Erik gathered his courage for a moment and knocked on Sean's door. “Come in” was what he chimed back. Erik grasped the brass doorknob and bounded into Sean's office. He looked up.

“Erik!” He chirped. “What a surprise!”

“I brought you a birthday present.”

Erik dropped a rectangular package on the amber desk. It was obviously wrapped by a man, no self respecting woman would have attached her name onto anything so deformed. Compared to the furnishings of Sean's tidy office, it was a horrid and abhorrent thing. Sean's was a resplendent place of work. It was bedecked with the most stunning of paintings and brilliant pictures of stars and nebulas belonging to distant galaxies. The south wall was embellished with a Conservative battle standard that Sean's regiment had captured near the eclipse of the war. His desk was cluttered with ornaments decrying the values of justice and equity as well as photographs of Shamus and Kyle, both red-haired and smiling with beatific, delighted grins. Their skin was as tanned as a Hawaiian tribesman and their faces bright and dreamy as the sun shining through grey, dispirited, gloomy clouds after a long, terrible day of dreary rain and miserable fog. Whenever he saw those beautiful photos, Erik remembered that soon his desk would be just as dishevelled and filled to capacity of pictures of his own sons and daughters. Every day Angela's form stretched out a little more, prophesising of Erik's impending fatherhood. Sean's eyes travelled to the supposed present on his desk.

“Did Lucille put you up this?”

“She told me what to buy, but I remembered it was your birthday.”

“Sure you did...”

Sean carefully slid his fingers into the gaping holes of the wrap and gently unfolded the crinkled paper, graciously pretending that the wrap was worth saving. After the package was revealed he removed the top and looked inside. Packaged with fine, white tissue paper was a gold letter opener.

“What the heck is-.”

“Sorry,” Erik interrupted, “I should explain. Lucille told me to get you one. She was tired of you accidently ripping up letters from her mother.”

“I did that on purpose. I think that old woman has been trying to separate Lucille and I since the day we met. Last time she sent us a letter, it was a newspaper clipping titled:

Divorced Women Have Greater Rates of Happiness

.”

Erik chuckled. “Regardless, the manufacturer guaranteed to me in person that ʻNothing cuts a letter open as straight and perfect, as a Rochie letter openerʼ.”

“That's BS!”

“No, really, he was quite insistent on it.”

They both laughed at that one.

“Now, Erik, you don't usually grace my office with your presence. You must have come for some other purpose.”

“That's true. May I sit down?”

Sean gestured to the empty chair in front of him. Erik quickly occupied it.

“Sean, you have to drop the charges on Guthrie.”

“What!”

“It isn't going to work, Sean. The jury will exonerate him.”

“But everything has been going fine. I saw the new footage today. Everyone on the West Coast and half the people everywhere else know your name, Erik. They scream it in the streets.”

“That is exactly why I can't do it, Sean. The guy's clearly a deranged psychotic and he's got a life story that makes

Romeo and Juliet

sound like a Disney movie.

That will easily cause reasonably doubt. The jury is going to declare him not guilty and those screaming people are going to crucify me.”

“So instead of fighting it out you want to retreat.”

“Yes.”

“That isn't an option, Erik. Now you get out of my office and you make those jurors convict him.”

“It just isn't going to happen.”

“Yes it will, Erik. It will because they ain't got no choice. Just like we don't have any choice. Two cops have been killed, son. Somebody has to hang, we just have to decide whether it’s going to be the guy who killed ʻem, or us.”

“But what about justice?”

“It's tool used to keep the masses feeling happy and safe. If it doesn't do that, it has no purpose. It is a weapon, not an ideal. The last guy who thought justice was something to uphold, his name was Connie Robertson, ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“Exactly. He dropped charges in a case just like this and they whisked him away. He disappeared, never to b seen or heard from again.”

“Oh, God.”

“Nope, he's doesn't exist no more, remember? It's just Czerno now. And since he's elevated himself to the status of God, he has to make god damn sure he doesn't bleed. He may just be an old man who sits in his pyjamas all day, drooling over himself, but the people believe he's a deity. They believe that he oversees ever little part of every day, and if something goes wrong they blame him. So he makes sure nothing goes wrong.”

“What has this got to do with-.”

“Everything, Erik. Now you give people commercial free television, free education, equality, food and that's keeps ʻem pretty happy. For awhile, anyways. You see, humans, they just aren't designed to be happy. They always have problems, and they've got to have something to blame it on. They need an enemy that need a scapegoat. And so Arabs worked pretty well, until we killed them all. So, we started working on the Jews, and that was working just fine, until we killed them all. Then we moved on to Conservatives, until we killed them all. And now there just ain't anyone left. Now we have to turn on ourselves to find enemies, and that is what the Advisory Council fears. If this case goes awry, if the jury exonerates Guthrie, who are those angry people going to blame.”

In a craven, courage-less voice that was barely audible, Erik said: “Us.”

“That's damn right. Because Czerno is a blithering fool who can't even properly process a bowl of Jello without professional help from three nurses. He was a god damned, flat-out incredible speaker, Erik, and he could whip up support with the drop of a hat, but that was ten years. Now his system is falling apart and every man, woman, and child that depends on it is scared to see another day. Those men and women on the Advisory Council are willing to throw anyone under the bus so long as it assures their power for one more day. It don't matter whether it's the judge, the jury, or us. They needed another enemy and they sure got one. They put every television and radio man in the country on this one case. Now that everyone knows a Conservative is on trial for killing a pair of cops, they expect a hanging. And this glorious, expeditious gong show we call a justice system is going give it to ʻem. It was the Romans who said that all people needed to stay docile was

bread and circuses. The Agriculture Council has the food part taken of and we provide the circus. Integrity is lost in a nation of stupid, power hungry bureaucrats and demanding people.

The Republic is devoid of justice. God save us all.”

November 24th, 2011

Erik despised prisons with every fibre of his being. Every muscles, tissue, organ, and system in his body was in perfect unison of aversion to this place, but it was his curiosity that drove him further. He'd received a message that Guthrie wanted to speak to him, in private. That was what led him down the dank hallways and putrid corridors of the jailhouse, want of conversation.

He was led by a gargantuan guard in a leviathan uniform, but even that was stretched to its utmost limits. The guard halted at a rusting, heavy iron door. The faded letters beside were supposed to read PRISONER PROCESSING ROOM, but years of disdain and inadvertence had caused it to become so malformed that only the word ROOM

could be clearly made out. The door opened and Erik stepped inside.

Guthrie was waiting for him. Despite everything that was happening to him, he still maintained that emotionless vigour. He was still a perfect statue. Much less handsome then Czerno was depicted, but like him in stature, and stillness. Erik sat opposite him.

“I must say, it surprised me you would come, Mr. Christian.”

“I was hoping I could have you change your plea.”

Guthrie lay back in his chair. He wasn't angry, just disappointed. “I see.”

“I would be willing to offer you a deal. The prosecution would not seek the death penalty.”

“Oh, I'd very much like to make a deal, Mr. Christian. You see, I may have some information you might find useful.”

“What kind of information.”

Guthrie leaned forward again, and Erik could smell the remnants of him last meal on his breath. “The kind that ends careers and lives if revealed.”

“On whom is this information valid?”

Guthrie revealed the withering, black stubs of his teeth in a detestable, macabre smile that smote Erik with another vile odour. “Why, it's on you.”

Erik was too stunned to move. His body stood completely frozen in time. Could he know? he silently wondered.

“Oh yes, I know your secret, Erik. I was there. I was in the hall, hiding in the loft. I saw the girl, I heard the shot. And I will tell everyone.”

Erik's face twitched, unable to make a proper reply.

“But, I won't say anything, I'll keep my mouth shut, if you do one thing for me. You drop my charges tomorrow, I won't say a word. Otherwise, I write up a fancy little letter to your DA, and we'll see how he likes having a man who broke the Geneva Convention under his nose. Now, run along, I'm very busy in here you know.”

With a great amount of discipline, Erik forced himself from that foul, white table and stiffly walked towards the waiting guard. The guard closed the door and intended to lead Erik out, but he made a few metres before Erik stopped. He was not one to be blackmailed, and he had developed the perfect plan. If only poor, old Gerald hadn't of told him he would send a letter. The behemoth guard languidly gyrated to face Erik.

“I need to speak to the warden.”

November 27th, 2011

“The jury has met. Mister Foreman, was the jury come to a unanimous verdict?”

“We have, your honour.”

“You may present the verdict.”

An ancient man, dressed in a grey suit with a red tie, rose and read from a long piece of paper. “In the matter of the People versus Gerald Guthrie, for the two charges of second degree murder, the jury finds the defendant guilty.”

The court sighed in relief. Guthrie showed no more emotion than usual, but even he must have been surprised. Erik was the only one feeling apprehensive. This feeling was not helped when Guthrie looked over to him and grinned again. Now Erik had his own reasons to put Guthrie six feet under, albeit not ones that were fully justified.

The judge went on to ask each juror if the guilty verdict was their own verdict. It was, not a single one of them showed any hesitation. The show was nearly completed, and all the characters had performed their roles admirably.

-♠-

“Mr. Christian, what sentence do the People seek?”

Erik took a deep breath. He was nauseated to the extreme. He knew Guthrie innocent, no matter what the jury had said. But could he afford keeping him alive? A man's life was in his hands, but so was his own. There were still a thousand people outside waiting to herald their accommodations or rip him apart.

“Due to the violence and depravity of the crime, the People are seeking the death penalty. I believe that Mr. Guthrie is a sick and mentally ravaged creature who best deserves to meet a timely end before he can danger the public further.”

A cheer rose from the deepest recesses to the most superficial seats in the courthouse. So they cry for their hero. If only the victory could have been sweeter.

Guthrie didn't change at all. As his defence attorney made the desperate plea for his life, he didn't even seem to breath at all. Nothing more could possibly be taken from him now.

                                                                              -♠-

Erik's heart thumped and throbbed in his chest. He rushed to warden's office and whirled open the door.

“Ah, I've been expecting you. Please sit.”

“I'll rather stand, thank-you.”

“Suit yourself.”

She took a yellowish envelope from her desk and handed it to Erik. It was barely noticeable, but a thin slit was on along the top edge of the letter.

“This isn't sealed!”

“It came to my office that way, sir.”

“I gave very specific orders not for you or anyone else in this facility to read this.”

The warden's bored, monotonous mutter responded. “And I can assure that no one has laid eyes upon it.”

“Then explain why it is opened.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but there was obviously a breach of orders somewhere down the line.”

“But you told me that no had seen it.”

“No one alive has seen it, sir. I do make absolutely certain that people like you are obeyed, Mr. Christian. It's how I got my job here.”

“But what if he passed on the information?”

“The guard that did it was a sickly man with no friends, and in a few years the Advisory Council would have cut off his medication supply and killed him. He didn't tell anyone.”

“That's hardly a risk I can take!”

“It isn't really under your control now, is it, Mr. Christian?”

                                                                                  -♦-

The steps to Erik's household were an easy climb, but now he wondered if he should enter at all. Perhaps he should just run and find somewhere to hide for a time? But where? There was no escape for him this time. The night had won in the end. He crawled up the stairs and opened the door.

As he expected, the house was devoid of life. Angela had gotten a late shift at the hospital, and probably wouldn't be coming home for several hours. That gave Erik plenty of time to be alone, which was the only thing he wanted now. He lumbered off to the wine cupboard after throwing off his winter gear. There were two types of lawyers in this world, and you could tell the difference by looking into their wine cellars. The first was the ambitious, arrogant lawyer that would collect rum and wine from the countries he had travelled and all he hoped to travel and share his delicate tastes with his dear friends. When you opened the other lawyers’ cupboard, empty whiskey bottles and brandy containers spilled out, betraying that he was one forgotten by love and glee, left instead with bitterness and morose despondence. Angela hadn't allowed Erik to be either. “Lawyers and alcohol mix like apples and pie” her father had said and she'd listened. She'd straightened Erik out and threw him in AA the instant they'd moved in together. But every “recovering” alcoholic had his secret stash, and Erik was different.

He lifted a rag coloured the same as the otherwise empty wine closet and revealed five bottles of vodka hidden in a lower section. Czerno loved vodka, and so it was always cheaper in any store, especially on his birthday, the day which Erik had purchased them.

Erik slumped into his easy chair and poured himself a drink. The instant that pure ambrosia touched his lips, his mind exploded. He was bombarded with the terrifying shrieks of thousands of people as they met their end. He took another sip. He was barraged with shrill squeals for mercy. He took a gulp. He was pervaded with the image of that girl again, tears running down her cheeks, beseeching him for clemency, and Captain Johnson beside her, snarling for her death. Erik threw his glass to the ground and began slurping that succulent fluid straight from the bottle. His escape from the faces was only momentary, but his relief was also his curse. With every swallow the faces multiplied then faded, then came back, worse than before. Erik held his ears and urged them to stop tormenting him, to leave him alone, but they would not heed his calls. .

Angela finally opened the door to their house. She found Erik drowning in his own tears.

“What the hell, Erik?”

The voices suddenly ceased. But Erik's tongue was paralyzed.

“What happened, Erik?”

“I, I, I don't know, Angela.”

“Erik, I can't help if you won't tell me what's going on.”

Erik simply buried his head into the chair's face to absorb his sobs. Angela went over to comfort him, but then she smelt the stale, sour scent of alcohol, crudely mixing with his breath. She looked over and saw two empty bottles rolling on the floor.

“Erik, what did you do?” Her tone had rapidly changed from concern to chastisement.

“Angela, honey, I-.”

“No, I'll tell you what you did. You threw away five years of sobriety, Erik.”

That wasn't true in the slightest sense. Erik had always maintained a hidden compartment in his desk filled with all kinds of liquor for when he was working. It was more like five days of sobriety. Work was stressful, life was hell, and alcohol was his harbour from the world. Angela would never understand, she didn't want to understand. She was a doctor and she saw Erik as diseased, she simply wanted to fix him, but Erik had never wanted a cure. He just wanted the loving liquid and to be alone with it.

“Angela, I can explain. You just need to let me talk.”

“You're rolling your syllables together, I can hardly believe you're still conscious. I should take you to the hospital.”

Erik leapt from his position, but nearly tumbled when he did.

“See what I mean! Come on, we're going to get you some help.”

“No! Honey, I'm perfectly fine.”

“No, you aren't. Now come with me.” Angela grabbed him by the arm.

“No!” Erik yelled. He pushed Angela's clawing hand off his arm. “Leave me alone! I'm just fine. You don't have to worry about me just because your crack-head bitch mother died of an overdose, okay!”

Angela's shook was the only thing keeping her still. “What did you say?”

Erik realized what had come out of his mouth, and instantly regretted it. His dreams of stuffing his desk with pictures of his happy family collapsed in bloodcurdling fire. “Angela...”

She dropped her head in fury and by some miracle kept her cool. “Get out.”

“Angela, I'm sorry.”

She pointed to the door and in a voice more threatening than the roar of a lion she bellowed: “Get the hell out!”

Erik bit back his response and steeled up to face his wife. Then he stumbled out the door. The sidewalk met him longingly. Inside Angela was too angry to shed a single tear in his absence. Erik staggered down the street, seeking the last refuge known to him, and after retching out half his body weight, he was ready to make the journey. The darkness watched him hungrily.

                                                                                  -♥-

Erik found the door labelled 71 easily. He brought forth his hand and knocked upon it twice. After a short while, it was opened. Sean still met him with trademark smile, but it dissipated into a grimace when he found the state Erik was in.

“Are you okay, pal?”

“May I spend the night here?”

“Family troubles?”

Erik hung his head. Sean opened the door enough to allow Erik entry.

Considering the hour, Sean normally would have made Erik a bed on the couch, but he led him to his office instead. He was going to offer Erik a drink, but after smelling him, decided against it. Still, he poured something for himself. Erik sat opposite to him.

“They're going to hang him tomorrow,” Erik said, his eyes downcast in sorrow.

“Hey, buddy. It had to be done.”

Somehow that didn't relinquish the awful feeling in the bottom of Erik's stomach.

Sean took a quick sip, “he just knew too much.”

Erik perked up. “What do you mean he knew too-.” His voice suddenly faltered. On his desk sat that golden letter opener. Guaranteed to cut the more straight and perfect than any other. And then Erik remembered the perfect slit across the envelope, the beautifully carved slice on the top, made by a true artist. Or by a brilliant tool. Erik slowly stood up. “Oh, my God.”

“What, Erik?” It was grammatically a question, but said like a statement.

“You were the one that knew the guard, that opened the letter.”

“Yes, Erik,” Sean tilted his chair and began to sit up.

Erik removed his gun from his holster, still hiding in his suit. The smile completely dissolved from Sean's face.

“So what are you going to do, shoot me?”

“Why'd you make me take the case, Sean, why?”

“Because Guthrie would have recognized me.”

“What!” But even as he shouted in surprise, Erik began to piece it together. “You were the colonel that took Oak Creek! You killed the prisoners. You murdered those honest, hard fought men.”

“We are alike in that regard, aren't we, Erik?”

Erik burst in rage. “And what was I to do. I can't kill the innocent.”

Sean looked up in Erik's eyes with a perfect look of pity and hatred. “You seem perfectly willing to do so now.”

Erik's gun wavered, but it was still pointed at Sean. He continued, “and to think that you thought that justice was so important. And yet you would accuse, try, convict, and execute me all by yourself. Why? Because I'm your scapegoat, you blame me for bringing you into it. Ironic isn't it? Even Erik the just crusader needed an enemy to blame.”

Shamus entered the room. His high pitched, sleepy voice addressed his father.

“Dad, I couldn't sleep,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Erik saw in that moment one last time the face of the girl, but it wasn't the thief that been gagged in the fire hall. No, now she was a spitting image, of Angela, beautiful Angela. She was his daughter. She was his future. In a loving fatherly gesture, Sean led Shamus to the hallway to his waiting mother and then returned to his desk, staring down Erik's weapon of malice and death. Erik's face contorted in fury, but he just couldn't do it. “Damn it!” he yelled and lowered his gun. His eyes filled with renewing tears.

Sean relaxed with a huge sigh of relief. Then, he took his hand into his desk and in a single, fluid motion, he whipped out another gun and shot Erik in the chest with lightning speed.

As the shot rang out, Erik began travelling. He was sent back to that hall in Oak Croak. He stood beside the wailing girl. He remembered how Captain Johnson's crocodile smile had disappeared as he saw the gaping hole in his chest. How he had told the screaming girl to run away for her life. He remembered how he'd covered the captain, the floor and walls with gasoline a lit and match. He remembered how the place had burned away all the evidence, how he'd lied to his comrades about the girl's hidden gun. And he knew now he was being watched by Guthrie the whole time. That was his secret, and it all came back to him.

Erik was forcefully returned to present. He looked down and saw a gigantic ruby red mark on his chest. He felt nothing at all, his entire being was numb. The battle standard on the wall was again blood-stained. All Erik could think to say was: “That was my favourite shirt.”

Then Erik fell with a clatter to the floor. As the world became more cold and bleak, he saw in his last moments what disturbed more than anything he had ever seen. Lucille tore into the room and saw Erik laying there in a pool of his own blood. But she also saw his gun and she turned to her husband who grasped her crying form and held her tight. And even though he seemed totally occupied in comforting his wife, Sean was facing Erik, and he was smiling. But it wasn't his normal beam that could melt a bowl of ice cream, it was Captain Johnson's smile. It was the night's smile, knowing that it had claimed its final victory.

There was a fire roaring in the fireplace by Sean's desk and he tossed a piece of paper into it. Erik knew what it was. It was his secret, and in his final seconds he saw it burn. His thoughts were that he was at peace. His secret was safe. No one but him would ever know. There would be no witch hunt.