Bill of Wrongs (Completely Revised)

Chapter One

 Every difficulty slurred over will be a ghost to disturb your repose later on. 

-Frederic Chopin

        Bill had been in the courtroom for a good seventeen minutes now, he figured. He looked down at his wrist and pulled up his gray suit. His silver watch gleamed dully in the horrible, depressing light of the room, sending dim little lights dancing across his heavily haired arm. This was how he spent most of his cases.

        Yeah. Seventeen minutes on the dot. Point for Bill. He looked at the thick oak table in front of him which held a glass of water, a few drinks left, and gulped it down.

        The big, black, sweaty judge cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at him. It was pretty clear he didn't enjoy Bill's disregard for paying attention to things. “Mr. Lukas. You wouldn't mind vouching for your defendant, would you?” He creased his worn, wrinkled forehead. “Unless you have better things to do. Please, don't stop for us.”

        Bill looked up nonchalantly and cleared his own throat. “No, no, your honor. My time belongs to you!” he said, throwing on an intentionally unconvincing smile. “Mr. Shampa here is nothing short of innocent.”

        He stood up smoothly. The chair didn't move even an inch. He made his way across the blue carpet, looking down at his black shoes, stopping halfway to button the top of his suit jacket with a quick sigh.

        When he came within an inch of the jury, he gave a wide grin. “Honestly, what proof does the plaintiff even have? The man was simply outside the parlor when it was robbed.” He looked over at this week's employer. The dark-skinned, bearded man donned a purple turban and a tan suit. That gave him a grand idea. It was a pretty obvious thing, too. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

        Turning back toward the jury, he hung his head a little. “I think we're dealing with petty racial discrimination.” Working a jury was what he did best; secretly badgering the plaintiff was his specialty. He turned back around and looked into the employer's eyes, which were plain and lacking in emotion. The eyes of an innocent.

        Or the eyes of a deceiver. Bill knew all too well how to tell a deceiver from an innocent, though. And this man was surely innocent.

        Maurice Gladstone, the prosecutor, stood up hastily. “Objection, your honor! He's making speculations, here!”

        With a look of complacency, the judge looked at him. “If it is speculation, show me the proof. Show me that it isn't simple discrimination.”

        The bald, heavily tattooed plaintiff lifted his lip in a snarl and looked at the defendant and whispered, “Fucking towel-head.” The jury emitted a collective gasp.

        Bill smiled. He knew the racist sonofabitch wouldn't be able to help himself.

        The judge slammed his gavel in a single deafening blow. Bill always hated that sound. So thunderous; the sound of pretentiousness; the sound of a smug asshole making himself sound bigger than he actually was. “I will not have racism in this courtroom! I hold you in contempt, Mr. Martin!”

        Two tan-clad policemen standing against the white wall, guarding the door next to the stand that led to holding cells, pushed themselves off and walked toward the plaintiff.

        Wily-eyed, the bald man darted his gaze around the room. He looked at the courtroom entrance and saw two guards there.

        He actually smiled. No, he grinned. A wide, toothy grin. He transferred that grin to Bill, then up to the judge. “Figures. A nigger vouching for a sand nigger." Smile sustained, he walked over to the two policemen, who placed their hands atop their batons. “Easy, pigs.”