The Jury’s raucous uproars would be deafening to most, but the members of this court have adapted to the volume of their arguments. 

      Once again, The Judge enters the brightly lit courtroom through his special door, but no one pays him any mind. Everyone is too preoccupied with their garbled squabbling to acknowledge his presence. The Judge bangs his gavel sharply on the surface of his oak bench before addressing The Jury.  

      “There will be order in my court,” says The Judge in a low, breathy voice. He wields his authority like a limp lasso, unable to wrangle The Jury’s chaos. Half of The Jury lowers their voice; the other half keeps their volume steady.  

      “Objection, Your Honor. There will be no such thing,” volleys The Lawyer with a knowing smirk. He stands in front of an empty red plastic school desk. 

      The Jury silently turns to look at itself, and they nod in agreement before resuming their racket. 

      The Judge groans and rolls his eyes. He reaches for a cubbyhole behind the raised platform and grabs a pillow. He adjusts his neck on the cushioned down, settles into his comfortable chair, yawns, and falls into a restful, dreamless sleep. 

*** 

      When the sound of The Jury’s rumbling bellies overpowers their discord, they settle— like bowling pins rearranged after a strike—into their tiered pews. Silent and at attention, they look to the sleeping Judge. Their stares turn to glares, but even the most menacing look isn’t enough to wake The Judge. The Jury reaches for the thumb-sized gavels in their back pockets. They bang them repeatedly on the wooden pews of the box, chipping away at the dark finish. 

      The Judge’s eyes flutter open when he hears dozens of tiny hammers pounding on the furniture. He surveys the grand marbled courtroom as he regains his bearings. His gaze lands on a blue plastic school desk. The desk’s lightweight chair holds the burly, hunched form of The Defendant. 

      The Defendant fidgets with his hands under the table, not raising his eyes to meet anyone else’s. 

      The Defendant’s lawyer sits on the desk’s flimsy tabletop, her legs crossed and her torso stiff. She holds a manila folder just inches from her face and flips its pages with quick precision.  

      “Woman Lawyer, present the case for me and The Jury,” says The Judge. He slumps over his desk and holds the weight of his bulbous head in his meaty hand. 

      The Woman Lawyer approaches The Jury and the bench. Her stilettos clack on the elegant white marble flooring.  

      “The Defendant has been accused of committing a crime—” says The Woman Lawyer before her opposing attorney cuts her off.   

      “Objection. Your Honor, there is no proof that he’s been accused by anyone,” says  

The Lawyer. He raises an eyebrow and brandishes his signature cheshire grin. 

      The Woman Lawyer scoffs.  

      “Woman Lawyer is trying to victimize her client for sympathy,” says The Lawyer. 

      The Jury rabbles amongst each other and bang their little gavels on the pews of their jury box.  

      “Objection!” says The Woman Lawyer. She furrows her brow and stomps her foot. Her red-bottom designer pump makes a dent when the metal-tipped stiletto strikes the marble. “He’s in the defendant’s seat; therefore, he’s an accused criminal. Maybe he hasn’t committed a crime yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.” A pink flush takes over her features. She balls her hands into fists but keeps them at her sides.  

      The Jury settles down to murmuring amongst each other.  

      The Judge rubs the first layer of his chin with his index and thumb and looks with unfocused eyes beyond the entrance of the courtroom. He deliberates on The Woman Lawyer’s argument.  

      “So, you’re accusing The Defendant?” he asks.   

      “That is correct, Your Honor. The trial must continue for me to prove his innocence to the court,” says The Woman Lawyer. 

      Before The Judge can formulate a reply, The Lawyer strides up to the bench and slams his fist on the oak surface. 

      “Final counter-objection, Your Honor.” He grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, unfurrows his brows, and grins. “The Woman Lawyer is a woman and therefore not fit to run the court. I am a man, it’s only natural that I run court if I so choose to.” 

      The Judge closes his eyes and nods in agreement. 

      “What?!” says The Woman Lawyer. “Your Honor, I obje—” 

      “When he’s right, he’s right,” says The Judge. He interrupts The Woman Lawyer and holds up a hand to indicate there would be no further objections. The Judge steps down from the podium, yanks the powdered wig from his age-spotted scalp, hands it to The Lawyer, and sits on the red plastic school desk meant for The Plaintiff. 

      The new Lawyer-Judge tries to fix the wig on the crown of his head, but it’s too wide and it slips from his gel-slicked hair. No matter how he adjusts the wig, it always slants to the right. The Lawyer-judge plops himself in the chair at the bench and smacks the gavel hard enough to send wooden splinters flying across the room. 

      The Jury produces a smattering of applause, but their stomachs howl louder than their claps. Two members of The Jury faint while The Lawyer-Judge bangs his newly acquired gavel.  

      “Plaintiff-Judge, what are your demands of The Defendant?” asks The Lawyer-Judge to the bald old man, sitting on the red chair.  

      The Plaintiff-Judge thinks about it. He scratches his fleshy chin folds and hums under his breath. He opens his mouth several times only to close it without uttering a word. Every time he opens his mouth, The Jury leans forward in expectation; they salivate, sweat runs down their brows, only for The Plaintiff-Judge to continue punishing them with his silence.  

      “Whatever you say, we will agree. Please, mister, end this trial. We have kids here in the box, little ones. They’re hungry,” says one brave member of The Jury. He lifts one leg to exit the confines of the splintered box. Before his foot touches the marble flooring, The Woman Lawyer reaches for her steel-tipped pump and hurls it at the man. The sharp heel finds its mark on the man’s fleshy thigh. His back crashes onto the floor of the jury box. The man shrieks and wriggles in agony while holding his bleeding wound. 

      The rest of The Jury stares wide-eyed at the man. The blood seeps out of the jury box and runs along invisible grooves in the marble. The sight of their man’s blood fills the jurors’ bellies with disdain. Half of The Jury sits down, keeping their eyes unfocused and angled forward; they make no sounds. The other half of The Jury hurls insults and threats at the prominent figures in the courtroom, but they’re careful to stay within the confines of the jury box.  

      “Now, how am I supposed to do any thinking with all that drat noise? I want those loudmouth ruffians out of this respectable courtroom,” says The Plaintiff-Judge, spitting his rancorous words as a cobra does venom.  

      “Woman Lawyer, have your client deal with The Jury,” says The Lawyer-Judge as the corners of his mouth angle down in displeasure. 

      The Woman Lawyer looks at her feet. She feels the man’s blood, still warm, saturating the fabric of her pantyhose. She looks at the desk that holds The Defendant and the manila folder, but her legs don’t move. She calculates how her resistance will affect her career. She works so hard for crumbs of recognition. What if she can’t prove herself? Then she will never have the chance to become The Judge. 

      “Woman Lawyer, do you want this trial or not? I can assign somebody with more experience if you’d prefer,” taunts The Lawyer-Judge.  

      The Woman Lawyer leaves bloody footprints as she walks to The Defendant’s desk. She opens the manila folder and takes out a flattened soda jerk hat. The word ‘Bailiff’ is printed in a fancy red script on both faces of the paper. She pops the paper hat into its pointed form and places it on The Defendant’s head as carefully as one would a crown. The Woman Lawyer whispers in the new Bailiff’s ear and pats his shoulder for encouragement, before pushing him in the direction of the unruly jurors.  

      The Bailiff’s towering frame trudges towards the jury box. He towers over all the wasting bodies that make up The Jury. He moves quickly, incapacitating the unruly jurors one by one. When the jurors lunge at him, aiming to scratch his eyes or to pummel his chest, he simply squeezes their necks or bashes their head on the pews to subdue them. Their cries are not easily distinguishable between children or adults, and The Bailiff knows he cannot sympathize with any juror who makes noise, lest he be forced back to the defendant’s chair. He drags the jurors by their hair as they kick and scream, then throws them into the conference room meant for The Jury’s deliberation. 

 

      The Plaintiff-Judge, The Lawyer-Judge, and The Woman Lawyer all take a lunch break at the opposite end of the room and watch The Bailiff handle The Jury. This part of the courtroom isn’t marred with blood. The smell of sweaty bodies, coppery tang, and fear does not linger in the air. The distance is far enough for the rumble of the air conditioner to muffle the pained cries.  

      “If they were so hungry, they should have packed a lunch like we did,” says The  

Plaintiff-Judge between mouthfuls of rich chocolate cake. The Lawyer-Judge chuckles.  

      “Maybe if they hadn’t been arguing amongst each other for so long, the trial would have started by now,” says The Lawyer-Judge, taking a puff of his vape and readjusting his wig. He exhales, and the smoke wraps itself around The Woman Lawyer. 

      The Woman Lawyer coughs and fans the artificial fumes with her hand in a weak attempt to coax clean air into her lungs.  

      “Can the trial still take place with only half of The Jury?” mutters The Woman Lawyer. She bites the nail on her thumb and shifts her weight from her planted foot to her high-heeled one.  

      “What a stupid question,” says The Lawyer-Judge. He pets the top of her head and grins. Plaintiff-Judge titters and sucks the chocolate from his puffy fingers.   

      “There are so many of them, sweetheart. They’re like rabbits, always making more. I bet when we get back there, there’ll be new adult faces and a couple of new rugrats,” says Plaintiff-Judge. He winks at The Woman Lawyer and turns to face The Lawyer-Judge to continue their conversation. 

      The Woman Lawyer sighs in relief. 

 

      When The Bailiff effectively silences the Jury, the three others return to their desks. 

      The Bailiff stands ramrod between the bench and the jury box. His off-white clothes are now torn and smudged red. 

      The Lawyer-Judge grimaces in disgust at the bloody surfaces and splintered furniture. He motions for The Baillif to approach the bench. He swipes the paper hat from the Baillif, crumples it, and throws it at the center of the courtroom.  

      “Pick it up,” says The Lawyer-Judge. 

      The man scrunches his eyebrows and his eyes water. He slowly walks over to the paper ball and, with great care, picks it up from the floor. He’s careful while he attempts to smooth out the creases and reshape the peaks of the hat, but it’s no use. The paper tears under the force of his strong hands. He slumps his shoulders and lowers his head, becoming smaller as he walks back to the familiar blue desk. 

      The Lawyer-Judge laughs and claps enthusiastically. 

      “I think I’ll make you our custodian. Would you like that?” asks the Lawyer-Judge. A mischievous twinkle lights his eyes. 

      The Custodian looks back at The Lawyer-Judge and nods, his expression an unreadable 

slate.  

​

*** 

      The Custodian squeegees the blood, sweeps away the wooden shavings, fills the cracks of the furniture with wood putty, and paints it all to match the original finish. When he’s done tidying the courtroom, he moves to clean the real mess waiting in the deliberation room. 

      The Lawyer-Judge looks at his watch.  

      “We are making great time, folks. Let’s start this trial,” he says.  

      The Jury is silent, their eyes are fixed on the floor of the box, and their hands lie flat on their thighs, their fingers locked straight. 

      The Woman Lawyer limps with an uneven gait to the jury box. It doesn’t take long for her to spot the man with a high heel sticking out of his thigh. She pulls the shoe out of his flesh and shushes him when he cries out in pain. She puts on the heel and drags the limping man into The Defendant’s chair. He hunches his shoulders and sobs under his breath. The Woman Lawyer sits on the flimsy desk attached to the blue plastic chair. She straightens her posture and looks attentively at The Lawyer-Judge. 

      The Plaintiff-Judge, upon seeing the defense team's preparedness, shifts in his seat and huffs.  

      “I need some legal representation on this side, else it’s not a fair trial,” says The  

Plaintiff-Judge.  

      “You make a good point,” says The Lawyer-Judge. He takes off the powdered wig and tosses it on the bench. He stands in front of the red plastic chair as he straightens his tie and slicks back his hair. 

      The Jury whispers amongst themselves when they see the empty bench. The volume grows in decibels as they bicker about who should be appointed as The Judge. They all make arguments as to why they should be The Judge—they’ve worked so hard, their parents sacrificed so much, they’ve bided their time for precisely this opportunity. The louder the argument, the more deafening it becomes. 

      The Plaintiff-Judge groans as he stands from the red plastic chair. His joints pop and his legs wobble like a fawn’s; they struggle to carry his weight to the raised bench. No one notices when he plops himself in The Judge’s seat. He throws the wig on and slams the gavel on the desk. 

      “There will be order in my court,” The Judge says in his low, breathy voice.