by Chuck Moulton
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As I was led into the courtroom that my trial was to be held in, I strained to peer over the
armed (two arms, in fact) guards escorting me to my certain incarceration in order to count the
number of lawyers opposing me and assess my situation. The evaluation was inauspicious to
say the least, there being six lawyers at the prosecution's table and an additional four waiting to
be tagged in. My arraignment had already been held; it consisted of me pleading not guilty and
the entire courtroom bursting into laughter. The case was pretty cut-and-dry: I ate a bunch of
people and the police caught me nibbling on my midnight snack, namely some poor guy's left leg
and some ketchup. My psychiatrist said I was rebelling against my parents, both of whom were
vegetarians and active demonstrators for human and animal rights. I guess by now you're
wondering why I, an uncivilized cannibal, am such a fabulous writer. In the hope that this
revelation will shed some light on the matter, I must inform you, my esteemed readers, that
before my arrest I worked as a high school English teacher. It is a matter of public record that
most cannibals, rapists, and child molesters were high school English teachers at one time or
another--although the reverse is not necessarily true. At the very moment my trial began, a
substitute was teaching The Scarlet Letter to my class, which, I must confess, I had never read.
Since my conviction was, at worst, a certainty and, at best, avoidable only by a miracle, I
concluded that then would be as good a time as any to read the damn book. On a lighter note--
coincidentally, I assumed-- the jury consisted entirely of the mothers of my victims.
On the first day, the prosecution opened the trial with its character witnesses, who, in my opinion, weren't very flattering. After the third witness, it started to get sort of repetitive: "Have you ever observed the accused to kill and/or eat any people?" the district attorney would begin, after the witness was sworn in. |
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"No," the witness would thoughtfully respond, "but I have seen him eat cow meat before."
At this point there would usually be several gasps of horror from the jury, who, naturally, were all
vegetarians. I didn't have much confidence in the lawyer appointed to represent me, for, through
the whole ordeal, he made not one objection and, unsuspiciously, seemed to be car-pooling with
the prosecutor. In any event, chances of my acquittal were rapidly diminishing and in my
boredom I found myself turning to the interesting novel of which I have spoken previously, and,
of course, that Playboy I had smuggled into the prison-- hey, lay off! When the first words
uttered by your cell-mate are "Say, Billy, do you like gladiator movies?" you need to see some
women-- but back to The Scarlet Letter. I curiously found myself comparing my own situation to
that of Hester Prynne. We weren't all that different, really. I mean, just look at the facts: I
was--suddenly, the judge interrupted my thoughts and said that we would recess for the day.
On the second day of my trial the prosecution called its final witness, Officer Bob. He was sworn in and the district attorney began his questions. "Officer Bob," he began, for that was the witness' name, "what happened on the night of August 3, 1992?" The prosecutor stared down the witness, occasionally blinking and wiping the sweat off his forehead with a damp towel. Officer Bob paused, as if in deep thought, then replied quickly, "I killed a man, just to watch him die, but I got distracted and missed it." Taken aback, the district attorney laid down on the floor and sang show-tunes to gather his thoughts. "Ah-ha!" he yelled triumphantly, jumping up and pointing at Officer Bob. "What?" asked Officer Bob. The prosecutor kicked the witness stand, screaming, "Damn, you made me forget!” "Wait, I remember now!" He beamed, obviously very proud of himself. "I meant to say August 2." He continued, "What happened on August 2, 1992?" "Well," officer Bob answered, "I had just got off-duty and was walking home from Dunkin' Donuts when suddenly, I spied a man in the window of a dilapidated old apartment dismembering the body of some dead guy. I must admit, this piqued my curiosity, so I decided to investigate. Upon reaching his doorway, I loaded my gun and made my entrance, tasted the evidence to ensure that it was indeed human, and promptly arrested him when he ran out of ketchup." "Is the man you arrested in this room?" "Yes, sir." "The district attorney smiled. "Could you point him out, please?" |
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The witness pointed. "No, that's the judge!" the prosecutor yelled, angrily. Officer Bob
pointed again. "That's Mrs. Watkins from the jury!" the district attorney exclaimed. Officer Bob
was confused; the prosecutor made a subtle gesture towards the defendant.
"It was that dumb nigger! I saw everything! He ate that other guy!" Officer Bob exclaimed, fingering me. "Thank you," said the prosecutor, "I have no further questions for this witness." "Cross examination?" suggested the judge. My lawyer walked confidently and deliberately towards the witness. He paused, adjusting his suit into an altogether more favorable position, then continued his brazen stride. "Bob," he began dramatically, "can you not see that my client is Caucasian and not, as you say, a ‘nigger’--which of course I only say because I am directly quoting you, not meaning to in any way disparage the esteemed race of which you speak." "Why, yes," replied Officer Bob, quite surprised, "the esteemed man who you have the privilege of defending is, in fact, white! I apologize for any damage I have caused to his high moral character." "Is this man a cannibal?" interjected my attorney. "Who, the judge?" "No, you moron, the defendant!" |
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"Surely, you jest," replied the appalled witness. "A white man? Do something illegal?
Shah, right! Can pigs fly? Is Chelsea Clinton attractive? Am I politically correct? I think not!"
"Objection!" shouted the district attorney. "What?" asked the judge, annoyed. "Oh, it has nothing to do with this trial. I was just wondering if anyone in this courtroom wants to have sex with me." Three hands shot up. "I meant women," he added quickly. The volunteers lowered their hands. At this point I stood up and shouted, "Restrain that man!" The bailiff grabbed the judge. "No, the prosecutor," I clarified. He grabbed the district attorney. "Wait," cried the prosecutor. "What authority does he have? Isn't he the defendant?" |
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"Ah-ha!" I responded. "You forget that this is a first person narrative and I, acting in my
capacity as the narrator and main character, exercise complete control over the plot-line and
choose, as is my wont, to remove that district attorney from this story entirely because he is
raving mad and reflects badly on the story as a whole. I do, however, intend to replace him with
a more toned-down sane version of himself and continue the story from there. While I'm at it, I
guess I'll switch our receptionist with Miss December '94 and paint the courtroom walls a light
shade of turquoise. Thank you for your time." The characters and walls were changed
accordingly.
The judge glared at my attorney. "Would you please instruct your client to refrain from changing the plot-line." |
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