The Judge called for a break. The Jewry took out packed lunches of the salted meat variety and chewed noisily. The Professor, meanwhile, pulled a small mirror from his breast pocket—ostensibly to adjust his hair and tie, though I could swear I saw him whispering into it, as if discussing the case with some unseen counsel.
"What's he up to?" I muttered, for although he did appear to be mounting a halfway decent defence, I couldn't shake the feeling he was doing something lascivious.
When the trial resumed, the Professor summoned Paul—the big orderly—to the stand, and quickly established two key facts: that on the night of Doctor Wheeler's death I had been restrained in a straitjacket, and that I was later found over the body without it on.
"He must have taken it off," said Paul.
"As simple as that, hm?" The Professor produced a straitjacket for the Court and sought a volunteer to demonstrate its fashion. I rather thought Lydia would make a good model, but the Judge ordered the White Ram to accede.
Taken by surprise, "You baaa—!" was all the beast managed to shout before Paul wrangled him into the canvas wrap, and left him flailing on the courtroom floor.
The jacket's restrictive functionality thus proven, the Professor posited that its removal could have occurred through only one of two means: human error, or human intent.
"I didn't screw up," said Paul.
"So then it was Doctor Wheeler who released Mr Blaze? Or perhaps another inmate?"
"It wasn't me," said Paul.
"And far be it from the good Doctor Wheeler to ever do such a thing!" I said, for theatrics were all I had, and so I rose like a preacher at a funeral, and declared the mere suggestion to be preposterous and that I for one found it offensive to his memory. I continued hamming it up until the Judge's nose could point no higher, and Paul had admitted it was unlikely. As for another inmate facilitating my murderous opportunity, I wouldn't have it.
"The cells are locked, aren't they?"
"Of course."
"Nobody's gotten out before?"
"Not in my time," said Paul. "Inmates only get out for meals and therapy sessions."
"Or to be told their father's dead." Paul didn't respond to that so I asked him how often Doctor Wheeler conducted one-to-one therapy sessions.
"Depends on the inmate," he said. "There's no helping some of them. But the Doctor himself always tried to help when he could."
I nodded. "Which might be phrased that the Doctor always tried to help himself when he could."
"That's not what I said!" shouted Paul.
"Didn't you?" I apologised to the Court and sat down. The Judge's face had taken on the resemblance of an aggravated blowfish but before he could very well explode, the Professor had called Raven to the stand.
"During your incarceration at Clearview, you were subject to the therapeutical method of unconscious examination through artistic expression as delivered by Doctor Wheeler, correct?"
"Nevermore!" squawked Raven, tearing off his mask and passing a hateful grin at the Judge. He was ordered to immediately replace the mask "…and would someone please shut that bleating up!" cried the Judge. (For you see, the White Ram had been this whole time still straightjacketed and rolling on the floor.) Paul facilitated the White Ram's release whilst Raven, thriving on the chaos, recited the following limerick:
"Take off my mask,
does he implore,
But my psychiatrist at Clearview,
—nevermore."
Raven's voice had taken on a screeching quality and there was something odd about his eyes too. They seemed terribly black, almost liquid in their consistency. Staring into them, I felt a foreboding queasiness unsettle my stomach, but the Professor remained perfectly composed.
"If it please the Court," he said, "I would like to enter into evidence Mr Raven's notebook from the aforementioned therapy sessions." He asked Raven to confirm its legitimacy, and further to read out the highlighted passages from pages 12 and 13, which corresponded respectively to the time period around Doctor Wheeler's death. Raven instead proceeded to tear the book to shreds—but the Professor simply produced a copy from which he was granted permission to read aloud.
"Wheeler Wheeler,
lock my door,
for should I get out,
I'll sneak into yours.
Wheeler Wheeler,
did my head you explore,
but what's in yours, do I wonder,
—nevermore."
The Courtroom fell silent. The implications of those words hung heavy in the air yet there was something almost familiar in the cadence of Raven's verse, something I couldn't place but felt I'd once read or written down myself. Slowly, the Gallery began to murmur, and it was with confident poise that the Professor sat back down. The Jewry, however, gave no indication that this latest piece of testimony had readily affected them, continuing as ever to hash out the esoteric dimensions of their ancient texts.
Seizing the opportunity, I steeled my nerves and strode towards the witness stand. "Don't be fooled," I told the Jewry. "Poetry, however dark is not a gun. Words do not kill." Reading from Raven's notebook, I showed the Court just how many other hateful limericks had been written therein. There were some about Paul, the Imbecile, even the Professor. And of course there were plenty about me.
"The fact is you hate everybody, don't you, Raven?"
He nodded, grinning.
I addressed the Judge. "And so while my esteemed colleague for the Defence would have us focus on the one or two negative sentiments aimed at Doctor Wheeler, it's far more apparent that Mr Raven's animus was aimed at others. In fact, I would go so far as to say that Doctor Wheeler is the least targeted person in this entire notebook!"
The Gallery nodded. The Judge seemed impressed. I went on to apologise to Raven, stating that the Court had been thoughtlessly insensitive and that there was simply no way he could've killed Doctor Wheeler.
"Because you're also afraid of him," I said.
"What?" said Raven, his twisted grin suddenly dropping.
"It's all right," I said. "Every night the world over, little pink diaries are scrawled with the angry writings of little girls who lack the courage to confront those playground bullies who loom so scarily in their fragile minds. It's a form of catharsis. An outlet. And completely understandable why you'd adopt the same technique—because you're afraid too. Afraid of the Doctor, afraid of the Professor, and especially afraid of me."
"I am not afraid of you!" he shouted.
"Oh but you are!" I shouted back. "Because this little jew rat is far more dangerous than you could ever be—"
He took a shot at me but I was ready for it, dodging his scathing fingernails just before they could claw my cheeks. A gasp lit up the Gallery and the Imbecile's shadow quickly engulfed the witness box. Kicking and screaming, Raven spouted the most grotesque words at me, none of which I shall repeat for their utter vulgarity.
"I'm not afraid of anyone!" he yelled. "I'm glad the Doctor's dead and I'll be gladder when you are!" He was thereupon suppressed and I retreated to my desk, shaking.