Bernard Foote, CPA, a short, lonely man shaped like a turnip,
sat shackled to a table in a courthouse holding cell. A small,
barred window allowed some light into the room, but not enough to
contribute warmth.
The door opened and a man entered the room. He carried a
briefcase.
"Who are you?" Bernard asked.
"I'm your court-appointed attorney," the man said. "A public
defender."
"But I have my own lawyer. What about my phone call?
Aren't I entitled to a phone call?"
"Yours is a special case. Some rights have been suspended."
"I don't understand. I've done nothing wrong. Why am I here?"
"You are here because the thirteen-year-old girl you've been
chatting with online is actually Special Agent Hans Whitmore of
the Despicable Crimes Unit.
"What?"
"You've been charged with vile behavior. Not something to be
taken lightly, I assure you, Mr. Foote. We should get started.
Your trial is already in progress."
"What? This is insane. I haven't even been arraigned."
"Yours is a special case."
"No, no! There's been a mistake. I've never chatted with anyone
online. No, sir. Never."
"It's too late for feeble protests, Mr. Foote. The DA has your
computer. I've read the emails, seen the jpegs. Creeped me out, I
might add."
"Impossible! My computer..."
"Confiscated with a properly executed search warrant, Mr.
Foote. And your wife showed the officers where you hid the glossy
pictures in the garage. Horrible stuff. Incriminating beyond a
reasonable doubt."
"My wife? I have no wife. I'm a bachelor."
The public defender opened his briefcase and removed a
document. He set it out on the table. "Bernard Foote and
Annabelle Horn," he said, pointing at the certificate. "Married in
Reno, Nevada. July 10th, blah, blah, blah."
"Oh for chrissake! I've never married. You've got the wrong
Bernard Foote. Any idiot would know that after a little
investigating."
The public defender put up his hands. "Now, now, Mr. Foote.
I'm on your side, after all. Let's stop quibbling and get started
on an appeal."
"Appeal what?"
"With luck you'll get a life term, but juries can surprise
you."
"And if I'm surprised?"
"You'll be shot."
Bernard shook his head, at a loss for words. The door opened
again and several people entered the room. One of them, a tall man
in a black robe, approached the table. He looked at Bernard.
"Bernard Foote," he said with a gruff voice. "A jury of your
peers has found you guilty of vile behavior. Given the
circumstances of your crime—the pictures, the emails, the chatroom transcripts, the testimonies of Special Agent Whitmore,
your wife and your associates—I had no recourse but to apply the
maximum sentence allowed by law. Would you like a cigarette?"
Bernard, nearing shock, shook his head. "I don't smoke," he
said.
"A good choice," the judge replied before turning to nod at a
guard standing at the door. The guard motioned to someone down the
hallway and soon a slight, homely woman entered the room. Her eyes
widened when she spotted Bernard.
"That's not my Bernie!" she said, clasping her hands to her
chest. "Where's my Bernie? What have you done with my Bernie?"
The judge turned to face her, saying, "Now, now, Mrs. Foote.
Please stay calm." He nodded once again at the guard, and the
guard
hustled her out of the room.
The judge shrugged. "Well, that was certainly an awkward moment."
"Awkward?!" Bernard said. He tried to rise out of the
chair, but the shackles
prevented him from doing so. "Wait'll
I meet with my real attorney. I'll show you awkward. Now get these
damn chains off me."
The judge shook his head. "You are the Bernard Foote in
custody. You are the Bernard Foote who stood trial in my courtroom
today. The verdict stands, therefore the sentencing must be
carried out."
Bernard, speechless, stared at the judge. The judge, cool
as could be, pulled a small caliber pistol from his robe and fired a
shot neatly between Bernard's eyes. Bernard slumped forward, his
head meeting the table with a thud.
The judge frowned at the public defender. "There appears to be
sufficient grounds to appeal the verdict," he said.
The public defender nodded. "I'll get on it in the morning."
The judge turned to leave the room, pausing only to allow a
jailhouse trustee, mop and bucket in hand, to enter.
