, will ya?"

"I'm terribly sorry," the offender began in a regular voice.

The guard emitted a loud "SHHHHHHHH!" and everyone turned to see who was being such a moron as to talk out of turn during the trial.

Things calmed down once more, for about ten seconds.

"Why are we here?" the liver-challenged one whispered loudly.

"SHH. You know the capt--er, JL, wants us to see what's going on." The younger male slid down further in his seat, intent on watching the cross-examination.

"Who is the other attorney?"

"Perry Mason. Shh."

"Perry Mason? That is not possible. Perry Mason is a fictional character, played by the late Raymond Burr in a 20th century television series. In fact, the persona was first created by---"

"HEY!" A louder, much more venomous whisper, from the mahogany-haired, amazonesque woman seated just down from the pair. She addressed the skate bum in a well-practiced teacher's voice, her emerald eyes ablaze. "Keep that positron brain on a shorter leash or we'll all end up being thrown out. This is supposed to be a closed hearing, anyway."

"How did she know about my positronic brain?" the offender asked, confused.

His associate shrugged.

"SHHHHHH!" the guard repeated, obviously growing annoyed with the whole group.

"I say, things are quite scintillating up here," the woman's older companion mused, peering curiously at the newcomers. "I gather they allow all sorts of ne'er do wells in the gallery these days. Makes a rather refreshing change, if you ask me."

"Is she referring to us?" the whisperer persisted, lifting up his sunglasses to reveal eyes even more topaz than the young woman in the front row. He addressed the older matron. "I'll have you know, madame, we are not riff raff, but serving officers in the---"

"I said QUIET!" The guard now was standing over the two, hands on his hips. "One more peep out of you and I clear the whole gallery. Zat clear?"

"Clear," mumbled the adolescent. His face flushed deep red in embarrassment.

Everyone's attention returned to the action below.

For another minute.

The pasty faced one had been fiddling with a fancy looking I-Phone the last few moments, his expression one of surprise. He spoke to the younger man next to him once more.

"A good number of the witnesses below are deceased. That makes no sense. And almost the whole group are actors, being called as the characters they once portrayed. How could such a trial---"

"SHADDUP, or I'll hit your offswitch!" A well placed kick from an expensive ridng boot made contact with a nearby knee, but the sound that echoed through the row was rather strangely metallic.

Riker looked up at the gallery, puzzled. His expression changed to one of surprised annoyance when he saw who was seated up there.

"Now you've done it, Data!" The skate bum jumped to his feet. "C'mon, this was supposed to be done undercover. We'd better get out of here."

"But----"

As the guard opened the door to let out the rabble rousers, an older man sneaked in, a tired expression on his face.

"Make way for the D.A.!" the guard said in a theatrical whisper.

"Sam Waterston!" Data gasped. "Can we not stay, Ensign Crusher?"

Wes the Invincible paused, thinking. "I promise, he'll behave," he finally told the guard. "Can we stay on a few more minutes? We're due back on board soon, anyway."

"All right." The guard looked the pair up and down, trying to figure out where he'd last seen them. "But you'd better make good on that promise!"

The duo tiptoed back to their seats, only to find them taken by the new arrival, his oilcoth Barbour jacket and his rather large briefcase.

"Excuse us, Mr. McCoy," Crusher began.