Judges

The Judges’ decision would be final. It would be the only one that mattered, and there would be no appeal.


The accused sat in the witness stand – the only one who would speak on her behalf. It was her word against all of theirs’, and so far her chances weren’t good. She sat self-consciously with her hands at her sides, and felt the penetrating gazes of the Judges on her. They were relentless, they wouldn’t stop until the decision had been made, and there was no “mercy of the court” upon which she could throw herself. The next set of gazes were somewhat worse, there was no alliance with the Jury, no common sense of humanity. There was no pity, no sense of compassion. There was hardened accusation mixed with pure relief that it was her and not them up on the stand. There was a sick sense of glee that she was on trial, like rats rejoicing that they had no succumbed to the temptation of the cheese in the trap while they watched the unfortunate rat suffer.


The allegations were laid out; they covered all manner of evils from the simplest of error to the most grievous of offences. Every exposed moment of her young life was thrust at her with all the menace and hostility of a finger in the face. She nodded meekly as they were read out, one by one her transgressions were put to her, mounting the case against her. Would she even be given a chance to speak? She doubted if it would make any difference. There was so much here already, so much had been inferred against her that her still small voice of protest would mean little against the burden of proof. Much like a witch-hunt, a mere accusation was almost sufficient to prove any claim.


She could feel her owl-like glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, and she resisted the urge to correct them and push them back up. Even the slightest of movements would set them off like a pack of wild wolves and the case against her would be decided for life. Fear was all around her, and she could feel the familiar well of tears inside her. SHE MUST NOT CRY! The trial would be over and her humiliation would be complete. To her surprise, she was given a chance to speak, to defend the claims, to present her own evidence. She began, but try as she might she could not get the right words to come out, and it seemed as if everyone, including her own body was conspiring against her to have her doomed to conviction.


The Judges looked away from her for the first time, exchanging looks with each other. There was no need even for a jury vote on this one. The result would in any case be unanimous and in complete accord with the Judges; constitutional rights and a fair trial had not found their way in to this court yet. Her voice trailed off as the Judges looked back to her. It seemed their decision had been made. The gavel banged down onto the hard wooden desk as the verdict was handed down. She hung her head in the witness box, unable to speak.


The Judges collected their designer lunchboxes and dusted off their pretty A-line skirts, swinging their willowy hips as they disappeared off to their own lives. The Jury began to disperse, silently, no-one wanting to speak about the trial that had just occurred. Little Wendy removed her glasses and wept big splashy tears as she sat alone in the playground with her biggest crime; that of being uncool.