Ideas and materials from the courtroom: Mikhail Spivak, Canada.
The judge, without even grabbing her gavel, pounded on the bench with her bare hand. The court secretary, confused, pointed in the direction of old man Epstein with the remote to the air conditioner. A reporter from a local newspaper, who had been drawing a cartoon of the judge as a large-sized Themis, stopped and turned to the defendant. A joyful premonition of scandal hung in the courtroom.
“Mr. Epstein, take the oath properly,” the judge sternly requested.
“Of course, Your Honor,” the defendant readily agreed, his hand still on the Bible. “I swear to tell the truth, the truth…”
The judge nodded approvingly at each “truth.” The court secretary’s pen ran smoothly, like a cardiograph recording the work of a healthy body.
“… and only the truth, if it does not contradict the advice of my lawyer.” Old man Epstein concluded the oath with the same phrase as he had a couple of minutes before.
The prosecutor perked up, the court secretary exchanged longing glances with the defense attorney, and the judge, having found her gavel, smashed it on the bench.
“Mr. Epstein” the judge said, “Either you take this oath properly or I fine you for contempt of court.”
“On top of the fine for using my phone?” asked the old man.
“Yes,” nodded the judge.
“It’s like a tax on truth” the defendant remarked. “After all, the other violators weren’t fined at all.”
A shaggy-looking biker in the second row smiled smugly, and his lawyer, who was defending Mr. Epstein that day, shouted out just in case, “I object!”
“Drake’s defense is protesting, Your Honor,” a surprised Epstein remarked. “And yet only a couple of minutes ago they claimed that pigs could fly.”
“I never said that!” Drake snapped back.
“You said you swerved into oncoming traffic because a pig suddenly jumped out into the road,” Epstein reminded Drake.
In town, everyone knew each other from birth and tended not to make a big deal of things.
“That’s what happened,” the lawyer confirmed.
“But we all know that there aren’t any bushes along that road and there is a two-meter fence the entire way. Am I correct, Your Honor?”
The judge nodded in agreement, but added sternly:
“That’s beside the point, Mr. Epstein.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Your Honor,” the defendant said. “After all, if the pig hadn’t originally been on the shoulder of the road and then suddenly appeared, it’s only logical that the animal flew over the fence.”
The local reporter turned to the disputants and sketched a flying pig in a few pen strokes.
“What kind of nonsense is that, Mr. Epstein!?” the secretary said indignantly.
“Her Honor called this nonsense true and rescinded Drake’s fine,” the defendant objected.
“This case is closed due to the absence of the on-scene police officer,” explained the general[1] lawyer, “and the person sent in their place cannot prove the absence of a pig on the road, therefore…”
“Her Honor preferred to believe in flying pigs rather than in the testimony of a police officer,” Mr. Epstein said, finishing his sentence.
“The case is closed,” the lawyer exclaimed and affectionately stroked his crocodile-skin briefcase.
“If Drake swears on the Bible that pigs can fly,” the defendant agreed, “then there can be no doubt about it. Just as there can be no doubt in crippled Harry’s breathalyzer results.
A big fellow, who had almost slid under the bench in a sweet half-doze, started up and moved his massive hind end back into his seat, causing the wooden bench to let out a shrill squeak.
“Who called Harry?” the giant asked sleepily.
“Sorry to wake you,” the defendant apologized. “I just wanted to ask again, did you really drink only water an hour before the highway patrol found that your blood alcohol content was 0.06%?”
“That’s what I said,” Harry confirmed. “And I provided breathalyzer results. Show him the results.”
“The results are irrelevant,” the judge replied angrily.
“They are relevant,” Epstein said. “They confirm that due to mysterious chemical reactions in Mr. McDaren’s stomach, water is processed into alcohol without our esteemed neighbor even knowing it and even, perhaps, against his wishes.”
“The results are real!” The defense attorney screamed.
“Sir, no one is accusing you of forgery,” old man Epstein replied. “Although, since you opened your practice, miracles have happened much more often in our town.”
“Untrue,” the lawyer objected.
“Untrue, of course, considering that a good dozen people saw McDaren leaving the bar that day. But no one could remember exactly what that drunk was drinking before he got behind the wheel.”
“Therefore,” the lawyer continued, “according to the principle of reasonable doubt, you cannot prove that my client ingested alcohol.”
“Of course I can’t,” Epstein agreed. “Nor am I interested in doing so.”
“Mr. Epstein,” the judge intervened, “get to the point or I’ll have you removed.”
“I’d just like to emphasize that you are very familiar with that bar, Your Honor,” Epstein cautiously remarked.
At that, the judge frowned and banged her gavel on the table.
“Do you know who I am, Mr. Epstein?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Epstein replied. “You are Judge June Morrigan, known for always keeping her word.”
The judge had no reply, but the gallery nodded their heads in confirmation of Epstein’s words.
“And also for reminding us of it at every court session,” Epstein concluded.
A wave of laughter swept through the courtroom. The lawyer looked at Epstein with despair and whispered something in his ear. The old man moved away from the lawyer and carefully wiped his ear with a paper napkin.
“Mr. Epstein, I’m asking you, please, take the oath properly,” the judge said urgently.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
At that, the defendant put his hand on the Bible and diligently complied with the judge’s request. The shaggy Drake whistled in disappointment. The judge nodded approvingly and asked Epstein to get to the point.
“Everyone calls me old Man Epstein, Your Honor,” the defendant began, “but I’m only fifty-three years old. I’m a widower, my children grew up a long time ago…”
“We all know who you are,” the judge interrupted. “Please stay on topic.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Your Honor, my children have grown up. I love books and order, and it’s not easy to find a good, educated, woman in our town.”
The judge’s gavel came down with the roar of a triggered blast.
“Mr. Epstein, these are not marriage proceedings,” the judge said sternly. “I’m depriving you of your right to speak. Answer only my questions. Not a word more. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Do you deny that you were on your phone while driving?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“What do you mean ‘no?’” the judge said, confused.
“I was on the phone, Your Honor,” the defendant confirmed.
“So you’re not going to dispute anything?” the judge asked, surprised.
“No,” the defendant confirmed.
The reporter, realizing that there wouldn’t be any scandal, lost interest in the defendant and decided to stop drawing his figure of Epstein right around his belt.
“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” said the judge.
“I chose the wrong time for a phone call, Your Honor.”
“Not convincing. Maybe your lawyer has something to say?” the judge prompted.
“My lawyer told me to say that my phone was at home, and that calls on it were made that day by my granddaughter, who does not yet know how to speak, but somehow loves chatting with my clients.”
The general attorney looked at old man Epstein with hatred, but didn’t bat an eye.
“Plus, Your Honor,” the defendant continued, “our lawyer contends that it was not me who was photographed driving that day, but a twin brother, whose existence nobody knew of before. Without questioning the integrity of my mother and applying the principle of reasonable doubt, the court cannot categorically deny such a possibility.”
“Let me get this strait,” the judge asked. “Do you confirm that your phone was at home that day?”
“No, Your Honor. After all, I swore to tell only the truth.”
“So you agree with the decision of the police officer?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor,” said old man Epstein.
“And you understand that it could cost you $3000 and an increase in your insurance premium?”
“I’ll pay, Your Honor,” Epstein relied. “And this lawyer won’t be able to brag anymore about taking you to the cleaners.”
“You don’t like lawyers?” the court secretary asked.
“In some cases, quite the opposite,” Epstein objected. “I’m even ready to leave the law to the crooks, provided that they allow justice to be done in our town, as before.”
“For example?” replied the secretary.
“For example, neither I nor the other residents of our town will object if baby Drake finally stops driving after all that crap he’s smoked, or if the court forces Mr. McDaren to install an ignition interlock device. Justice and legal practice don’t always go hand in hand, but they have drifted quite far apart from each other since Mr. Lawyer moved in to our town.”
McDaren shook his head in displeasure, while Drake gave the defendant the middle finger behind the defense attorney’s back. But there was a buzz of approval in the gallery.
“Did you come to court for diatribes?” the judge asked. “Have you decided to become mayor?”
“Not at all, Your Honor.”
“Were you hoping to make a deal with the law?”
“I’m not here for that either.”
“Then you could have just paid the fine and not wasted our time,” the secretary said indignantly.
“I’m here on my own business,” Epstein explained.
“In what way?” The judge asked warily.
The reporter was arranging the bristle strokes in a neat spiral around the rearing tail of a flying pig, exactly what the lawyer’s hairstyle looked like from behind. But when he heard the defendant’s next statement, he dropped his pencil.
“I’m going to get married, Your Honor.”
Silence hung in the courtroom. The townspeople did not know how to react to what was happening. Old man Epstein, though distinguished by his stubborn character, was a good neighbor, and no one wished ill on him.
“Our court does not register marriages, Mr. Epstein,” the judge said coldly. “Come back in a year when your spouse demands a divorce, which, given your character, is more than likely.”
Someone in the pubic gallery happily grunted at the venomous remark. Another voice said in a muffled voice, “She’s still angry, isn’t she?” The third remarked that there are no quarrels stronger than the quarrels of former friends. Everyone in the courtroom wanted to express their opinion, but the judge called for order.
“If you’re in a hurry, you can go,” she said to the defendant. “The lawyer will take the decision on your case.”
“I can go?” Epstein asked, “So you’re confirming, June?”
“Confirming what?” The judge raised her gavel just in case.
“Confirming your consent to become my wife,” the defendant explained.
The gavel never dropped. The heavy instrument of justice drifted in horizontal figure eights in the air, as if trying to decide on where better to strike – on a wooden bench or just the forehead of a cheeky defendant.
“What does the court have to do with this?” the secretary said indignantly.
“After all, exactly a year ago, in that exact bar, where McDaren got drunk as hell on pure water, I offered Miss Morrigan my hand and heart,” Epstein explained.
The gallery came alive. Many in the courtroom immediately recalled the events of a year earlier, and it was impossible to calm the loud whispers until everyone heard about the bridge tournament, about how the judge lost, and about Epstein’s stupid idea to propose on that ill-fated day.
“To be more precise, it was in that bar that I categorically rejected you,” the judge snapped.
Those who had witnessed the events in the bar again raised an uproar, each retelling the judge’s answer in their own words.
“To be even more precise, you did not reject me,” Epstein objected. “In legal terms, I received conditional consent.”
The judge silently opened her mouth, reaching for the security call button. But listening to the conversations in the courtroom, she stayed her hand.
“Now you remember, Your Honor,” Epstein said.
“Yes, but…,” the judge’s voice sounded less confident.
“… it was these ‘buts’ that prevented our happiness for a whole year. Because, literally, you promised that you would marry me, but…”
At this point Epstein raised his index finger, emphasizing the importance of this very “but.”
“…When, and only when, pigs learn to fly and the sinner is able to turn water into wine.”
A lively laugh swept through the courtroom, and the local reporter drew a pair of interlocking wedding rings on top of the figures of Epstein and Morrigan.
“According to the decision of the court,” Epstein concluded, “both conditions have been fully fulfilled today, and your consent has come into force. Are you not June Morrigan who always keeps her word?”
The courtroom was already loudly abuzz. Some believed that the judge was now obligated to marry Epstein, others that Her Honor wasn’t going to rush down the aisle. The noise had escalated into a disorderly ruckus when the local priest shouted,
“Wait! Let her answer it herself.”
All eyes turned to the judge. The pause dragged on. For the first time in the town’s memory, the judge didn’t know what to say.
“Perhaps Mr. Epstein has something to add?” she finally asked.
The defendant thought about it, then turned to the priest as if he could suggest the right word. Finally, he spread his hands in confusion.
“I don’t know what else to say, Your Honor. I can only repeat that I admit my guilt on all counts, including one case of violating road rules and one case of choosing the wrong time and place to start a family.”
“Your confession is accepted, Mr. Epstein,” the judge nodded.
Epstein pressed his hand to his chest and bowed ceremoniously.
Judge Morrigan rose to deliver the verdict.
“I’m very sorry,” she said to the defense lawyer. “But this time, your client has been found guilty on all counts. Given the defendant’s history and his voluntary confession, I will limit the fine to $500 for talking on the phone and will not punish the other mistakes.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” the defense lawyer tried to object.
“In the future, Sir,” the judge continued, “take the time to rid the court of ridiculous tall tales. You may be saving your clients from hundreds of dollars in fines, but you’re making them a laughing stock in the eyes of the whole town. We are old-fashioned, and we value a good name more than a few bucks.”
“Your Honor, I object!” the lawyer repeated and, making a theatrical pause, looked around the courtroom triumphantly. “You can’t make decisions about your own fiancé. Therefore, we are even here.”
He expected an approving reaction, but heard only dead silence. He turned to Epstein and hissed right in his ear,
“To compensate for moral damages, I’m tripling the fee. And if you don’t pay tomorrow, I’ll find a way to convince Her Honor that the marriage story was just a spectacular tale.”
The lawyer exchanged meaningful glances with the secretary, carnivorously snapped the fasteners of his crocodile briefcase, and both of them, the man and the briefcase, swinging their fat barrels, slunk away to the exit.
In US courtrooms, there is no general lawyer. Not sure about Canada or the UK.