“In fact, it is my understanding that nothing works very well down here, so those gizmos you rely on – your hellphones, hellpads, and portable computers – may work sometimes; they may not work at others or, even worse, may appear to work, but give you erroneous results. You will be better served by doing due-diligence research yourself, in the actual books of the law, which will, I sincerely hope, instill in you some respect for how the law came into being.” This time when he paused, there was total silence from the audience.
“As an agnostic in life, I wasn’t convinced of the reality of ‘heaven’ or ‘hell,’ or of the precepts of Judaism – even though I was born a Sephardic Jew – or Christianity or any of the other world religions. I simply believed I should be as honest and fair as I possibly could in rendering my judgments, and live my life by the same principles, while treating my fellow man with dignity. Apparently, I succeeded well enough to be granted an afterlife in a more comfortable realm than this one.
“My message to you today is this: learn from your mistakes. You should be able to determine why you were sent here, if you think back on your life. The probation you must serve – aside from supporting His Infernal Majesty…” Cardozo looked up at the ceiling fifteen stories above their heads and shuddered, “…may expose you to the practice of law at all levels, introducing you to the dregs of hell’s society. It may cause you to focus exclusively on the minutest differences of wording of laws and regulations. You will have to learn new laws and figure out how to deal with different loopholes than those with which you are acquainted.
“And my advice to you is: during and after your probationary period (however long that may last) try to atone for your behavior in life. Do something good for someone else’s benefit, just because it’s the right thing to do. I understand that good behavior is frowned upon down here, but it will give you the best chance of earning a somewhat less agonizing afterlife one day – if you gain an understanding of why you are here, sincerely regret your unworthy behavior while on earth, and try to recover the goodness and innocence you lost somewhere along the way. I thank you for your time and attention.”
Not a single head rose from contemplation of a single lap as he finished. After a moment, Justice Cardozo turned to Altos, sighed and said, “Well, I hope it did someone some good….” Altos patted Justice Cardozo’s arm and drew him out of the Library toward the elevator.
*
“That was quite a speech,” Demetrius breathed to Makalani. “For one of the new dead, that one has the mind and understanding of a great philosopher like Aristotle, my old teacher,” he said, as he dabbed at his eye with the sleeve of his robe. “But it was probably wasted on that rabble down on the floor.
“Oh, but let me show you the most wonderful scroll of the Hammurabi era, which I found behind a broken wall panel while I was sealing another leak yesterday!” And Demetrius led his assistant firmly into another part of the Library.
*
“Well, people, I’d call that an inspiring address by Justice Cardozo. It’s up to you whether you take it to heart or not,” said Melvin Belli as he stepped up to the rostrum.
“Now I want all the criminal defense lawyers and former prosecutors to follow me to the other end of the room so we can get started. I’ll leave the rest of you civil practitioners to Percy, here.” With a malevolent smile, Belli strode to the lectern at the far end of the room and turned to wait for his victims who were just making their halting way to the empty chairs facing him.
At each end of the room, a babble of questions and offended oratory rose in volume. After a moment, Percy Foreman picked up a stone tablet and slammed it on the desk next to where he stood. He shouted: “All right, y’all settle down. Now!”
Many in the audience gasped in shocked indignation. No one dared yell at them – ever. They were the cream of the crop, the best of the best, the wealthiest, most influential lawyers ever to have practiced civil law. And no hick Texas Criminal shyster (regardless of his incredible record of fifteen hundred acquittals to sixty-four convictions, one execution) was going to tell them anything!
A similar confrontation was taking place with the group gathered in front of Mr. Belli. Why should they listen to some slick, polished civil lawyer, even if he had single-handedly created Class Action Lawsuits and won six-hundred million U.S. dollars in awards in some of the biggest trials ever? They had collected fees in the millions of dollars themselves, representing the richest scumbags ever arrested. The former prosecutors hadn’t been as wealthy a group, unless their jurisdiction afforded them regular access to bribes and perks, but they had wielded a tremendous amount of power they were loath to give up.
Each group believed it preposterous to require them to practice a type of law they’d avoided like a plague when alive. Who did Foreman and Belli think they were?
A better question would have been, who did Foreman and Belli work for?
When it looked like total insurrection was going to break out, and the noise level rose toward its peak, with men and women standing, red-faced and shouting at the Seminar Chairmen and each other, a bolt of lightning crackled from the highest floor of the Hall of Injustice, spearing the center of the meeting room floor, with a resounding crash.
Once again, all the lights in the Library flickered and popped, as the lightning played havoc with the electricity.
The loudest voice they had ever heard boomed: “This is hell, you idiots! This is not Burger King. You don’t get it your way – you do what you’re told! The Undertaker must be slipping if none of you understands this yet. Now shut up, pay attention and take notes. Then get to work before I have to make a personal appearance….”
As the smoke cleared from the room, silence reigned. The seminar chairmen shook their heads.
“If I may proceed now,” Foreman drawled, “I will begin handing out assignments.” A pen fell to the floor from someone’s lap, and the woman sitting next to the miscreant let out a small yelp.
“Well, I guess we can start with you, sir,” said Foreman as he pointed to the blond, too-perfectly tanned gentleman with most unnaturally white teeth, dressed in ultra-expensive ‘business casual,’ who was just picking up his pen. Consulting the Register of Preeminently Damned Lawyers on his hellpad, Foreman continued, “So, you practiced entertainment law in Hollywood, is that right?” Tall, Blond and Tan stood up and said with a supercilious smile, “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I was the highest paid…”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s who I thought you were,” interrupted Foreman. “We have a great opening in night Demon’s Court for a Public Defender. I think you’ll fit right in…. It’s a real pest-hole, in the worst area of Pandemonium City.”
The room was treated to a clearer view of those extra-white teeth as the first appointee’s mouth dropped open in horror.
Foreman chuckled: “Of course, not all of your indigent clients will be demons. Some will be succubi or incubi, or your garden-variety thieves or hookers. I’m sure it will be a refreshing change from your previous clientele.” He smiled broadly. “And just so we’re clear: either get really good at your job, really fast, or you will stay there until someone more deserving comes along … or until one of your clients doesn’t like the terms of a plea-bargain you arranged. Some of those folks in the lower echelons of Pandemonium society are quick to take offense if they feel slighted – real personal offense, if y’know what I mean. But don’t worry. If that happens you won’t be in the Undertaker’s hands more than another few weeks. Then you’ll be right back here, so you’d better learn fast. You have a good time, now, y’hear?”
That gorgeous tan was a sickly gray by the time the gentlemen in question disappeared with a small “pop” of displaced air. Percy Foreman, grinning, looked back at his list, ignoring the whimpers from his audience.
At the far end of the room, Melvin Belli was going through his own hellpad Register entries. “You,” he said, pointing to a rather nondescript man in a cheap suit and run-down shoes who was attempt
ing to make himself very small and unnoticeable by slouching behind a broad-shouldered, heavily-built mob lawyer.
“M-m-me, sir?” quavered a voice from behind the silver-haired heavyweight.
“Yes, you. You were a public defender in Brooklyn, specializing in doing the least amount of work for your court-appointed clients, and talking them into plea deals that weren’t in their best interest, just to clear your docket, weren’t you?” Melvin Belli said, as he glowered over the top of the list.
“Well, I, uh, wouldn’t say, uh….”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Belli snorted. “None of you ever do,” he said, shaking his leonine head. “I believe I have the perfect assignment here, just for you. The Infernal Revenue Service needs some junior attorneys to go through all the older tax laws and identify any that are too favorable to taxpayers. If I understand correctly, they’ve asked for five new hires. It seems they have around sixty thousand volumes of tax laws that need to be updated.”
“But, but, I barely passed contract law in night school. And I’ve never been detail-oriented enough to handle big issues like complicated taxes, and things like that….” wailed the profusely sweating thin man in the rumpled suit.
“Then I suggest you learn quickly. But don’t worry, you won’t be alone. There will be four more joining you to toil in the depths of the IRS archives, so you won’t get lonely. Oh, and do try to stay out of the way of the Director. She can be a real bitch if she’s not happy with your work…” chortled Belli, “…and you’ll be reporting to her immediately.” As the appalled former public defender disappeared with the newly-familiar “pop,” Belli muttered, sotto voce, “you poor slob.”
*
Demetrius snickered as he watched the assignment process continue. Sometimes this was the most fun he had all week – well, except for dallying with his new protégé. He wondered how many in the blur of faces, three floors below, would pass through his fiefdom again, as any more than visitors. A certain number of the fools always had to go through the process several times before they finally learned they had to play by the rules of hell to get anywhere.
When Demetrius turned to continue his discussion with Makalani, a tall, attractive man in casual black slacks, a black shirt and well-combed hair approached from one of the entrances. “How may I or my scribe assist you?” asked Demetrius.
“Well, I’m Doctor Miguel Bartsch and someone told me this was the library. Could you show me where the medical section is?” The visitor looked perplexed as Demetrius and Makalani giggled at each other.
Demetrius recovered his decorum first and said “I’m afraid you are really in the wrong place, sir. Most doctors of medicine end up on one of the Greek planes, ministering to the inhabitants there. I’m afraid Reassignments has made another mistake. You see, practicing medicine around here – if you actually help someone or cure them – is considered malpractice and punished immediately. So, unless you were responsible for someone’s death by practicing quackery or were a money-grubbing pill pusher, you need to be sent back to Reassignments. And judging by your expression, I’ll need to show you to the elevator.”
As the Chief Librarian and his assistant Makalani turned to escort the doctor through the stacks and to the exit, the floor shuddered, accompanied by a rumbling sound that rapidly grew louder. Makalani quickly took Demetrius’ arm, staring around in trepidation.
Dust began falling from the ceiling eleven floors above, and librarians on every floor began shouting in fear as shelves teetered and began toppling onto them. Computer screens blew out with a cascade of sparks and the lights began flickering, and failing entirely in some areas, as everyone tried to run for safety.
With a tremendous roar, the ceiling gave way under the weight of the entire Hall of Injustice above, which crashed down through the atrium, as the fourteen floors of shelves, walkways, and research and study rooms slid toward the open space in the center of the building, spilling law books onto the meeting-room occupants at the bottom, crushing them, as the Hall of Injustice collapsed into its own basement.
Demetrius barely had time to scream, “My scrolls!”
*
Absolute darkness … suffocating heat … pressure … pain … groaning … remembering – falling, tumbling, flailing – Makalani tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. As his senses gradually came back, more pain…. He felt something wet – was lying in something wet, felt something a little softer under his hand… more memory.
“Oh no,” he gasped. The Library, Demetrius! But he was breathing … dust and pumice… but breathing all the same – not clean air, to be sure, but not the odor of rotten teeth and decomposition he would smell if he had died and been resurrected on the Undertaker’s slab. Makalani might be buried under a rockfall of unknowable proportions facing unbelievable difficulties, but at least there was a chance to get out without waking in the morgue to the unspeakable pain of being reassembled. He sighed in some relief.
“Help… help!… anybody…?” Makalani doubted anyone could hear his faint call, but just then he felt a weak tug on his pants leg … heard a muffled voice:
“Sesh…? Is that you…?” Demetrius wheezed.
“Oh, sir, thank the fates!” Makalani breathed.
Remember, Remember, Hell in November
by
Larry Atchley, Jr
Guy Fawkes will always remember the day he died and went to hell. First he and his co-conspirators in the Gunpowder Plot were sentenced to be “put to death halfway between heaven and earth as unworthy of both” by the royal executioner.
He’d died on a purpose-built scaffold in the Old Palace Yard at Westminster, England, last of the four condemned plotters to meet his end there, in front of king and countrymen and church officials. Fawkes had watched from the wicker litter to which he was strapped as his cohorts’ genitals were cut off and burnt before their eyes. Their bowels and hearts were removed before they were decapitated, and the dismembered parts of their bodies displayed so that they might become “prey for the fowls of the air.”
Then it was his turn. Before jeering crowds, the guards cut him loose from the wickerwork frame to which Fawkes was strapped at the base of the gallows. The executioners had to hold him upright, so badly broken and battered was his body. Before being tortured, he had been tall and strong. His coarse reddish-brown hair and beard with long, drooping moustache were matted with grime.
King James I looked down at the execution yard from his balcony in Westminster Abbey and shouted: “Fawkes, how could you conspire so hideous a treason against my children, and so many innocent souls who have never offended you?”
By then, the world around him was growing dim, yet Fawkes somehow managed to reply: “A dangerous disease required a desperate remedy.”
The king declared, “You have plotted to blow up The Palace of Westminster, Westminster Hall, and Westminster Abbey, myself, my family, and all the members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons. Yet you portray yourself as an instrument of God’s Will? God has seen through your treasonous gunpowder plot, Guy Fawkes.”
Death would be welcome, a refuge from the consuming pain of his torture. Fawkes looked up at the monarch and said, “The Devil, not God was the discoverer of our plot. I repent of and regret only that I did not succeed in blowing you all back to Scotland or to hell!”
Somehow they got him up the gallows ladder. King James I, purple with rage, decreed: “Let this traitor be hanged by the neck from the gallows, suspended between heaven and earth, for he is unworthy of both. Then, he shall be taken down alive, and his private parts cut off and burned before his eyes as he is unworthy of begetting any generation after him. His belly shall be sliced open, and his bowels and all inner parts removed and burned. He shall be quartered and beheaded, and all the pieces are to be displayed as a testament to the fate of treasonous fools. Let his remains be food for the carrion birds.”
The hangman looped the noose around Guy Fawkes’s head as he ascended the gallows l
adder. His legs wobbled and his shoulders throbbed with aching pain from the torture of the rack two months earlier by the Royal Interrogators, and from his being dragged through the streets. Before the executioner could pull the rope taut, Fawkes found one more shard of rebellious strength: he leaped from the gallows scaffold. The rope went taut.
A sharp pain lanced through him. His neck snapped but he didn’t hear it.
Fawkes was falling. Forever. Plummeting through space. Neither rope nor earth existed.
“Aaaaaiiiiiiiiiaaaaaahhhhhh!” Fawkes thought he screamed as he hurtled even faster downward, endlessly falling through nothingness and darkness for what seemed an eternity.
Then he landed with a loud ‘thump’ on a hard stone floor in a dark chamber, lit only by fiery torches flickering from wall sconces. A sulfurous stench rode air as hot and dry as central Spain in summertime. Before him sat a huge stone dais and, behind it, a torchlit figure gleamed, bat-like wings spread wide and black from the middle of his back. He was both beautiful and terrible to behold: proud face, massive form, manlike but distorted. A creature like a large house cat with bat-wings that mimicked his own and a bat’s head perched upon his shoulder, gnawing absent-mindedly on his collarbone.
“Welcome to hell, Guy Fawkes,” the winged being said with a voice like the thunder of stones in a landslide. “I am Satan. You may have heard of me: Prince of Darkness, as your countrymen say. Enjoy your stay in my domain. You’ve earned it.”
“Hell? Satan? Mary Mother of Jesus!” exclaimed Fawkes as his bowels let loose in terror.
The Devil frowned. The bat-winged thing on his shoulder hissed and its spittle steamed when it hit the ground. “Too late to call upon those Above. Choose your words carefully, Fawkes.”
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