A story of one soul during two lives

The prevalence of crack in Washington, D.C. shows that not only is the Pentagon actively importing cocaine, but that they are also too lazy to ship it much further than Capitol Hill.

I spoke for two hours, and sent the jury out with a final reminder of the precedents that authorized them to render verdict as they saw fit.

Twelve ordinary taxpayers sat raptly as I urged them to criminalize tyranny in the United States. To restore meaning to the Bill of Rights. To free millions of harmless people whose only crime was preferring an ancient herb to imbibing disinfectant solvents or prescription poison.

I had barely taken my seat before the judge called my attorney and myself to accompany the D.A. and himself into chambers, no doubt to get an early start on the champagne celebration.

“Well, Bill,” the judge told my lawyer, “we’ve got a real serious problem. Solzhenitsyn here has got the jury full of civil liberties and making the world a better place and all that hippie shit, ready to bring back a not guilty verdict. That’s going to interfere with billions of dollars worth of law enforcement and correctional institution budgets, not to mention some highly placed unmentionable concerns that I’d better not mention.”

I knew better, but the intoxicating flurry of laying my rhetoric on the courtroom, every word entered on the permanent record for future legalists to pore over, overrode my caution. “So?” I blurted. “It’ll be nice to live in a free country.”

The judge’s hairless head turned purple as he stood, pointing an angry forefinger my way. “YOU! Shut up! You think you’re so smart. You think you’re going to undo seventy years of law, without spending a single hour in a law library. Change the world. You cocky sonofabitch. Well, I’m sure you know what a mistrial is?”

I did and do, but I barely nodded. “Well, I’m going to be goddamned if I’m going to let my name be on the case that legalized marijuana. So it doesn’t matter how well you charmed that jury. I’m dismissing them. Your closing statement advised them to ignore the law.”

“You can’t do that,” my lawyer protested quietly. “We’ll appeal.”

The judge shrugs. “Do that. Meanwhile, Tom’s free to press charges again, and I’ll refuse to grant bail. Your client can rot while we go through this all over again.” The prosecutor nods. His cooperation in this plot can be taken for granted.

My lawyer and I looked at each other helplessly. Disaster, so close to total triumph! I never dreamed of being so utterly fucked. Appeals take years.

Years. Of my life.

Because some judge with a bug up his ass about me doesn’t want his friends to think he’s a wuss.

We reach the end of the hall. A key is fitted in the lock. I am ushered inside. The door crashes shut behind me with a terrifying, final-sounding boom.

A gang of thirty convicts glance up at me, popping bubbles of chewing gum, rapping tables with pencils. A hush falls as I stride into the room, hulking my shoulders to provide the illusion of breadth, puffing out my chest to appear manlier than I am.

Trying, in other words, to look like a badass.

~ )))0((( ~