Topper slams his hand down on the table and coughs.
“Eustace Eugene Rielly,” the words come out slowly, squeezing their way through a jaw that has been wired shut, “the Third.” His headdress clatters as Eustace struggles to get his hand past his bolts and restraining arms and onto a bible. He sounds like a snake as the oath to tell the “truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth” hisses out between clenched teeth.
“Mr. Rielly, I realize that you are in a great deal of pain, so I will try to keep this brief. I hope that the defense will be kind enough to do the same. Clearly, you’ve suffered enough already,” says Topper. “Are you a client of Mr. Windsor’s?”
“Yessssssssssss,” he says.
“How were you injured?”
“I was assaulted,” Eustace says. He has to try three times, to make it over the deep glottal gorge of the “au” that lurks in the middle of the word assaulted.
“Is the man who assaulted you in this courtroom?”
“Yesssssss.”
“Can you point him out to the court?” Eustace raises his arm and points at Edwin. Then he bends his hand so that the tip of his finger points directly at Excelsior.
“I’m sorry Mr. Rielly, it’s unclear who you’re pointing at.”
“Sssss- sssssORY. Can’t turn.”
“That’s okay. For the record, whom are you indicating?”
“Him. Eck, Eck, ACK! ACKcelsior!”
Edwin has to admit, it is impressive to watch Topper work. In his personal life, Edwin found Topper to be abrasive and ill-mannered, often thoughtless and sloppy and given over to an excess of all appetites — but that is only one side of the volatile equation that is Topper Haggleblat, world’s most dangerous attorney at law.
Inside the courtroom Topper’s manic energy is channeled and not a drop is wasted. For here, under the scrutiny of the judge and jury, every reaction, or overreaction or lack of reaction sways the case to one side or the other. Of course there are facts. Perhaps an objective reality exists, but here in the arena, where argument is pitted against argument, it is the way a fact is delivered that means everything.
When the defense makes a remark calculated to get into Topper’s head, he ignores it. When he thinks he has something to gain, Topper rages as if the defense attorney is a monkey who has flung poo in the face of God himself. He pushes right up to the point of a contempt citation.
He works the judge back and forth across his patience until the old man sags in his robes like an exhausted prize-fighter. Topper pushes hardest and is the most annoying only when it will turn out that he is so solidly in the right, the Judge’s own conscience will prohibit him from taking the other side. So it is that the short man radiates power and is a kind of giant in the chambers of the law.
As they leave the courtroom at the end of the day, Once again, Topper struggles to keep up with his long- legged friend. Edwin walks with his hands clasped behind his back and lowers his head slightly. He is in thought.
“Edwin, I’m concerned.”
“Hmmm,” says Edwin.
“Yes, as your lawyer I’m concerned.”
“About what,” Edwin asks, not really wanting to know the answer.
“I think we’re in trouble. In the case.”
“Your argument has been excellent.”
“Oh, why thank you. Thank you very much. But that’s not the point. Before the trial, I had a talk with Judge Perkins. At the time I thought he was just a crotchety old bastard, but I think he was right.”
“About what?,” Edwin asks, paying Topper as little attention as he possibly can.
“He said we couldn’t win.”
Edwin stops so abruptly that Topper takes three steps past him. “So the problem is that you have said something to upset the judge?”
“No, no, no,” Topper says, gesturing wildly. “Well, probably, but that’s not my point. It’s not Old Judge Bastard. He’s not the problem. The problem here is the jury.
“Look, we’ve got a good argument. Hell, we’ve got a great argument. We’ve even got (and it’s not often I get to say a thing like this) the Truth on our side. Yeah Truth. The one with a capital tits ‘T’. But they’ve got Excelsior. A hero. In fact, THE friggin hero — right? So all he has to do is just sit there. Just sit there and look like a hero. He keeps his mouth shut and the jury just basks in his glow. And the longer he sits there, the more they’re gonna bask. And then, after they’ve basked long enough, they’re going to decide in his favor.”
“But he clearly did the wrong thing.”
“Edwin,” Topper says, shaking his head and chuckling a little, “I love you. I do. But you gotta understand, this isn’t about the facts. It only seems like it’s about the facts. Look, this is a trial. Which means we make the best case we can. If we do that well, we earn a chance of winning. It’s kind of like buying a ticket to a Justice raffle. Except this time our odds of winning are so bad, that it’s more like a Justice Keno ticket.”
“The problem is the jury.”
“Yes, the jury. A jury of your peers. But Excelsior doesn’t have any peers. And neither do you. So we get what everybody gets. A jury box filled with people who were too stupid to get out of jury duty. Hell, we’d be better off with a judge. Even Justice would be better off if the judge just decided the case. And we’d be better off. Hell, if it was anybody else but Perkins, we could just bribe the bastard and be done with it. But juries, juries are brutal. Hah! And they call justice a system.”
“You are saying we should rig the jury?”
A wistful look crosses Topper’s face. “Ah, if only. But we can’t do that. You see these are ordinary people. Just regular jerks. They’re not professionals. No code. They won’t stay bribed. A crooked judge, he’ll stay bribed. Because if word gets out that he won’t stay bribed, then nobody can trust him and the bribe money dries up. And then he’s no damned good to anybody. That's a sure-fire recipe for getting caught. And then you wind up with a 10 -minute scandal that nobody pays attention to. But whatever, whatever, I’m preaching to the choir.” Topper concludes with a lot of hand-waving.
Edwin is upset. Topper isn’t making any sense. “So what do you suggest we do.”
“The only way is to get Excelsior to pop.”
“Pop?”
“Pop, right there in the courtroom in front of everybody. He’s got to lose his shit. So they can see that he’s not perfect. Look, even if we prove everything, if he sits there with that bullshit midwestern football hero 'aw, shucks' charm. Well, then the jury is going to bask in his glow and think to themselves, ‘Yeah, maybe he didn’t do the right thing, but he’s just folks. And he makes mistakes from time to time, but his heart’s in the right place’ and they’ll let him right off the hook.
“Sure, years later, when somebody else tears down the guy’s facade, they’ll think back and wonder if they did the right thing. But on the day, in the room, when it matters? They’ll let him right off the hook. They'll bask in him so much they’ll get a friggin’ sunburn — and they won’t even notice when their skin peels off due to his nuclear vision or whatever it is!”
“I’m afraid you’re taking this a little too personally.”
“Well of course I’m taking it PERSONALLY. That’s how were going to stick it to this tall bastard. I hate to lose. You know how I hate to lose.”
“Hmmm,” says Edwin.
“Come on Beanpole, you gotta help me think of something.”
“Hmm,”says Edwin, resuming his stride.
“Hmm? What hmm? What does hmm mean?”
“I have an idea.”
Chapter Fifty. Gus in the Hospital
