You will sympathise that whilst I had some notion of legal proceedings, my ability to partake in one could be described as woefully-inadequate. I therefore had little thanks to offer when the Judge magnanimously allowed me a five-minute reprieve to get my case in order. I was given a stack of papers—all blank—and a crayon.
"You work for the court now," the White Ram told me with more than a little anger in his voice. "The repercussions for failure are baah-baric."
I regarded him with some disdain before telling him I'd try not to "blow my own trumpet." He slunk away at that, broken horn in hand, leaving me to wonder what the devil the Professor was scribbling so assiduously on his papers. He couldn't possibly structure a defence without some form of accusatory evidence in play—something I was loathe to provide.
Weighing the crayon in my hand, I had no genius idea other than to free-write in the hopes that some unconscious stroke of brilliance appeared on paper. But though something did emerge, I couldn't read it, for my penmanship was severely impaired by the handcuffs—and before I could request that my restraints be removed, the White Ram suddenly blew his horn (five minutes my foot!) and declared the floor open for the Defence to make its opening remarks.
"But that's backwards," I said. "Surely the Prosecution begins."
At this the gallery murmured. The Judge looked at me cooly and said that whilst he appreciated my vigour, in his courtroom there would be no such injustice.
"But what you're doing is completely unjust," I said, explaining quite plainly that if the prosecution followed the defence, the final accusation would be left unanswered. "It's an intolerable idea."
"You'll change your mind, counsellor," demanded the Judge.
"Not readily," I said.
"Exactly," said the Judge. "And so too must we not bias the Jewry towards presumed guilt over innocence. Now be quiet and wait your turn."
He beckoned the Professor thusly, and for a horrible moment—just before the Professor stood up—he flashed me a terrible smile.
The Professor delivered another one of his stories, which again I am unable to convey for the meaning did not lie in the words, but in their delivery. He spoke for perhaps four minutes and left the gallery silent, the Judge rubbing his eyes, and the White Ram entranced like a broken children's toy. Even the Jewry had been distracted from their books.
Looking down at my paper, my heart sunk upon seeing that my hand had been mindlessly doodling as the professor spoke. I'd drawn The Hanged Man.
"Mr Blaze, the floor is yours," said the Judge, but I felt more ready to throw up than speak. Unclear of what exactly to say, I began to mumble until ordered to face the gallery and speak up. "The prosecution shall not be meek," warned the Judge.
"What the hell do you want me to say?" I said, turning angrily to the gallery of faces that bore my own. "That I'm a murderer? That I'm insane?—"
Upon that very word an idea lodged in my mind.
"Well fine then," I spat. "Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the monster. The bad guy. For I am a liar and a thief, and as you bear witness this day, I shall prove my dishonourable case. Yes, I am Isaac Blaze, mad man—and I would not trust me either."
I ran back to my desk and began scribbling furiously on my papers. Outlandish as it was, I had a plan. But it depended on the Professor's compliance, something I very much doubted to be faithful—especially when he called his first witness: Winston Lane.
He stood up from among the masked gallery, his sharkskin suit instantly recognisable despite his mask remaining on. He came sternly to the witness box. He was thanked for his participation and replied, very emphatically, that it was his pleasure. The White Ram blew his horn, and Lane was sworn in, identifying himself as the executor of the Blaze estate.
"You were briefly acting as Mr Isaac Blaze's council were you not?" asked the Professor.
"That's correct," said Lane, but I objected vehemently. "He was never my lawyer," I said. "I never appointed him in any such capacity."
"Overruled," said the Judge. "You did not not appoint him."
"What kind of logic is that?" I asked but it went unanswered.
The Professor dug into Lane's credentials, going into minute detail about all his first class schooling and subsequent rise to the upper echelons of the legal profession. I thought perhaps the Professor had somehow uncovered a skeleton in Lane's past, a hole in his claimed qualifications or else some other black mark that would render him suspect—but alas he'd done it for vanity's sake!
"I must be quite the advocate to be the one replacing you then, hm?" said the Professor. "In fact I bet it makes you quite mad."
Lane gritted his teeth. "Not I," he said, jabbing his stubby finger at me. "He's the lunatic."
"Objection!" I cried, and in unison with the Judge told Lane that we do not use that word. Lane begrudged an apology but was quick to sneer at my situation. "You should have signed the confession," he said.
I riled up an acidic remark but the Professor interjected. "I wonder, Mr Lane, if you could relate to the court Mr Blaze's exact response to the written confession?"
"As you wish," said Lane, adjusting his mask before delivering an imitation of me that was so precise—so exacting even to the very pitch and rhythm of my voice—that I felt as if I was speaking those very words myself.
"Very well," said the Professor. "Let the record show that Mr Isaac Blaze named the true killer as Desire du Coeur." He retreated to his desk with no further questions, and the Judge bade me to begin my cross-examination. "And remember," he said. "You will prove your guilt."
"Whatever," I said. I'd long since lost my patience for this farce and was burning for outlet. Summoning all my bravado, I stood up and ordered Lane to take off his damn mask. He declined and the Judge agreed that identities had a right to be protected.
"But he's already told the court his name," I said.
"Move on councillor," said the Judge.
I bunched my fists, practically choking on my bile. "Fine. Let's keep this simple, you pettifogger. Do you think I killed Doctor Wheeler?"
Lane nodded. "Yes."
"Brilliant. Then you'll be able to prove that, won't you? After all, we need damning evidence for the court." At this, I cut the Judge a scathing look but he was unmoved by it. Lane adjusted his tie. "You were found over the body," he said. "Red bloody handed."
"Perhaps," I said. "But not by you."
"I witnessed your anger towards Dr. Wheeler personally. You threatened him." Lane thus produced from his pocket a video recorder, admitting into evidence the footage of my final conversation with Doctor Wheeler. As you might have guessed it had been conveniently edited to the extent that the gallery gasped wildly as they watched Paul drag me out of Wheeler's office, screaming that I would kill him.
"That's a lie!" I shouted. "I never said I'd kill him. This thing's obviously been doctored."
The Judged banged his stethoscope, "That's enough councillor!" but I was so filled with anger that my hand rose up to strike Lane. Alas the Imbecile suddenly restrained me, and like some sick joke of inevitability, I was hauled back to my desk. "Let go of me!"
*
It took some minutes before the Gallery had settled down enough for the Judge to be heard. He declared my behaviour to be outrageous and easily worth a third charge of contempt—had I not done a good job. "An excellent cross-examination, Mr Prosecutor," said the Judge. "Damning indeed. Keep that up."
I was still seething when the Professor called his next witness: Lydia Blaze.
I turned sharply and, like a Greek siren, she rose out of the gallery amid awe and whispers. Again, the mask she wore did nothing to conceal her identity. Dolled up in a black chiffon dress, she meandered towards the witness box. (Not that her path was winding, you understand, rather that involved a lot of curves.)
The White Ram swore her in and the Professor began by illuminating her pertinent details to the Court. Much to my dismay, I noticed a certain chemistry between them as they went back and forth.
"And why did you have him committed to the Clearview Asylum?" asked the Professor.
"I thought it for his own good," said Lydia. "But seeing the poor babe here today, I wonder if it was the right decision." She shed three crocodile tears at that, and a moving spectacle it was for those who could be fooled it. But I'd long since learned to wax-plug my ears against her siren song, and I reminded the court that my stepmother was no medical expert.
"So she can keep her opinions in her ample bosom," I said.
The gallery turned rather prudish at this, and the Judge warned me against acting in any way for the Defence.
"I'm not," I said, putting it to him that any prosecutor would rather try an offender compos mentis. Surprisingly, the Judge actually agreed to that, and told the Jewry to disregard the witness's medial assertions. It was a minuscule victory and a very short-lived one too, because the Professor then asked Lydia about my home behaviour and I shrunk like a sun-dried fruit.
The blasted she-devil gave them the goods on me. Missing underwear, shower-spying—the whole sordid lot.
"Just what's this got to do with anything anyway?" I demanded, unable to bare my burning ears. "We're here to debate a murder, aren't we? Not listen to this smut."
"The Prosecution will mind its language," said the Judge.
"Never mind my language. Get her to tell us of my father." I pointed a finger at Lydia. "Did you kill him?"
"That's enough, councillor. We're dealing with the facts in the case of my—" he cleared his throat—"that is, Dr Wheeler's death. Anything beyond this remit is purely tangential and inadmissible. Is that clear?"
"I should hope so," I said. "Far be it from the Court to be more interested in my stepmother's underwear."
Beetrooting nicely, the Judge slammed his stethoscope and admonished the Jewry to disregard that entire last exchange. The Professor had little else to follow, chalking up my alleged peeping to nothing more than unusually strong teenage angst. "For which incarceration at a psychiatric asylum is a rather gross overreaction," he concluded.
"I couldn't disagree more," I said, trying to stay true to my plan. "What other option did she have? I was a menace. A deranged pervert who threatened this woman in her own home. Isn't that right?"
"You were confused, babe."
"Stop saying I was confused. And stop calling me babe!" The Judge ordered me to calm down and I took a breath before continuing. "Look, the fact is, Lydia, that for the few times you caught me, there were plenty more when you didn't. So you had to get rid of me."
"I was only trying to do what's best," she said.
"And that meant Clearview?"
"Yes. Doctor Wheeler is the best—was."
"Oh?" I perked up here. "So you knew of Doctor Wheeler beforehand?"
She hesitated a moment. "He's very well known in his field. I did my research."
"I'll bet you did," I said, earning me a stern reprimand from the Judge. Lydia begged him my pardon. "The poor babe's not well," she said.
"Better health than my father," I retorted. "But not fortune, it seems, does it?"
Lydia looked to the Judge. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Come now, stepmother dearest," I said. "Let's not both be confused or we shall need a hatter to help cover our sore heads!" I stepped away from the podium and folded my arms. "Let's speak plainly, shall we? After my father's death, his estate was to be passed to which named heir?"
"You."
"I was to receive all of his money, power and influence?"
"Yes."
"Could you state for the Court just how much it was exactly?"
She gave a number that made even the Jewry go slack-jawed.
"A sobering figure indeed," I said. "But being confused as I am to merit staying at Doctor Wheeler's pleasure, this vast hoard of sobriety-chips was thus surrendered to whom?"
"It's not like that, babe," she said. "I'm looking after it all for you."
"Yes, and I'm sure if we should look into the family accounts we'll find a generous monthly stipend having been extended to you for your honourable service. But that aside, you stood directly in the way of my inheritance. And for someone who'd already killed one mother at birth, I hardly think knocking off a stepmother would scramble the eggs too much more—plus or minus one Doctor for seasoning."
I sat down after that. I'd finished with her.