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A lengthy scene below the fold.
“Are you gentlemen ready?” he asked. “All right, then. Court of
Political Justice of the Confederate Continents of New Texas is now in
session. Case of the friends of S. Austin Maverick, deceased, late of
James Bowie Continent, versus Wilbur Whately.”
“My God, did somebody finally kill Aus Maverick?” Gail whispered.
On the center table, in front of the friends of the court, both sides
seemed to have piled their exhibits; among the litter I saw some torn
clothing, a big white sombrero covered with blood, and a long machete.
“The general nature of the case,” the judge was saying, “is that the
defendant, Wilbur Whately, of Sam Houston Continent, is here charged
with divers offenses arising from the death of the Honorable S. Austin
Maverick, whom he killed on the front steps of the Legislative Assembly
Building, here in New Austin….”
_What goes on here?_ I thought angrily. _This is the rankest instance of a pre-judged case I’ve ever seen._ I started to say as much to Gail, but she hushed me.
“I want to hear the specifications,” she said.
A man at the prosecution table had risen.
“Please the court,” he began, “the defendant, Wilbur Whately, is here
charged with political irresponsibility and excessive atrocity in
exercising his constitutional right of criticism of a practicing
politician.
“The specifications are, as follows: That, on the afternoon of May
Seventh, Anno Domini 2193, the defendant here present did arm himself
with a machete, said machete not being one of his normal and accustomed
weapons, and did loiter in wait on the front steps of the Legislative
Assembly Building in the city of New Austin, Continent of Sam Houston,
and did approach the decedent, addressing him in abusive, obscene, and
indecent language, and did set upon and attack him with the machete
aforesaid, causing the said decedent, S. Austin Maverick, to die.”
The court wanted to know how the defendant would plead. Somebody,
without bothering to rise, said, “Not guilty, Your Honor,” from the
defense table.
There was a brief scraping of chairs; four of five men from the defense
and the prosecution tables got up and advanced to confer in front of the bench, comparing sheets of paper. The man who had read the charges,
obviously the chief prosecutor, made himself the spokesman.
“Your Honor, defense and prosecution wish to enter the following
stipulations: That the decedent was a practicing politician within the
meaning of the Constitution, that he met his death in the manner stated
in the coroner’s report, and that he was killed by the defendant, Wilbur Whately.”
“Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Vincent?” the judge wanted to know.
The defense answered affirmatively. I sat back, gaping like a fool. Why, that was practically–no, it _was_–a confession.
“All right, gentlemen,” the judge said. “Now we have all that out of the way, let’s get on with the case.”
As though there were any case to get on with! I fully expected them to
take it on from there in song, words by Gilbert and music by Sullivan.
“Well, Your Honor, we have a number of character witnesses,” the
prosecution–prosecution, for God’s sake!–announced.
“Skip them,” the defense said. “We stipulate.”
“But you can’t stipulate character testimony,” the prosecution argued.
“You don’t know what our witnesses are going to testify to.”
“Sure we do: they’re going to give us a big long shaggy-dog story about
the Life and Miracles of Saint Austin Maverick. We’ll agree in advance
to all that; this case is concerned only with his record as a
politician. And as he spent the last fifteen years in the Senate, that’s all a matter of public record. I assume that the prosecution is going to introduce all that, too?”
“Well, naturally …” the prosecutor began.
“Including his public acts on the last day of his life?” the counsel for the defense demanded. “His actions on the morning of May seventh as
chairman of the Finance and Revenue Committee? You going to introduce
that as evidence for the prosecution?”
“Well, now …” the prosecutor began.
“Your Honor, we ask to have a certified copy of the proceedings of the
Senate Finance and Revenue Committee for the morning of May Seventh,
2193, read into the record of this court,” the counsel for the defense
said. “And thereafter, we rest our case.”
“Has the prosecution anything to say before we close the court?” Judge
Nelson inquired.
“Well, Your Honor, this seems … that is, we ought to hear both sides
of it. My old friend, Aus Maverick, was really a fine man; he did a lot
of good for the people of his continent….”
“Yeah, we’d of lynched him, when he got back, if somebody hadn’t chopped him up here in New Austin!” a voice from the rear of the courtroom broke in.
The prosecution hemmed and hawed for a moment, and then announced, in a
hasty mumble, that it rested.
“I will now close the court,” Judge Nelson said. “I advise everybody to
keep your seats. I don’t think it’s going to be closed very long.”
And then, he actually closed the court; pressing a button on the bench,
he raised a high black screen in front of him and his colleagues. It
stayed up for some sixty seconds, and then dropped again.
“The Court of Political Justice has reached a verdict,” he announced.
“Wilbur Whately, and your attorney, approach and hear the verdict.”
The defense lawyer motioned a young man who had been sitting beside him
to rise. In the silence that had fallen, I could hear the defendant’s
boots squeaking as he went forward to hear his fate. The judge picked up a belt and a pair of pistols that had been lying in front of him.
“Wilbur Whately,” he began, “this court is proud to announce that you
have been unanimously acquitted of the charge of political
irresponsibility, and of unjustified and excessive atrocity.
“There was one dissenting vote on acquitting you of the charge of
political irresponsibility; one of the associate judges felt that the
late unmitigated scoundrel, Austin Maverick, ought to have been skinned
alive, an inch at a time. You are, however, acquitted of that charge,
too.
“You all know,” he continued, addressing the entire assemblage, “the
reason for which this young hero cut down that monster of political
iniquity, S. Austin Maverick. On the very morning of his justly-merited
death, Austin Maverick, using the powers of his political influence,
rammed through the Finance and Revenue Committee a bill entitled ‘An Act for the Taxing of Personal Incomes, and for the Levying of a Withholding Tax.’ Fellow citizens, words fail me to express my horror of this diabolic proposition, this proposed instrument of tyrannical extortion, borrowed from the Dark Ages of the Twentieth Century! Why, if this young nobleman had not taken his blade in hand, I’d have killed the sonofabitch, myself!”
He leaned forward, extending the belt and holsters to the defendant.
“I therefore restore to you your weapons, taken from you when, in
compliance with the law, you were formally arrested. Buckle them on,
and, assuming your weapons again, go forth from this court a free man,
Wilbur Whately. And take with you that machete with which you vindicated the liberties and rights of all New Texans. Bear it reverently to your home, hang it among your lares and penates, cherish it, and dying, mention it within your will, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto your issue! Court adjourned; next session 0900 tomorrow. For Chrissake, let’s get out of here before the barbecue’s over!”
Sounds like a great place! – J
I discovered The Fuzzy stories as a teenager. After finishing them off I went looking for more of his books and discovered he’d killed himself. A sad ending for such a talented guy.
I discovered Piper via Gutenberg whereupon I wasted many hours devouring all his works there. Great stories. Great site.