Modern Crime and Punishment – from The Idler’s
Sketchbook
by Ron Smith
Against counsel, the convict, N. O'day,
insists on taking the stand in his defense. He is called to testify in a box beside the judge. Except for the soft clearing of throats
and titter of paper, the courtroom is quiet, all eyes fixed on the accused as
he moves slowly toward the bench in leg-irons, an armed policeman at his side.
O' day is a large,
clumsily made man. His feet misaligned, in attire from the charity bin,
when, with many grunts and much shuffling, he is finally seated beside and
slightly below the judge, The Hon. Bob Ostrow. State and National flags
drooping above like flaccid wind-socks, the bailiff performs his brief, solemn
interrogation:
"Do you swear to
tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you,
God?" he asks, his open right hand raised.
"I do," O' day
answers, his stubby, cupped hand raised also.
"Prosecutor, please
begin," says the judge, initiating this phase of the trial.
The prosecuting attorney,
Jeremy Scott, sleek and well-dressed with close-cropped, salt and pepper hair,
faces the convict, folds his arms, pivots slightly on his heels and, for
effect, says nothing, believing himself to be not just a lawyer but a
performer.
The accused faces him but
fixes his glassy stare above the prosecutor, above the spectators, toward a
clock high on the far wall, above the courtroom entrance, seeing nothing.
Tension nearly unbearable,
the attorney unfolds his arms and raises his outstretched hands as in worship
or unctuous greeting.
"Mr. O' day, you have
sworn your innocence many times," the skilled counselor begins, "and
say you were nowhere near Tina Bachman's apartment at the time she was strangled
and, like discarded flowers, abandoned, lifeless, on the sofa. Is this
so?"
"Trampoline,"
says the convict, so softly and huskily that only the prosecutor hears.
Not missing a beat, but
unsure where this loose cannon ball might lead, Jeremy Scott, hungry for
limelight and oratory, pretends he has not heard.
"And when you were
certain she was dead, took her keys and drove away. DID YOU TAKE A HUMAN
LIFE FOR A CHEVY BLAZER? Answer me, answer the court." Jeremy
pounds his fist decisively into his palm and waits.
This time O' day comes
alive and says "trampoline" with such force that all hear, that the
plaster on the wall quivers. The sign-language interpreter is thrown off
rhythm and takes a sip of water. Even the sketch artist is flummoxed.
Unwilling to act as though
anything is amiss, the prosecutor resumes:
"Trampoline you
say?" says the lawyer, now a comrade, a fellow-conspirator, eager to hear
a good story. "Trampoline, my dear Mr.O'day. Just
trampoline? Not merry-go-round? Monkey bars? No pinatas or
colorfully painted beach umbrellas? Just 'trampoline'?"
He presses his palms with
good humor, like they are sharing a joke. "Really?"
"Trampoline!"
repeats O' day, loud and guttural as a caged bear.
In a cheap tan suit, the
court-appointed defense, Smith or Brown I think, sprints to his feet.
"I object," he
begins testily. "This is absurd. It's incompetent, irrelevant
and immaterial! Where is the 'esteemed' Jeremy Scott taking us
today?"
Perhaps the judge is not
paying attention or worse, is drowsy and sees nothing extraordinary about O'
day's present testimony. Regardless, to demonstrate he is engaged and in
charge, declares, "Objection sustained! Prosecutor, please get to the
point," and taps his gavel. "Silence in the courtroom."
"Do you have anything
further to say in your defense?" Scott asks O' day, no longer friendly, a district attorney again.
"Trampoline, I
say," says O' day, "trampoline, damn you."
Soon it is time for Smith or Brown, the defender, to cross-examine and wage a rebuttal. "Now Mr. O' day," he begins, "recall the evening Mr. Scott just spoke of. Were you anywhere near Tina Bachman's apartment?"
"Trampoline,"
says the unfortunate man. "Trampoline."
O' day is escorted back to the prisoner's dock. Trousers flapping at his ankles, Mr. Smith or Brown returns to his desk. Across the aisle sits the dapper prosecutor, arms folded, beaming with confidence. Judge Ostrow instructs the jury, sends them into isolation and declares a break.
Soon after the break the
bailiff informs the judge that the jury has a verdict. A brief
confinement is rarely good news for the defendant.
"Jury, have you
reached a verdict?" the judge asks gravely when they have returned.
"Yes, Your Honor, we
have," the jury foreman answers. "We find The Defendant,
N. O' day, guilty of murder in the first degree and guilty of grand theft,
auto."
"Order! Order in
the court. Be seated. Please remand the defendant back to his cell to
await sentencing," the judge orders.
Two uniformed police
accost O' day.
"Back to jail for
you," one whispers as they handcuff him, refit his leg restraints and lead
him clumsily toward a door at the rear of the courtroom. As they reach the
exit, O' day turns abruptly back toward the gallery and shouts: "Trampoline,
you motherfuckers!" One of the cops swats him and he is guided roughly out
of the room.
Weeks pass and N. O' day
is sentenced to a minimum of thirty years in the penitentiary. When the
'gag order' on the jury is lifted, jurors are besieged for interviews. "How
DID they reach such a hasty verdict?"
In a televised interview
by Fatenews Service, the former juror's sentiments are best articulated by
juror Martha Rose, a commercial property manager.
"We could tell O' day
had an uneasy conscience," she begins, "his fixation on a single
idea, monomania, really. I'm no expert but I have read psychology. For
example, his obsessive repetition of the word 'tambourine' was a
strong indication of guilt for me.
"I think the word was
‘trampoline,’" the Fatenews reporter interjects politely.
"My point remains
unaltered," says Martha.
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