by Colin Gigl
Alice Spiegel Alice Spiegel Alice Spiegel Alice Spiegel . . .
In his head, her name echoed endlessly. Before his eyes—open or closed—it floated, always in view. His lips reminded him what hers had felt like. Her laugh played in his ears.
They’d formed a connection, the two of them. Charlie saw something tremendously admirable in the way that, at her lowest moment, when she was wagering that whatever existed beyond the mortal world was better than anything life could offer her on earth, she took a chance on him. And in that fleeting chance, Charlie had found somebody with whom he felt so comfortable, so at ease, that frankly he didn’t know what to make of it. There was only one person in the world who’d captured his attention so thoroughly, and he’d married her. The fact that Elizabeth and Alice seemed to share so many quirks wasn’t lost on the Ferryman.
When Charlie and Alice had exited the passageway underneath the Lincoln Tunnel, he had a profound realization: the answer he’d given her about why he’d saved her was wrong. Maybe initially it was right—it was tough to think clearly walking in that cramped tunnel—but since then, his answer had grown up. Matured. Or, perhaps, come to embody something closer to the truth that Charlie hadn’t been able to see.
What he really wanted for her now was to live. For her to fulfill the potential he saw in her. He wanted her to be happy, to have a chance to look back on her life and laugh at the impossibly low lows of it. And frankly, he wanted to be a part of that. He wanted to learn more about her. Laugh some more at lousy jokes. Just be together. She would have called that cheesy and corny, probably rubbed it in his face mercilessly, but right then and there he would have given anything in the world for that, no questions asked.
But that chance was gone now, shot and killed as it were by a bullet he’d fired.
A loud clank echoed through the room. Blades of light began streaming in, temporarily blinding Charlie.
“Rise and shine, Mssr. Dawson.”
Indistinct shapes picked him up roughly by the arms and carried him out of his cell. Charlie didn’t feel much like walking, so he let them drag him along.
“I have to ask, Mssr. Dawson,” came Javrouche’s voice from behind him, “was your taste of Purgatory that awful, or is there something else weighing on your mind? Something to do with killing that girl you were trying so desperately to protect, perhaps?” The Inspector’s rhythmic footsteps were unmistakable as he marched at the rear of their group.
“Fuck off,” Charlie muttered, mostly to himself.
“Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you.” Javrouche moved in front and stuck his ear in Charlie’s face.
Charlie stared at the ear in front of him, then lunged forward and chomped down, ripping his head sideways. He felt the mangled piece of flesh in his mouth, and quickly spit it out.
“I said, Fuck off. Did you hear that?” Charlie said flatly.
Javrouche responded by punching him in the face. Not that it mattered—Charlie didn’t feel it and the nub that was Javrouche’s left ear was already beginning to re-form. Still, he’d goaded Javrouche into losing his cool and that was a small moral victory. The Inspector strode off down the hall, the two guards dragging Charlie along as they followed.
After several minutes of lugging Charlie around like a sack of potatoes, the group arrived at a large set of oaken double doors. The glossy brown sheen from the finely paneled exterior radiated in the obnoxiously blank hallway they’d just meandered through.
Javrouche stood in front of the doors, his hands resting eagerly on each of the handles. His anger had apparently already worn off. “Shall we?” he asked over his shoulder, eyes glittering with excitement.
The doors swung open as Javrouche pushed, and Charlie was pulled into the light of the Ferryman Institute’s High Court.
The room itself wasn’t overly large, though it was well lit and very formal. The entrance stood directly opposite the Judicator’s bench at the opposite end of the room. From what Charlie understood, individuals uninvolved in the case weren’t permitted to attend the hearing, so there was little need for a big space. A few long wooden benches lined each side of the room, separated down the middle by a main aisle inlaid with polished marble. A small stand sat in front of the Judicator, where the accused stood for the duration of the trial. Two antique oaken tables were placed to each side of the stand for a prosecutor and defense counsel, respectively.
Behind the Judicator’s bench sat a middle-aged man dressed in a long, flowing black robe. A hood adorned the back but was presently laid down. His hair was a light, hazy brown, shot through with streaks of gray near his ears. An ornate gold placard situated in front of him read, The Honorable Judicator Joshua A. Dales.
Javrouche took a position behind the leftmost table, whereas Charlie was deposited behind the stand in the middle of the floor. With that complete, the two guards who’d carried him in claimed spots below Judicator Dales and snapped to with military precision.
The Judicator took a quick survey of the room, his eyes lingering on Charlie with a hint of curiosity, before he rang a delicate handbell with his right hand. It was a tradition, no doubt, but Charlie found it pretentious and annoying. Then again, he probably wasn’t going to like much of anything that happened in the immediate future.
“I believe it is time we bring this session to order,” the Judicator said with an earnest casualness that Charlie found curious in his own right. “Inspector Javrouche. Please recite the charges that are being brought against the accused today.”
“If it may please the Judicator.” The Inspector rose from his seat, stealing a glance at Charlie as he did. “Before the honor of the Ferryman Institute, I present today Charles Ronald Dawson. I hereby formally charge the accused, henceforth the defendant, with the following crimes: One. The deliberate removal of a Ferryman Key during the course of an assignment. Two. Failure to comply with the Ferryman Institute’s law stating that no information relevant to the Institute or Institute affairs shall be revealed to non-Institute personnel. Three . . .”
Charlie’s mind wandered as Javrouche continued to list the litany of charges. It didn’t matter what they were, as Charlie already knew what the Inspector was angling for: Purgatory, and a long time in it. He was sure that Javrouche had deliberately stuck him in that cell before the trial just to tease Charlie with a little taste. To Javrouche, Charlie was a threat to the Institute, a rogue agent desperately in need of permanent confinement.
Maybe the Inspector was right.
In a way, Charlie hoped Purgatory was on Javrouche’s mind—it was the only fitting outcome for his failure. He could picture it in his head already. The absence of light in the cell would create the perfect canvas for Charlie’s mind to replay him shooting Alice, over, and over, and over again.
“. . . finally, one count of resisting arrest. These are the charges we bring against the defendant today.”
Dales fingered the inside of one his robe’s sleeves. “That is quite the list, Inspector. Given the charges you have brought before me, what sentence do you, in representation of the Institute that you are contracted to serve, seek today?”
Charlie placed a mental bet on Purgatory for two hundred fifty years, with first check—the first time anyone was allowed to open up his cell and see how much of his brain had leaked out his ears—at twenty-five years.
“If it may please the Judicator,” Javrouche began, “Mr. Dawson is a terrorist and traitor to the Institute. The prosecution has concrete evidence for nearly all its charges and aims to prove the rest beyond a reasonable doubt. Given the serious nature of these accusations, we, the Ferryman Institute, are seeking maximum punishment. I am asking of this court a sentence of five hundred years in Purgatory, with first check being set at fifty years.”
Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. Leave it to Javrouche to double the numbers, the crazy bastard. Even so, it didn’t change the plan Charlie had concocted in his cell.
However, apparently his sudden reaction had not g
one unnoticed. Judicator Dales nonchalantly turned his attention to the stand.
“Mr. Dawson?” he asked politely.
Charlie looked up. “Mmm?”
“Are you aware, Mr. Dawson, that some dreadfully serious accusations are being leveled against you right now?”
“Fully aware, Your Honor.”
The Judicator’s expression turned stern. “Are the proceedings too boring for your liking, then?”
“No, Your Honor, and I apologize for giving that impression,” Charlie said calmly. “I’m just waiting for the part where you ask me if I’m guilty or not so I can save everyone here some time and trouble.”
The Judicator straightened in his seat. The words out of Charlie’s mouth, on their own, seemed flippant and rebellious, but Charlie could hear the deep sense of earnestness in his own voice just as well as anyone else in the room. Maybe that was what made him such a damned good Ferryman—he spoke, and people believed. He wished he’d figured that out earlier, instead of moments before he was locked away for half a millennia.
“Well,” the Judicator began carefully, “given that you are aware of the charges being brought against you, I suppose we can move things along.” He cleared his throat. “In front of this noble office, with your honor foremost in your mind, do you, Charles Ronald Dawson, Ferryman Number 72514, confirm or deny the charges brought against you today?”
Javrouche gathered a report in front of him, the quiet ruffling of his papers the only noise in the room. Charlie noticed that the Inspector’s body was tense, already preparing to stand in objection. Charlie almost smiled. If only Javrouche knew. He dragged the silence out, waited ’til it was pregnant, then straining, then practically bursting. When he knew Dales was a second away from repeating the question, he spoke.
“I confirm them,” he said loudly. “All of them. I am guilty on all charges, wholly and completely.”
If the hush that had prevailed before Charlie’s reply was born out of tension, the resulting one was born from utter disbelief. Javrouche was frozen, half standing, his body hovering in the air above his seat, objecting to a statement that never arrived.
Judicator Dales seemed just as surprised. “You’re . . . guilty?” he said, more question than affirmation.
“Yes.” Charlie answered clearly, without hesitation.
“You don’t want to refute any of the charges brought against you?”
“No.”
Dales momentarily leaned back in his seat. “None of them?”
“None of them, sir.” As Charlie spoke, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Javrouche slowly lowered himself back into his seat.
A thoughtful frown worked its way across the Judicator’s face. “Inspector,” he began slowly, “am I correct in saying that no plea bargain was reached prior to the beginning of this session?”
Being spoken to seemed to revive Javrouche. He, too, cleared his throat. “You are correct, Sir Judicator. The Office of Ferryman Affairs refused to entertain bargains of any kind based on the strength of its case.”
Dales’s gaze slowly walked back across the room to Charlie. He was tempted to start cackling like a lunatic, but the last thing he wanted was to have the Judicator stop taking him seriously. Appearing to be in a completely lucid and rational state was all very important to the plan.
“Mr. Dawson,” the Judicator began. He leaned forward, both of his forearms resting on the oaken surface in front of him. “Forgive me for saying this, but never has there been a Ferryman who’s stood before me, or any other Judicator for that matter, and willingly taken such an extreme punishment without so much as a hint of a defense. The punishment you’ve just accepted is unprecedented. It makes me wonder if there’s something here I’m just not seeing. Now, I am well aware of your Ferryman record and would like to think the high esteem your colleagues hold you in isn’t completely unwarranted. With that said, surely at the very least you can explain everything that’s happened in your own words?”
Almost as soon as the last words were out of Judicator Dales’s mouth, Javrouche was standing to argue. “Judicator, I object completely. You cannot show any favor to the accused. If the defendant—”
But Charlie had decided well before he’d entered the room that if these were to be his last actions as a Ferryman, then it would be his show, not Javrouche’s.
“No,” Charlie said with such authority that his voice easily rose over Javrouche’s, interrupting the Inspector’s protests, “I refuse.”
If anything, Charlie was pleased to note that his actions—which he’d designed to be as shocking as possible—were having their intended effect. Both the Judicator and Inspector looked taken aback.
What caught Charlie by surprise, however, was how quickly Dales recomposed himself. “I must admit, Mr. Dawson,” he finally said, “you’ve put me in quite the predicament. While the evidence certainly has its merits, I feel as if there are explanations here that you’re not providing. In that sense, I believe the charges to be grossly inappropriate and yet you’ve already accepted them. Why?”
This, however, Charlie had not accounted for. Dales was proving to be quite obstinate about judging him guilty and just being done with it. “Why what?” Charlie asked.
“Why are you accepting the charges?”
Javrouche tried to interrupt again—“Judicator, Your Honor”—but once again, Charlie’s voice trumped the Inspector’s.
“Because I killed an innocent woman today,” he said, firm and loud. He hadn’t necessarily thought that response through, but he felt the need to dictate the course of proceedings.
The small collection of people in the room once again fell into silence. Even one of the stone-faced guards raised an eyebrow at Charlie’s reply. Both Javrouche and the Judicator stared at him. They exchanged a glance, which spurred Dales into checking the documents in front of him.
“Mr. Dawson, nowhere in this report does it mention you killing anyone . . .”
A stark vision of Alice bringing her hand away from her chest appeared before Charlie’s eyes, and that, it seemed, was enough. His carefully constructed plan dissolved into nothing and his demeanor with it. Before he could even consider what he was doing, the words were pouring out. “Allow me to enlighten you then, Josh. Can I call you Josh? Great. Let me set the stage for you. For once during this godforsaken job, I was given a choice. At this point, I don’t even know if it was real or if somebody was just fucking with me—who the hell knows—but I believe I was given a choice. It read, Be a Ferryman or save the girl. I chose to save the girl, and given that choice to make a million times, I would make the same one every time.
“This particular girl’s name was Alice Spiegel. According to the assignment sheet I was provided, she was about to commit suicide. She didn’t. You know just as well as I do that shit like that doesn’t happen. Now, you could make a good case that she didn’t because of me, and I wouldn’t argue with you. That’s not the catch, though. The catch is what happened after I left, because even after I disappeared from her life, she still didn’t kill herself. That would have been the opportune moment, right? No one around, box full of bullets, handgun ready for round two. Simple, easy as you like. But she didn’t. Then I eventually made a second contact with her—a point I’m sure the Inspector has exhaustively elaborated on in his riveting report sitting in front of you—and she decided to take a chance on something that must have seemed so ridiculous that anybody else would’ve pissed themselves laughing. Being chased by immortal people who guide you to the afterlife? What normal human being would honestly believe that?
“She did. She took that chance because it meant that maybe she was wrong, that maybe her life wasn’t predetermined bullshit that meant nothing, and maybe, just maybe, there still existed this unfound capacity for something new, something unbelievable. ’Cause that’s what she needed. She didn’t ignore the new evidence in front of her—she embraced it.
“And what did that get her? A gunshot to the chest from yours
truly. All the feelings I’d had pent up, and I just lost it. She grabbed me, and before I knew it, I’d squeezed the trigger, and . . . I am no hypocrite, Judicator. I can’t look at another soul again and talk to them about moving on to a better life. I can’t. I’m done.”
Dales didn’t reply initially. He hesitated, clearly running Charlie’s words against some unknown compendium he had stored in his brain. “We . . . do have counseling for this sort of thing, Mr. Dawson. It would be easy to get you help.”
“I promise you I will do something illegal the first chance I get, and we’ll just be here again under worse circumstances. I will make it heinous, too, so that these words will rest on your conscience. Like I said, I’m done, Josh. It’s over. I am responsible for the death of an innocent girl whose biggest mistake was rising above the biggest mistake she never made.”
Charlie would have loved a seat right then and there, just to have something to drop into, but unfortunately he had to settle for standing where he was. Strange, he thought, that he and Javrouche would be rooting for the same outcome now. They wouldn’t need to strain themselves rooting too hard, however—Charlie knew he’d won. He’d tied Dales’s hands so tight there’d be nothing he could do. The evidence would have to be treated as incontrovertible and therefore carry with it at least two hundred and fifty years in Purgatory, which was Charlie’s original estimate.
There was nothing left but the sentencing.
The Honorable Judicator Joshua Dales looked down at Charlie, hands folded in front of his face. Behind his eyes, pity shifted in tiny grains, stuck falling to the bottom of the hourglass. “Very well, Mr. Dawson—you have your five hundred years of Purgatory. However, I’m setting the first check at one year.” Javrouche began to object, but Dales quickly hushed him. “I follow the letter of the law, Inspector, but something about this case doesn’t strike me as quite right.” He rang the delicate handbell that signaled the end of the session. “I only pray that one year is kind to you, Mr. Dawson.”