Shadow Court

by Roger Weston

  At the defendant’s table, Percy Hackworth stood up. His long face and chin drooped down like a lump of sagging bread dough. He had long straight blonde hair. His face was devious, his eyes shrewd and crafty—like eyes fished out of a pit of slime. They were worldly, corrupted eyes that looked like they’d seen decades of evil and expected to see more today. Hackworth stared Ragnar with disrespect then shot a look at Judge Maroz.

  In a cold monotone voice, the court’s clerk said, “You may approach the bench and take the oath.” Her eyelids flickered over her gray eyes.

  Hackworth glanced back at the exit door where several armed CERBERUS enforcers were standing. He briefly made eye contact with Roderigo, a CERBERUS brute, an empowered criminal with a gun, a broad face and a wide mustache. Hackworth met the clerk in front of the bench. She said, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” Hackworth mumbled.

  A murmur of quiet laughter drifted from the audience. Everyone there knew that Hackworth was a serial liar.

  Percy Hackworth had begun as an apprentice loan broker working for his father. After four years he became a hard money lender. He bought into a regional payday loan shop enterprise charging usurious interest rates and clearing $100 million per year. He developed a plan to seize control of the chain from his business partner. His plan involved the use of compromising information that he’d gained from his partner’s wife, with whom he was having an affair. With his partner out in the cold, Hackworth acted fast. Business exploded and he took the chain national. He was successful, and a year later, his ex-partner committed suicide.

  When a month later, a warrant was issued for his arrest due to illegal loan usury practices and strong-arm collection tactics, Hackworth went into hiding. When the state legislature was in session, he sent bagmen to the capital. Several million dollars in cash was dispersed to legislators, and a new bill passed that not only legalized the loan practices he was wanted for, but the law was retroactive, letting him off the hook. He more than got his money back because the bill had riders that made it difficult for his competitors to compete with him.

  Hackworth had cleared almost a billion dollars when he sold out half of his dynasty to a new partner; however, through stock manipulations, he bankrupted his new partner and regained control of the company.

  Over the next several years, Hackworth’s wealth approached $10 billion.

  “I better get redress from this court,” Hackworth said under his breath. His crafty eyes studied the judge. They seemed to be looking for signs of corruption or weakness, or was it compassion?

  Hackworth took a seat in the witness stand. His wary eyes shot a look at the upper wall as the howling wind kicked up to a high pitch around the solid building.

  The prosecutor faced him, a man in his mid forties with undistinguished features. And after some preliminary questions, he was quiet for a moment then said, “Why did you go to Venezuela?”

  Hackworth stood up in the witness box and glared at the jury. “I was ordered to by the court. You just heard the honorable judge say that the court had decreed that we would send in CERBERUS operatives to stir up agitation to intimidate the government and cause them to accede to various demands.”

  “Sit down, Hackworth!” the prosecutor shouted. “Spare us from deception. The members of this court will not be talked down to like your payday-loan customers. I warn you, stick to the facts. I’m well aware of them already.”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Hackworth’s attorney rose abruptly, causing his pony tail to shiver. “The prosecution is attempting to intimidate the witness.”

  “Objection overruled,” Marez said. “The witness will remain seated during questioning.”

  The defense attorney frowned and retook his place behind the defense table. He took off his glasses and polished them with a white satin handkerchief.

  Hackworth sat down.

  The prosecutor looked at the floor for a moment then said, “Did you follow the orders of the court to the letter?”

  Hackworth winced. “What do you mean ‘to the letter?’ That’s not the way the world works. I did what—”

  “That’s a yes-or-no question. Just answer yes or no. Did you follow the orders of the court to the letter?”

  Hackworth fidgeted in his seat. “I did what any true leader would do. I adapted according to—”

  “Yes or no, Hackworth!”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” Fairfield, sat down at the prosecution’s table. He glanced at his gold pocket watch and then put it back in his pocket.

  Hackworth’s doughy face was suddenly dark with rage as he glared at Ragnar Fairfield. He jumped to his feet. “These are the facts,” he said. Waving his hand, he continued, “The court was clear that we would send in CERBERUS operatives to stir up agitation to intimidate the government and cause them to accede to various demands and help us gain a media monopoly so that we could influence every aspect of society, including forcing—forcing—the people to accept our universal values. That’s exactly what I did.”

  Judge Maroz pointed with a long crooked, tobacco-stained finger. “The court did not call for a revolution and a coup that put you in the driver’s seat when it came to dividing up the spoils—the utilities, the natural resources, and seized businesses. That is the purview of the court.”

  The defense attorney stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. The court is attempting to badger the witness.”

  “Overruled!” the judge shouted.

  Blood filled Hackworth’s doughy face and turned his complexion crimson. “My attorney is right,” he said. “The court is overstepping its bounds. The court’s directives were followed to the letter. Perhaps I was a bit more aggressive in my interpretation than your honor had anticipated, but the court has been and always will be respected.”

  Maroz shook his finger. “You were given authority to send in a dozen CERBERUS agents for sabotage and intimidation. I’ll grant there is room for some interpretation, but to the recruit over a thousand radical students to destroy property, incite violence, and distract the police—that was beyond your license. The result was a revolution, the assassination of the president of Venezuela, a coup, and hundreds of deaths. To now pretend that there was anything at play other than your own personal ambition is an insult to the court and the intelligence of her members.”

  Objection!” the defense shouted.

  “Overruled!” Maroz glared at the defense attorney. “Would the defense like to examine the witness?”

  The defense attorney pushed his chair out of the way and said, “Yes, Your Honor.” He walked in front of his table and half way to the witness stand. He said, “Mr. Hackworth, why were you in Venezuela?”

  “I was sent there by this court.”

  “And what were your orders.”

  “To agitate and take control of the government.”

  “To take control of it or pressure it to comply?”

  “To pressure it.”

  “And yet the fact is that the president was assassinated and your CEREBRUS security forces took control of the government.”

  “They had to after the assassination.”

  “Why?”

  “To avoid a situation where the revolution spun out of control. If that had happened, I would not have been able to carry out the wishes of the Lancastria Court.”

  The defense attorney nodded. “How much flexibility do you have in regards to interpretation when it comes to carrying out your orders?”

  “I need to get the job done.”

  “Was it necessary for you to take extreme measures in this case to get the job done?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thank you.” The defense attorney sat down at his table.

  Judge Maroz watched the lawyer closely and said, “That was a cute little trick, but that’s all it was. When you try a case before this court, we have higher standards. Having heard all the evidence I direct th
e jury foreman to retire and render its verdict.”

  Sitting with the other jurors, the foreman, a short, unattractive man, who had made a fortune from drugs and booze, raised his hand.

  “What is your question?” Judge Maroz said.

  “Do we have to retire if we already have a verdict?”

  “Is it unanimous?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “What is the verdict?”

  “Guilty, your honor.”

  The defense attorney stood up and walked around his table. “I object, sir. I would like to approach the bench.”

  “Denied. The finding of the court is that Hackworth is guilty by a preponderance of the evidence of malfeasance and contempt of court. We will reconvene in fifty minutes for sentencing.”

  “Objection!” the defense shouted.

  “Overruled!”

  “What the devil is going on here?” the defense attorney said. His neck looked like silk stockings pulled around straining ropes. “This is a miscarriage of justice!” He stood near the witness chair. “I object to these findings and your decision. His business interests in Venezuela stand to suffer irreparable harm simply because of how he interpreted the vague orders of the court.”

  “Your objection is noted,” Maroz said. “The damage to his businesses is minor compared to our vision and long term goals.”

  Hackworth stood and pointed at Judge Maroz. “I voted for you. I voted to put you on that bench. Damn you, Maroz! I will make you pay for this. I curse your mother and your wife. I curse your son and your daughter! I curse you too, but that’s only the beginning. Nobody screws me and gets away with it.”

  Maroz slammed his gavel on the wooden plaque.

  “Remove him from the courtroom!”

  “Remove me? Who do you think you are, Maroz?” Hackworth’s shrewd, corrupt eyes focused on the judge like lasers. “I’ve sent millions of dollars of business your way. I bought your daughter a $30,000 necklace for her wedding present. How dare you shaft me now!”

  “This court is not for sale, Hackworth. You knew that when you signed the articles!”

  The officer of the court, a CERBERUS enforcer, approached Hackworth and grabbed his arm.

  Hackworth jerked it away and turned on the cop. “Get your filthy hands off me, you thug. I’ll walk out of here on my own. Then I’ll pay you a few dollars to shine my shoes.”

  “Get him out of here now!” Maroz ordered.

  The cop seized Hackworth’s arm with force and escorted him forcefully out of the courtroom.

  The howl of the tempest that was brewing outside rose to a high pitch.

  Judge Maroz was quiet for a moment then said, “I believe it’s time we move to higher ground. We will take a recess and reconvene in forty minutes at the Higer Institute.” He hammered the gavel on the wood slab.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Village of Fortuna at Cava Flats

  Standing on a ridge behind wind-thrashed bushes, Chuck Brandt shoved aside a wall of giant leaves, gaining himself a view of Cava Flats and the village of Fortuna.

  The village was crisscrossed with brick and stone streets. Situated in a three hundred-acre clearing hacked out of the rainforest, lush green estates surrounded the collection of pastel buildings and beautiful architecture—Spanish arches, Danish stonework, and French balconies. Just inland, a steep, serpentine street and low buildings blended into a hillside. Walkways through a palm grove led to a half-submerged golf course. The storm surge was approaching the picturesque village.

  The swamp had long ago been cleared of coastal mangroves and filled in with dirt to create the low-lying town by the sea, but today the storm surge was on the rise, battered on by wind and wave. The sea ran violent as far as Chuck could see. She pulsated, throbbed, and rolled. Fierce wind raked the water. Battalions of waves attached the shore. A deluge of rain was causing flooding even ahead of the surge. The village of Fortuna was helpless and vulnerable. The clock tower looked like a sentry keeping guard amid a losing battle. The harbor of Ivory Bay sustained the constant assault of heaving, rolling swells. Boats bobbed in their slips, tugging at their ropes. Some bounced against their rubber buoys. Other chaffed against the dock. Chuck saw one break free of its bow line, swing around and bash the dock repeatedly. Each time the vessel rode lower in the water. Waves washed over the docks, sweeping away a blue rowboat that had not been properly secured. One of the super yachts anchored offshore was dragging her anchor and drifting toward the rocky shore of Falla Point. It was in serious jeopardy, but Chuck wasn’t worried about it.

  Wind pounded the island, lashing and breaking up the gorgeous orange flowers of the Flamboyant trees. Palms bent over. Coconuts dropped, bounced and rolled, increasing the danger from above. Waves pushed further inland but did not recede. Rather, they were pushed on from behind by the storm surge.

  Everywhere Chuck looked, palm fronds were whipping around violently. Thick rain blew in at an angle and stung his face until it was almost numb. Still, the island had yet to see the full force of the hurricane. The village consisted of a dozen three-to-five story buildings spread out across Cava Flats, a three hundred-acre clearing that was five feet above sea level, which Chuck knew from his topography analysis.

  “Look,” Erica said, pointing.

  Chuck saw two dozen people walking up a road towards higher ground. It was a wild sight because trees were thrashing and bending over on both sides of the road.

  “Where are they going?” Chuck said.

  “It looks like they’re heading up to the Higer Institute.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an insane asylum on Nicobar Plateau. It’s the highest point on the island.”

  “Let’s follow them.”

  Chuck held Erica’s arm as they hiked through the storm that constantly pushed and shoved them. They made their way down toward the village at Cava Flats then angled inland to the road that led to the Higer Institute.

  As they jogged up Magnus Road, wind pounded down the bushes. The abundant frangipani, hibiscus, and bougainvillea plants shuttered as their flowers flattened and kissed the ground. Gusts shoved at Chuck’s back, making the run uphill easy. They approached an old man holding his hat on his head.

  The man looked surprised. He stared at Erica and said something, but the hurricane in the trees made it impossible to hear. Chuck could read his lips, however. The old man had said, “Hello. I’m Camilo Cortez. Don’t I know you?”

  Nature’s fury almost blew the man over, but Chuck caught him and held him up.

  “Thank you,” the old man said with weary eyes.

  Just then a jeep with an armed driver sped down the road in their direction and stopped next to them.

  “Get in,” the driver said. “I’ll take you to the shelter where everyone is taking cover.”

  Chuck helped Camilo Cortez into the jeep. “We’ll walk,” he said to the driver.

  “Get in. It’s dangerous. Trees are falling.”

  Chuck saw the ruby ring on the driver’s finger. “We’ll be careful.”

  The driver shook his head, did a u-turn, and drove back the way he came.

  “He’s with CERBERUS,” Chuck said.

  Erica nodded. “Once they figure out who we are, their mission will change from rescue to assassination.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Dressed in black robes, Judge Marez had taken over the warden’s office for the time being. The office was not what he’d expected to find in an insane asylum. In a large glass-walled hexagon-shaped room Maroz was surrounded by glass display cases and tables featuring thousands of empty shells. The court would resume shortly in the cafeteria, and the warden’s office would suffice for his temporary chambers. He would take a few minutes to review a few of the legal books he had sent up here and research the authorities, which had been presented in a preliminary hearing with the attorneys.

  After reviewing the authorities, he hunched forward over his desk, studying an elaborate flow chart illustrating
the takeover of Venezuela—the military, the government, and the cities. CERBERUS and other mercenary assault teams were represented on his chart by the image of an assault rifle. Seventy-two rifle images were placed in a box marked “Capital” along with lists of buildings to secure, officials to round up, and assassinations to carry out. A list of factories to seize was featured in a box labeled Phase Two.

  A knock on the door jarred Maroz’s concentration. He sat bolt upright. “What is it?”

  “It’s me, Penny.” She was the clerk of the court. “Camilo Cortez is here. He has to talk with you. It’s very important. It relates to Erica Rivera.”

  “What?” Maroz hesitated then said, “Alright, send him in.”

  The old man, Camilo Cortez, walked in. His gray hair was still wet from the walk up Magnus Road. Streaks of water ran down his face.

  “What is it?” Maroz stood up.

  Cortez said, “I saw Erica walking up Magnus Road. At first I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Everybody knows that she disappeared five months ago. I hadn’t heard anything about her turning up.”

  “That’s impossible. She’s not on the island.”

  “I think it was her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cortez nodded.

  “Where was she?”

  The old man pointed vaguely with a shaking finger. “Just half-a-mile down Magnus Road, just a few minutes behind you and the others when you evacuated the village.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, with a dark-haired man.”

  “What man?”

  “I’ve never seen him before—in person at least.”

  “What do you mean in person?”

  “I’ve seen his face before in intelligence briefs, but it’s Chuck Brandt. He’s constantly shown on the news because you set him up for taking out the president of Venezuela.”

  “Here! Brandt is here on Iguantola Island?”

  “How could I mistake that? I see his face every time I check the news. You’ve made sure of that.”

  “Curse the devils for bringing him here!”