Molon Labe!

by Boston T. Party

  Judge Fleming turns to the jurors.

  Juliette leans over and whispers to her assistant, "Here it comes."

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your duty is solely to determine the guilt or innocence of the defendant based on the evidence. You do not have the right to consider the fairness of the law found in Title 18 of the US Code. Laws can be repealed only by the legislative branch of government, which is Congress. If you find beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant indeed violated the federal statute in question, then you have a duty to convict — regardless of any and all other considerations which are irrelevant to your sworn duty. If, however, you have a reasonable doubt that the defendant is not guilty as charged, then you have a duty to acquit. Do you all understand the law as I've explained it to you?"

  The jurors nod.

  "About what I expected," whispers Juliette.

  "Fine," says Judge Fleming. "The bailiff will show you to your deliberation room." With that, the jury quietly files out.

  Sunlight is the best disinfectant.

  — Justice Louis Brandeis

  While the jury deliberates, Krempler and his team wait in his office. He cannot contain his excitement. "I have to tell you, Lorner, that video was a winner! I was really concerned about proving a significant reduction in flash signature, but damn! That footage will get Russell five years!"

  "Hey, counselor, the camera never lies," boasts Lorner.

  Something about the way he said it makes Krempler faintly uneasy for some unknown reason, but the feeling quickly passes. The case was solid, and not even Krassny's testimony or Juliette's powerful close could subvert the video. It was in the bag.

  "The muzzle brake cut down on the flash by at least half," says Dorothy Witherspoon. "That's 'significantly' without a doubt." Ms. Witherspoon, a doughy 61 years of age, had been an elementary schoolteacher her entire life. Being the eldest juror, she was just short of throwing a tantrum for not having been chosen jury foreman.

  Several jurors murmur their agreement. They had been deliberating for 50 minutes, and saw the chance to reach a Guilty verdict in time to return home for supper. The case really was clear cut.

  "Shall we now poll for a verdict?" asks foreman Robert Slater.

  "Not just yet," says the quiet man at the far end of the table. "Something about that video bothers me. I'd like to see it again." James Preston, a well-known rancher, is a self-described target shooter. He is the only shooter who made it past voir dire.

  Witherspoon exasperates, "Is that really necessary? One flash was bigger. It seemed obvious to all of us!"

  "Perhaps," manages Preston. "But it'll only take two minutes to watch it again. I really need to see it before I cast my verdict."

  "Very well," agrees Slater, glancing at Witherspoon.

  The bailiff rolls in the TV/VCR cart, and leaves the jury room to wait outside. Preston takes the remote and pushes "Play." Side by side the two muzzles fired. Clearly, the barrel with the muzzle brake had much less flash.

  "Well, now are you satisfied?" challenges Witherspoon.

  "Yes, I am satisfied," says Preston.

  "Good," says Witherspoon. "Maybe now we can — "

  Preston cuts her off. "I am satisfied that I now have irreconcilable reasonable doubt."

  "Whaaaaat?" bellows Witherspoon. The room is instantly abuzz with the other eleven jurors all demanding an explanation.

  "Not only do I believe Mr. Russell innocent, but I now believe him to have been the victim of criminal fraud. That video was rigged."

  "Rigged? Rigged how?" demands foreman Slater.

  Preston says calmly, "Let's watch it again. I'll show you."

  As the video began to play, Preston pauses it during the peak of muzzle flash. The 4-head VCR still frame is magazine photo sharp.

  "OK. On the left side is the bare barrel. Look at its flash plume."

  "Yes, it's about twice as large — we've already seen that," chirps one of the jurors who works in the county tax assessor's office.

  "I'm not talking about the size difference. Ignore that for a moment," replies Preston. "Look at the difference in color. The bare barreled flash is orange, but the muzzle braked flash is a bright yellow."

  "Orange, yellow, bright yellow — what difference does it make?" blurts Witherspoon.

  "It makes the difference between a guilty man and an innocent one. Those flashes are different colors because of different gunpowders. I handload for my target rifles, and I know how powders ignite differently. Gunpowder comes in three different shapes: ball, flake, and stick. Their muzzle plumes are all different. Also, if a handloader wanted to for some reason, he could load to create a huge muzzle flash, or nearly none at all."

  Robert Slater ponders this carefully. Several of the jurors now regard Preston with open respect. Ms. Witherspoon simply glares at him, her arms rigidly crossed.

  Finding his pace, Preston continues. "Handloaders experiment with many combinations of bullet, case, powder, and primer to discover the most efficient load for their rifle. Powders vary tremendously in burning speed. Some are extremely fast. Others are very slow. For example, ball and flake powders are usually faster burning than stick powders, which burn much more slowly to provide a longer pressure curve for heavier bullets."

  "Thank you 'Mr. Science,' but this isn't conclusive at all," sneers Witherspoon.

  "May I remind you that we do not have to 'conclude' that Mr. Russell is innocent — only that reasonable doubt exists. If a lab had examined the spent casings from the ATF's so-called 'comparison,' I'm convinced that different gunpowders would have been proven."

  "Do the different colors of flash really mean different powders?" asks Slater, now quite concerned.

  "Indeed. Those flash plumes are clouds of gunpowder still combusting past the muzzle. The slower the powder, the less is burned within the bore, and the larger the plume. The bare barrel ammo not only has a larger plume, its darker color of orange indicates far less combustion. That, and the streamers."

  "Streamers? What are streamers?" demands Witherspoon. "Streaming bits of unburnt powder. You see them in fireworks displays all the time. When they occur in firearms, the gunpowder burns too slowly for the barrel length. Look at the still frame. Only the bare flash has streamers. The braked flash doesn't."

  Most of the jurors subconsciously nod their heads in agreement. "Ladies and gentlemen, different powders were used to convey the false impression that the muzzle brake reduced the flash signature. I'm sure of it. And it could not have been done accidentally. This comparison test is a fraud designed to throw Mr. Russell in federal prison for five years. Once he got out, as a convicted felon he'd never be allowed to vote or own a gun or have a professional license. The Government doesn't seem to like this man, and after Mr. Russell was falsely arrested by the highway patrol the ATF framed him on a felony charge for something as harmless as hanging two ounces of metal on the end of his rifle barrel. With all the violent criminals on the loose, this is the kind of thing that should preoccupy law enforcement?"

  "What if you're wrong? What if it was a flash suppressor?" asks a woman, an office secretary heard for the first time.

  "Even if Mr. Russell had put a flash suppressor on his rifle, so what? Who here doesn't wear sunglasses to reduce daylight glare? If somebody wants to reduce the night flash of his rifle, that's his business. It's certainly not worth five years in the pen, much less framing somebody for it. This whole thing stinks and they want us to rubber stamp Mr. Russell as a felon. The wrong person was on trial here. It should have been ATF Agent Lorner. I'd bet that guy had something to do with this."

  Several stern, contemplative nods of approval answer his argument. Few jurors liked Agent Lorner.

  Joel Salazar, an accountant, says, "Let's not forget the testimony of the previous owner, Mr. Krassny. He installed an ATF-approved muzzle brake, and it's still on the rifle. That alone raises reasonable doubt in my mind."

  Foreman Slater is solemn. "OK folks, let's talk abo
ut this. What are your thoughts on what Mr. Preston has just said?"

  As the jurors file back into the courtroom, Krempler glances at his watch, smiles, and comments to his assistant, "An hour and ten minutes. Just about right."

  The mood at the defense table is not so confident.

  "Wow — that was pretty quick! Is that good?" asks Bill Russell.

  "I'm not sure. We'll see," answers Juliette. She also is nervous about the jurors' early return. Such usually betokened a conviction, however, she forces herself to remain calm as one could never predict a jury.

  After the jury is seated and the court is called to order, Fleming begins. "Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

  Robert Slater stands and replies, "We have, Your Honor."

  "Very well. Will the defendant please rise."

  Bill Russell and Juliette Kramer both stand. This moment was always the most exquisitely suspenseful for all present, especially for the defense. Nothing in life compared to those agonizing seconds as a defendant waited to hear the first consonant from the jury foreman's lips.

  Bill Russell's future depends on that consonant. An "n" and he is vindicated and free. A hard "g" and he is a convicted felon, forbidden to ever vote, hold a professional license, or own a gun.

  Focal points. They are the rudder of life. Russell had several such focal points and they flashed through his mind as the résumé of his existence. His hand-to-hand duel in a Vietnam jungle when his bayonet pierced the VC's chest barely in time. His nervous marriage proposal to Connie when he wasn't at all sure that she'd accept. At the emergency room holding his sobbing wife, waiting for the trauma surgeon to emerge with a pronouncement of life or death over their son Carl severely injured in a motorcycle accident.

  So far, Bill Russell's life had not ricochetted off any unexpected hard surfaces. His trajectory had sailed on, perforating all barriers. He survived Nam in one piece, Connie married him, and Carl not only lived but kept his damaged eye. In the courtroom Russell has time to appreciate this focal point arriving with such calenderal notice, unlike the others. He savors it, grateful for his life and family. Although death hangs not over him, a sort of amputation does. The State is poised to lop off five years of life and much of his freedom thereafter. And for what? A $20 tube of metal.

  An "n" or a "g." Thumb up or thumb down. It's come to this all because of a burnt-out 30¢ bulb.

  The tiny things. There's nothing bigger.

  Fleming's voice snaps Russell back to the present. "Mr. Foreman, will you read the verdict."

  Slater intones, "On the felony count of illegal possession of an assault weapon, we the jury, find the defendant . . . "

  Over three hundred eyes and ears are locked on Slater's lips.

  " . . . Not Guilty."

  The courtroom erupts with cheers and applause. Krempler sits in his chair, stunned. A grapefruit can be thrown in Lorner's open mouth. Bill Russell hugs Juliette as Judge Fleming bangs and bangs his gavel, but the sound is lost amidst the furor. It takes nearly a minute for the courtroom to quiet down.

  Foreman Slater continues, "Furthermore, this jury believes there is evidence of prosecutorial malfeasance in this case, and — "

  The uproar is instant and deafening. Fleming's gavel pounding is a mime routine.

  "— and recommends that the matter be reviewed by the Grand Jury," Slater manages to yell over the din.

  Judge Fleming shouts, "Case dismissed! Court adjourned!" and flees the bench, his black robe fluttering behind him like a wake.

  On the front steps of the Federal Building a large crowd gathers as the TV news crews jostle with questions for Bill Russell, Juliette Kramer, and most of the jurors, including James Preston. The afternoon rain had cleared out, leaving a bright and sunny day. It seemed fitting.

  In the US Attorney's office, Krempler and Lorner are watching the live coverage. As Preston explains to the press the two different gunpowders likely used to create different flash plumes, Krempler slowly turns to Lorner. The ATF had a long and sordid history for evidence tampering such as Waco, as well as abusive raids such as in 1995 when Agent Donna Slusser stomped the Lamplugh's family kitten to death.

  "What the fuck did you do, Lorner? Don't . . . tell . . . me . . . you — "

  "Hey, you wanted a significant reduction in flash, you got a significant reduction in flash!" taunts Lorner. "You're the one who let Preston get on that jury. A target shooter? A handloader? Real smart, Krempler. Hey, too bad he wasn't wearing an orange and brown tie!"

  "Do you know what you've done, genius? Michael Gartner at NBC News faked those pickup truck explosions and merely got canned. We're all looking at years in the federal pen!"

  "Oh, yeah? How so? I'm not admitting to shit and they won't find shit 'cuz all the spent brass got thrown in the recycling barrel, so just chill out. This'll all die down."

  "For the sake of your own ass, it'd better," retorts Krempler. "I didn't know a thing about this, Lorner, and I still don't. Jesus H. — what a nightmare! Just keep your mouth shut. And get the fuck out of my office!"

  "Sure thing, Counselor," sneers Lorner. As he leaves, he stops, slowly turns, and says, "Hey, you didn't even compliment me on my suit!"

  "Get out!" yells Jack Krempler. Asshole. He already knows what Agent Gordon Lorner would soon and forever more be called behind his back. Flash Gordon. Krempler lets out a mirthless chuckle.

  The crowd on the Federal Building steps has not abated and is growing more festive by the minute.

  Bill Russell invited Juliette Kramer and all the jurors over to his home for a backyard BBQ party on Saturday afternoon. Ms. Witherspoon stormed off, her wattles jiggling with every angry step. James Preston and Juliette Kramer manage to ease away from the crowd.

  "Mr. Preston, you saved my client from prison," says Juliette. "I'd hoped to get at least one serious gun owner on the panel, but who knew how important that would be! I can't thank you enough!"

  "Please, it's 'Jim.' I'm glad that I was there to help. When I reported for jury summons, I'd no idea of the adventure in store for me — for all of us. But there is one thing you could do for me."

  "Certainly, Jim. What is that?" asks Juliette.

  "Saving an innocent man from prison is hard work, and it's made for quite an appetite. Would you care to join me for dinner?"

  Juliette smiles and laughs. To Preston it sounds like bells. "I'd love to, but only if I'm buying. What are you in the mood for?"

  On a hunch, as a test, Preston replies, "Sushi. And I save it only for special occasions."

  "Oooh, it's my favorite too! There's a new place on Midwest Avenue. Let's go!" says Juliette, laughing in that way of hers.

  Yep, he thinks. Bells.

  It is only a few blocks away, and neither of them think to drive. Without thought and in step, they turn their backs on the Federal Building and cross the street together, Juliette taking his arm as ladies do — or used to.

  "I thought Fleming was about to go into cardiac arrest when he heard the verdict," Preston remarks. "He's probably up in his chambers now, chugging a bottle of bourbon!"

  Juliette chuckles. "Actually, Fleming's a vodkaholic. Finlandia, if you want to buy him some. Hey, you know what a judge is, don't you?"

  Grinning, Preston replies, "No, what?"

  "Just a grown man wearing a dress, banging on the furniture!"

  They giggle all the way to the sushi bar.

  Preston could remember their dinner only through a sweet, dreamy fog. Never had he felt so instantly and so totally entranced with a woman. She was expressive, but not gushy. Brilliant, but not haughty. Her beauty she wore simply, without motive. Loveliness seemed to well from some deep, inner spring.

  He had never met anyone like her. He was in very, very deep smit. Walking her back to her green GMC Tahoe, Preston gives her a hug and thanks her for dinner.

  She gets in, starts her truck, and rolls down the window. "Can I get you on my next jury? We may have to disguise you a bit. Fleming won't
want you back," she says, her eyes crinkling.

  "Neither would Krempler," he laughs.

  Just before he turns to leave he says, "Juliette, do you know who you remind me of?"

  "Hmmm. I've no idea. Who?"

  There's a fond wistfulness in his smile. "Nobody."

  Her face is a slow kaleidoscope of vulnerability, sweetness, and shyness. Her eyes well with tears, which she rapidly blinks back. He would never forget how she looked at him. His heart's first tattoo.

  She gets out, gives him a surprisingly strong hug and lightly kisses his cheek. Hummingbird wings. Her long wavy brunette hair is a soft bouquet, clean and fragrant. Her ivory neck he imagines a warm cradle for his face. He suddenly feels a champagne light-headedness. I'm actually tipsy from her.

  "Thank you," she says, softly. She slowly releases him and gets back into her truck. She still has That Look on her face. Driving away she smiles brilliantly and pantomimes Call me!

  He smiles, nods, waves, standing there watching her taillights vanish in the dark. He can still smell her perfume wafting in the crisp night air. His feet, never touching pavement, hovercraft him back to his Suburban.

  He does not recall the drive home.

  James Wayne Preston is a Wyomingite in every sense of the word, an independent outdoorsman and lover of horses. Politically conservative, he is best described as a "libertarian Republican." His grandfather had made his first fortune in cattle and his second in oil. James now co-managed the ranch and family business interests with his father, Benjamin Preston.

  A studious and disciplined only child, James was thin as a boy and didn't really begin to fill out until he was nearly eighteen. Adventuresome and nice looking with dark brown hair and eyes, he was nonetheless a bit shy with girls in high school. Not until his junior year did he have a girlfriend, but it was a tempestuous relationship which he ended badly. He got turned down for dates for weeks afterward. Although a solid personality shielded him from most peer pressure, seventeen is seventeen.

  His favorite grandmother had some advice which changed his life. Jimmy, a woman will walk over, around, or through any man better looking or more wealthy if you know how to dance. He knew it was true; Davis Bettencourt was no football star, but could he ever move a girl around on the dance floor. He was rarely without some lovely lass on his arm, including one formerly of the first-string quarterback.