November 22nd, 2011

“The Counsel rests its case.”

Again, there was clapping. After fourteen days in court, after seven witnesses, Guthrie’s conviction seemed a foregone conclusion. The jury seemed uncannily willing to accept the fact that all of the People’s evidence was circumstantial. No one had actually seen Gerald Guthrie shoot the two cops, but all the physical evidence pointed in that direction. This wasn’t the first murder case that Erik had prosecuted, but so far it had been the simplest. But, that’ll all change when the Defence begins it case.

“The Defence would like to call Dr. Wilfred Manson to the stand.” The defence lawyer’s polished suit glistened against the golden light of the courthouse as he hoisted his less than lean form from his chair.

Dr. Manson swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him Czerno. Witnesses no longer swore on a bibles, since the Anti-Religion Resolution passed by the Advisory Council in 2003. After that witnesses had been asked to swear on the next holiest thing, an abbreviated version of the Constitution of the Revolutionary Republic of America. Dr. Manson continued to state his name, address, and occupation to the court. Then the defence counsel’s heavy feet thudded against the oaken floorboards of the courtroom as he approached the witness box.

“Dr. Manson, you gave my client a psychological examination.”

“Um, uh,” Manson cleared his throat for a moment and his entire body shook with violent coughs. He was a young man, though his red beard provided evidence to the contrary. It was common for men in his profession to grow beards so that they looked older than they really were, in the hopes their more esteemed colleagues would perhaps take them seriously. Rarely did it work. “Yes, I did. When he was first admitted into the county prison I was asked by the State Domestic Council to give a preliminary psycho-analysis, and I have been having regular sessions with the accused ever since.”

“Have you, in your sessions created an accurate picture as to my client’s psyche?”

“Uh, yes,” Manson took off his huge window-like glasses and dusted them. “It is my belief that the accused in this case is suffering from a new mental disease known to its discoverer’s as: PTSD.”

“Would you care to elaborate.”

“Indeed,” he replaced the glasses. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is often found in victims of extreme trauma and hardship. These are people who are permanently scarred by violence, destruction, and heightened periods of emotional stress.”

“Has Mr. Guthrie had any experiences that would explain why he suffers from symptoms of this disease?”

“Yes. He referred to me in one of our sessions that he served as a corporal during the Second Civil War.”

“Really,” the judge perked right up when he heard. Most people that were had obtained a high position in the Post-Revolution America were veterans of the war and Judge Gregory Forepost was no different. He was always looking for another “war-buddy” as he called them. And since the new legal system allowed judges to ask questions, he had the power to find out. “In which unit did he serve?”

“Your honour, I hardly believe that is relevant to the case-.”

“I'm afraid I must insist, Franski. Without that information it would be nearly impossible for my clerk to clarify the recruitment papers of your client, and thus would render all evidence provided by Dr. Manson immaterial.”

Franski, the defence attorney, lost his arrogant candour instantly. Now his reproachful and scowling form seemed to be weighing his options. It was obvious that Guthrie's military record was somehow tarnished, and although the judge could easily strike prejudiced evidence from the official records, he couldn't take it out of a juror's mind. Regardless, he finally came to a decision. One he'd regret for a very long time.

“Dr. Manson, in which unit did my client inform you he served?”

Manson didn't seem to have the slightest idea of the impact of his words and replied without hesitation after a brief glimpse from his notes. “The Fifty-Fourth Conservative Cavaliers.”

The tension in the room was palpable. The air was suddenly impossible to breath. Hundreds of angry eyes suddenly began boring into the back of the accused heads. Every mind of every man and women in that room was united in one emotion. Hate.

The judge's facial muscles twitched. He seemed on the verge of sickness.

“Your honour,” pleaded Franski. “I wish to submit a motion to repeal the last question from the official record.”

“Indeed, yes, yes,” Forepost replied, though he was no longer looking at Franski. He was entirely engulfed in his animosity to man sitting in front of him. A man that to him represented everything he had fought to destroy, that his friends had died to replace. And in that moment he had no other thoughts except an extreme want to rip Gerald Guthrie limb from limb. That was when the accused lost any hope of having a fair trial at all. All over a “war buddy”.

-♠-

Erik's bicycle gracefully flew across the cobbled walkways. His tires’ gentle rubber tenderly caressed the perfectly rounded stones, propelling Erik slowly forward. The Columbia river still roared beneath, but had been dulled by the cool wind coming the north, that kissed Erik's cheeks with brilliantly formed snowflakes carried by its blissful moan. Erik was at peace.

As he approached his home, his mind began to empty of all the things that had been troubling him. His worries evaporated and lifted into the embrace of skies as he pedalled onward. He looked to the light blue sky now and saw a row of Socialist American flags flying proudly. His lane had always been adorned with these tokens to beauty and grace. Every time he turned his eyes to them, they filled his heart with such a euphoric fervour he felt that one day he was bound to cry on his ride home. But now, between two lovely, worship worthy symbols, flew a new utterly repulsive piece of cloth. A Conservative flag hung there, slicing the skies, like a grotesque meat cleaver lacerating the free air. Do they not know it is a federal crime, Erik thought. Ever the patriot, he stopped his bicycle on the icy path, and dismounted, with the full intention of walking up, knocking on the door and telling the tenants to replace that blasphemous dishrag or suffer the wrath of the law. He only completed three steps on the fractured pavement before he realized this wasn't going to happen. On the porch sat a man whittling with the most extraneous knife he had ever seen. The man hacked at it intently, but looked up and his dark, grey eyes met Erik's. He smiled, not the usual friendly gesture. No, his decaying stumps formulated Captain Johnson's evil grin. At the corner of his mouth a ghastly, red liquid trickled down his chin and spattered on his shredded blue jeans. Suddenly the streets began busying, converging on Erik, and the man arose as if from his grave and walked towards him. Everything getting closer, tighter, squeezing Erik, and still the man came with that long, brutal knife. Erik fled.

He mounted his bicycle. His feet stuck to petals. His legs moved as if disparate entities. That bicycle moved so fast, escaping the house, escaping the pedestrians, escaping the man with the knife, it seemed that even the most daring of cheetahs would have been challenged to beat him in a race. But now Erik had found a new enemy. The night closed on him. It began weighing on the shoulders, wanting so desperately to topple him. The darkness was all encompassing. It threatened to consume him. It crushed him and bashed him. To Erik it felt as if the entire mass of the universe had been put on his shoulders. He was devoured by the vacuum of space. Still Erik fought on, but he felt himself tiring and he desperately tried to attach himself to some form of shattered consciousness. And though he sought to escape it, the night laughed at him for his short-sightedness. Nothing could outrun it. The darkness took everything for its own.

By some unimaginable stroke of godly luck, Erik reached the front of his home. His heart lurched in his chest with every awful beat. His lungs seemed to burst with every excruciating breath. His entire body was shaking with absolute, abject horror. The disjointed rocks that made up the street had become boulders. The cracked stairs to his abode was now a mountain, the likes of which even Sir Hillary would not dare contest. But Erik knew he must try, for the terrible darkness was just behind him, waiting for his impending failure. Lusting for his inevitable doom. But in that moment, Erik defied the darkness. He gathered his disobedient legs and began traversing up the icy, angry steps. His beleaguered body screamed for release from this task. It begged for a rest. It pleaded for mercy, but Erik continued. Seeing that this struggle might be lost to it, the darkness began hurling everything it could Erik. He was wrought with images of mangled corpses. Decapitated limbs, torn, blood soaked clothes, disconcerted entrails. And above all the abominable, appalling, repellent details, there was one image that stood out. After all the monstrous bombings, the burning, pungent bodies, the total carnage, one picture made him stumble. A lonely, sobbing girl of no more than twelve, asking for life that he couldn't give her. In that moment Erik knew that the darkness was a depraved as anything in this world, for its soul was corrupted thoroughly, and this made him only want to resist more. It was the memory of that little girl that brought him forward. It was all she represented that made him struggle on. It was her that helped him reach that damnable doorknob and slip away into the ultimate refuge amidst the anguish of the night.

He was never so happy to shut a door in his life. He breathed the largest sigh of relief he had ever take. Safety was his. He tossed his scarf and mittens into their appropriate drawers and removed the liners of his boots his to heat over a register. His feet met the loving endearment of the carpeted floor. He sat down on the most comfortable couch in the world. His heart beat like lulling cat. His lungs breathed deeply and completely. After his climb, his entire body seemed in a state of total relaxation. Then he heard it.

Pop! Pop! Pop! His peace eroded instantly. He had heard this sound before. He leaped over the sofa and tumbled to the washroom. He slammed the door and locked it. He pushed a drawer across the door and started stuffing anything he could find into the crevasses of it. He barricaded himself in the bathroom and huddled in the bathtub, his arms cradling his head. Why couldn't I have gotten my gun? Why couldn't I have gotten my gun? He lay quiet, waiting for the assured gunshots. Instead, there was a solitary knock on the door.

“Honey, are you okay?” It was Angela.

The abatement of terror was instantaneous. “Yep, I'm, fine.”

“Okay, well, come out of there soon. We were going to watch

Captain Blood

tonight, remember? I have the popcorn popped already and everything.”

“Popcorn?”

“Yes...”

Erik grinned.

November 23rd, 2011

Erik kept his morning routine relatively similar. He still left his wife sleeping beside his imprint on the bed at half past six. He still brushed his teeth and shaved with his new razor. He still put on his suit selected for the day. But today, he placed

an old .38 Special model in his holster.

Everything was the same, but it had all changed. Today he left his bicycle at the door and walked. The flags on his lane where all identical Socialist flags, prompting him to believe that the Conservative one had never existed at all. He wondered what else he had imagined.

The Spokane District Court was a tribute to the old world, constructed in the height of Victorian fashion, it now bordered between historical and ancient. It was a magnum opus of architecture, a memento to the ideals and principles that had shaped this nation. It reminded all those that looked upon it of the proud heritage of this country that could never be ignored.

Though much smaller, it reminded Erik somewhat of Canada's parliament. A central tower in the middle made of marble stood erect and proud amongst the black, hand shingled rooftops of the lower buildings. The spires towered over the city, watching it in careful deliberation of their fate. It was great landmark that stood for everything that had been accomplished by man so far, and everything that one day would be achieved as well. Banners of The

Supreme Premier of the People of the United Republic of America where hung at every rafter and pompous battlement, and his dark orbs of eyes looked upon the world in a mixed gaze of love and pride. The

courthouse of a piece of magnificent engineering, a symbol of what justice was. To desecrate it was to make impure the very principles of the Republic. No one dared do such a thing.

But today that marvellous structure was being befouled by the most malignant of manners. Thousands of protestors stood amongst its grounds. Their enraged forms battered the air with vexed fists. Their shouts and howls rose in a cacophony of united anger. The menagerie of hateful peasants had signs of every kind to represent their acrimony.

They were garnishing signs displaying slogans like: HANG THE TORIE. One carried a crude doll made to look like Guthrie, hanging from a stick with a piece of thin rope. All they knew was that a Conservative was being tried for the death of two hard working police officers. And though there was a trial of justice underway, they had already condemned him. Above them Czerno's image watched it all.

Erik pushed through the crowd. When the people realized who he was they shouted in joyous revelry. “Our Hero Cometh,” they cried. Some reporters began attacking Erik, yelling over the protestors so that their forlorn attempts to ask questions would be less futile. Police officers from the Media Enforcement Unit peeled the reporters off of Erik at his request and he continued with a mild “thank-you” to the sergeant in charge.

He breezed past the open oak doors and shook his head at the people below.

“What a crazy world it is.”