by John Varley
I'll leave it to you to imagine how this argument played with the taxpayers.
A black day indeed.
And things were certainly not looking good for old Sparky. What could the little wirehead have in mind?
* * *
"All evidence currently under submission having been presented, the court will now hear arguments."
Which is where the real fun begins in JPT court.
"Your Honor, I would—"
"Everybody's calling me 'Your Honor.' Flattery will get you nowhere."
There was laughter from the audience.
"I'm simply following my client's lead," said Flynn, affably. "And why not? I was trained in respect for the court, and even if this one doesn't demand it, I do respect it, and showing respect hurts nothing. And I would not dream of attempting flattery." More laughter. "So, Your Honor, I will state at the outset that my client did in fact kill John Valentine, in the manner and on the date specified. And that he did so in self-defense."
"You could have saved the court twenty minutes of summation if you had said that up front," the lead prosecutor rasped, cuttingly. This was a truly hard, squinty-eyed woman with what looked like stainless-steel hair and brass mascara, a regular harpy. But possibly I'm prejudiced.
Her name was Roxy Hart, and she was, naturally, the chief prosecutor for King City and she had her eye on the mayor's chair. This was a perfect opportunity for her to get her face before the voters, though she must have thought long and hard about it. Putting murderers in jail is always politically popular, but little "Sparky" did have his defenders and die-hard fans. But my decision to go before the Judge had made it virtually no-lose for her. She hardly had to do any work. It had all been done for her by the police department seventy years ago, and it was so open-and-shut she could be seen as simply playing out the string. The criticism, if any, should fall upon the Judge. She would be walking a fine line, Billy told me, between being tough on crime and not being too ruthless with a popular figure.
"She'll bluster for a while," he said, "then she won't oppose a reduction in the charges. Manslaughter, something like that."
"The assertion that this killing was self-defense is ludicrous," she went on. "John Valentine was armed with a stage sword, a prop. There has been no evidence introduced that he was trying to kill Kenneth Valentine."
"That 'prop' had an edge sharp enough to shave with," Billy countered. "Both witnesses saw numerous wounds on my client. Whether John actually meant to kill my client is something we will never know, but it is clear that he meant to butcher him a bit. In this circumstance, it is reasonable for Kenneth to feel fear for his life, which is the test of self-defense."
"This was no more or less than a fencing lesson."
"A very bloody one, and a—"
"A fencing lesson like a dozen other lessons during that time. We can bring witnesses to testify that, on the stage today, wounds are not uncommon, indeed, are even expected while one learns the craft of fencing. The wounds sustained by the younger Valentine did not prevent him from fleeing the scene of the crime. Without medical attention of any kind, he went to the Texas disneyland, where he was attended by the resident doctor, who has stated that the wounds were not life-threatening."
"It's easy to determine that after the fact, not so easy to know when you're being used as a human pincushion."
"Oh, please! You're grandstanding for the polls."
Which, naturally, is what they both were doing.
It went on like that for a few minutes, each of them shouting over the other. The Judge let it go; the CC has no trouble following a dozen conversations at once.
You know who had benefited the most from the new system? Dramatists. For centuries playwrights have written scenes, entirely fantasy, of courtroom confrontations. People accept them because drama cannot take the time to be boring, and that is exactly what court is. Boring. Many people never realize this until they get into court themselves, and see how staggeringly slow the proceedings can be.
Because the Judge does not care about decorum and allows almost limitless latitude in what can be said, things can get very hot indeed in the argument phase of a JPT trial. Shouting matches are the standard, and fistfights are common.
But why allow all this horseplay at all? The Judge is not going to be swayed by emotion, is it?
Only in one sense, and that is in the polls Prosecutor Hart mentioned. The polls: the reason people called the JPT system the Court of Common Sense. The last stand of the jury system. The only part of the new regime that lawyers actually like, because it is the only part that lets them appeal to emotion.
Before a trial, and most especially during the trial, the Judge had its fingers on the public pulse. Since the CC was in constant contact with virtually every citizen of Luna (with a few exceptions, like the Outer Amish, my father, and me), this process wasn't intrusive. The average citizen had dozens of transactions with the CC every day. During one of them, the Judge might ask, "Suppose a man steals a loaf of bread..." or whatever might be at issue in the case. The citizen would listen, ask questions, then deliver an opinion on the matter. Was it fair? Did the proposed penalty conform with the intent of the lawmakers, and not just the letter of the law? Would following the letter of the law result in an injustice, or unwarranted leniency? Was the crime in fact worse than the lawmakers had envisioned when setting the penalties?
The answers were added into the complicated equation, constantly being revised, that determined the verdict, or in the case of the JPT, the "number." This equation was the "protocol" part of the JPT. In fifteen years the algorithms of justice had become supremely refined. They were approaching, though might never reach, that lovely word "fair." As in fair play. No concept of fairness would ever satisfy everyone, but if you satisfied most of the people most of the time, you were doing a lot better than the old system ever had.
In my own case, no hypothetical questions were necessary. The Judge simply asked, "What do you think of the Sparky case?" and the average citizen already knew about it. Thus a few thousand randomly chosen citizens were made to function as an unselected panel. They had put in their "jury duty," an onerous burden under the old system. It had wasted ten minutes of their time, a waste which the great majority enjoyed. And the final verdict for or against me would contain an element of trial by my peers.
So this is what Billy and Roxy were engaged in. A fight to influence public opinion. They typically weren't given much time to do it, so the fight was fast and furious.
I couldn't begin to report all that was said in the next twenty minutes; at times all twelve lawyers were shouting at once. And frankly, if the Judge had asked me to vote on the issue based on the behavior of the attorneys for both sides, I would have voted to disbar them all. It's hard to believe they swayed the opinion of anyone in the vast viewing audience.
But they put on a hell of a show. If you'd like to see it, videos are available at a reasonable price. Hell, buy two. I get a three percent royalty. If you aren't from Luna I'd recommend you buy one and take a look; this is likely to be in your future. You'd better get used to it.
"I think we've had enough of that," the Judge said, finally. "Mr. Flynn, would you like to call any witnesses?"
"Yes, I'd like to have Rose Wilkinson tell what she saw."
"On the day of the murder?" Hart asked.
"On that certain day, seventy years ago," Flynn said, unperturbed.
Rose was called to the table. She took a seat halfway between the opposing sides, which I'm sure Gideon Peppy would have found significant. I didn't recognize her, but that wasn't surprising. Most people change their appearance a bit every decade or so; usually nothing radical, but enough that if you aren't in contact for a long time it can add up to a new person.
"Ms. Wilkinson," said the Judge, "you have stated that you were employed as the assistant stage manager for a production of Romeo and Juliet seventy years ago."
"That's right. By Mr. Valentine. That is, by Mr. Jo
hn—"
"Why don't you call them John and Kenneth?" the Judge suggested.
"Okay."
"Will you tell us what you saw, what you remember?"
"Yes. I was backstage with a reporter, Hildy Johnson. I don't remember what we were talking about. Probably John Valentine, because I hated him more than I've ever hated anyone before or since." I glanced at Roxy Hart, who was frowning. She wanted to leap to her feet and object, but she couldn't. The Judge was in control here, and presumed able to ignore prejudicial statements. "We heard a shot. Well, a loud noise that I later learned was a shot. We went out on the stage to investigate, and I saw Sparky... I'm sorry, Kenneth, standing there with a gun in his hand. And Mister... John was lying on his back. I remember smelling smoke, gun smoke I guess it was."
She went through her story fairly concisely. When she began to stray, the Judge gently prodded her back on track.
"It was the most horrible thing I ever saw," she said, tearing up a little even at this late date. I didn't feel so great myself. "Poor Sparky standing there... I don't think he knew what happened. He couldn't have been in his right mind... but that awful, awful man! Sparky could never say no to him. He humiliated his son in front of the entire cast, treated him like a servant or a naughty child... and I'm glad he's dead."
There was a hush in the courtroom when she finished. I discovered my fingernails were biting into my palms. I made an effort to relax; all of Luna was watching.
"I want to point out," Hart said, "that the question of Kenneth Valentine's sanity is not at issue here."
"Noted," said the Judge. "Are there more witnesses?"
"I'd like to call Hildy Johnson," Billy said.
Hildy was called. Hildy was called again. And yet a third time.
What have I done? I asked myself. And I answered, I've put my fate into the hands of a reporter.
"I'm issuing a subpoena for the appearance of Hildy Johnson," the Judge said. "In the meantime her statement is on the record and you have all read it. Her testimony will be taken at a later date, and if anything of relevance is developed an amended verdict will be issued. Now, is there any member of the public who has any pertinent facts bearing on this case? And let me remind you, I am the sole judge of relevancy, and anyone attempting to use this court as a forum for unrelated statements will be dealt with severely, as provided by law. This court is not a soapbox, nor a venue for the disaffected."
This was known as the "grandstanding law," and was passed when it became clear that this final phase of the JPT was easy meat for abuse by anyone with an ax to grind. People were standing up and delivering diatribes against this or that law, airing pet peeves, generally being pests. Now, if anyone had any new facts—and no one ever did—was the time to present them. Otherwise, statements as to my sterling character or lack of it might or might not be allowed, but precious little else.
The courtroom door burst open and in rushed Hildy Johnson, waving sheets of paper.
"I do, Your Honor!" she shouted.
* * *
The Judge took it in stride. The audience was a little more demonstrative, but quickly settled down as Hildy walked down the aisle and found a seat just to the left of Billy Flynn.
"May it please the court—" she began.
"You've got the wrong court," said the Judge. "I'm neither pleased nor displeased by anything. Let's dispense with all the formality. What do you have to show me?"
"I just found something interesting," she began again.
"Just a moment. Hildy, are you employed by a news-gathering organization?"
"Uh, I used to be, Judge. Currently I'm on extended sabbatical, but I send in stories when I find them."
"For competitive bidding, I assume."
"That's where the money is, Judge."
"Can I further assume that your recent dramatic entrance into the courtroom will enhance the value of any story to come out of this trial?"
"Couldn't hurt," Hildy conceded. There was laughter from the audience.
"Why do I get the feeling," the Judge said, "that I'm being sandbagged?"
"Well, Your—Judge, nobody said I couldn't make the news as well as report it."
"Go ahead, then. What is your startling new evidence?"
"I'm not sure it's in the nature of evidence at all, Judge. But I think I've uncovered an interesting avenue of exploration. If you could put these pictures up on the big screen..."
They were projected, and I felt a stab in my heart. It was four pictures of my father. Publicity stills, smiling, his best profile showing. Pictures I hadn't seen in many years.
There were some gasps, and a building buzz of whispered conversation. I didn't know what was going on.
"I was just looking at these today," Hildy went on. "As you know, I haven't seen Sparky... er, Kenneth in many years. The last time I saw him he was twenty-nine, but still in the body of a teenager. When he was arrested two days ago he had the appearance of an old man, King Lear. I don't imagine that in the seventy years of his exile he has worn what we might call 'his own' face many times, if at all."
"Never, Your Honor," I confirmed.
"I suspected that," Hildy said. "He was unlikely to be recognized as Sparky; Sparky never grew beyond eight years old. But the psychology of the fugitive, if nothing else, made me think he would shun his natural appearance. Until today."
"Yes, I see what you mean," said the Judge. He might have, but I still didn't. I had been commanded by the court to abandon all artifices for my appearance in the court, true enough. When I did that, I saw a face in the mirror that very closely resembled my father.
"The picture in the upper right," said Hildy, "is not John Valentine, but his son, Kenneth, taken off the video feed from this courtroom not ten minutes ago."
I looked at it dubiously. I had to take her word for it. I couldn't have picked it out among the four, except that I now noticed that "John Valentine" was wearing clothes identical to what I was wearing.
"There's a very strong family resemblance," the Judge agreed.
"I think it's more than that, Judge. A lot more. I think this man, Kenneth Valentine, is John Valentine."
This would have been the point, in an ordinary drama, for the judge to bang on his gavel and shout for "order in the court!" The Judge simply let the outburst of shock from the audience play itself out. Toby lifted his head, wondering if it was time for him to go on. Then he went back to sleep. The next thing we all could hear was Hildy raising her voice.
"Judge, I'd like to request that you compare the DNA pattern of the late John Valentine with that of his son."
There was no need to order samples taken or tests made. Everything was already present in the CC's memory. After a pause of a few seconds the Judge spoke again.
"They are identical, as I suspect you knew they would be."
"Not until a short while ago," Hildy said. She didn't mention a specific time interval, and I wondered if anyone else would notice that. But whatever she was up to, I knew she was too careful to break any laws. "But I did recently speak with someone who confirmed my suspicion. He's here in this courtroom today, and he has something to tell you. Mr. Edwin Booth Valentine."
Uncle Ed? Here in the courtroom? Surely I'd have seen the forklift needed to move him about.
But instead of a human mountain, it was only a foothill that rose from two seats in the audience (and that must have cost Hildy a pretty penny). Uncle Ed was a shadow of his former self; I doubt he was much over five hundred pounds. He lumbered carefully down the aisle and once more there was a growing murmur, this time one of recognition. I heard whispers: "Ed Ventura. That's Ed Ventura." To which many of the younger observers must have been replying, "Ed who?"
Ah, but they'd know soon. This was building into a circus of monumental proportions. An ancient patricide, involving Luna's most beloved moppet. Seventy years on the run. Dramatic backstage arrest. Luna's best criminal-defense attorney versus King City's brightest rising political star. Last-minute genet
ic revelations I still hadn't grasped. And now, it wouldn't be a circus without an elephant! A famous face from the Old Stars' Burial Ground, grown to enormous size (and if only they knew; but they would, they would, when the reporters started digging).
It had Hildy Johnson's fingerprints all over it.
Even the new Uncle Ed, a shadow of his former self, would not fit into any of the chairs around the table. This didn't seem to bother him. He just stood near the railing, waiting. If he was in any way upset at this public revelation of his love affair with corpulence he never showed it.
"John Valentine was my brother," he said, in his commanding baritone. "We were not... close. There were many disagreements over the years, primarily centering around my career, which he viewed as selling out the craft of acting. He wasn't above accepting a 'loan' from time to time, though. I knew I'd never see any of it again, but I was making lots of money and... well, that has nothing to do with this case.
"I had not seen him for several years when he appeared at my door one day with an infant child. A boy. He had no very convincing story as to the origins of this child, but I had my fears. You see, we had a sister, Sarah. Sarah was not... very bright, I'm afraid. And not very worldly. In fact, she was quite unstable. Our father was a demanding perfectionist, and could be quite a brutal man. It scarred all three of us, but Sarah was the least equipped to survive it. She was left emotionally crippled, unable to function very well in the world. But she had her older brother, John, who protected her from what he could. John became her emotional anchor, her very reason for living.
"Not to put too fine a point to it, they were lovers."
He paused, and wiped at his eyes. I began to get an idea of what this was costing him. What it might cost me I'd have to wait to find out. I was feeling rather numb, to tell the truth.