TRIALS by BOOMERCAT RATED FRPT

Justice is not always served.

This story takes place after the events in Malfunction, Aftermath, Perceptions and Learning the Lesson.

The gray-haired man walked slowly into the courtroom. Leaning heavily on his cane, he paused halfway up the aisle to catch his breath. His rheumy eyes seemed to gauge the distance to his seat at the defense table. Heaving a sigh, he continued his arthritic shuffle until he finally reached his goal. The younger man at the table, dressed in an expensive Armani suit solicitously helped the old gent to sit.

At the prosecution table across the aisle, the three government attorneys rolled their eyes. For the duration of the trial, they had met with one problem after another, and now saw their case falling apart before their eyes. Angry, but helpless to prevent it, they waited for the final blow to fall.

The jury had been seated, and the judge swept into the courtroom and took her seat at the bench. The bailiff called out, "The courtroom will come to order."

The judge smiled at the eight women and four men of the jury. "I understand that you have come to a verdict. Before it is read, let me thank you all for your time and diligence on this case. When the verdict is read, you may leave through the jury room. You are not required to talk to the press unless it is your wish. If you choose to discuss the case, please do so with discretion. Mrs. Venson, do you have the verdict?"

"Yes, your honor." The portly jury foreman held out a sheaf of papers. As the bailiff collected the papers and turned them over to the judge, the prosecutors sat stone-faced. The judge's instructions left little doubt that she expected to free the prisoner at the end of this proceeding.

The judge glanced through the papers and handed them back to the bailiff who in turn handed them to the court clerk. The clerk looked up to the judge awaiting the order. The judge nodded then said, "The defendant will please stand for the reading of the verdict."

It proved easier said than done, as it took both the attorney and the bailiff to get the elderly gentleman to his feet. When he was up, leaning with both hands against the table, the judge said, "You may read the verdict."

The court clerk stood and in a clear voice intoned, "We the jury in the above titled action do find Anil Singh on count one, that he did unlawfully steal from the Naval Weapons Station at Federal Ridge an undisclosed weapon, not guilty. On count two, that in that theft did willfully murder one William Collins, a lieutenant in the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, not guilty. On count three, that in that theft did willfully murder one Anita Rees, a lieutenant in the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, not guilty. On count four, that in that theft did willfully destroy by explosive force Weapons Lab A7 at the Naval Weapons Station at Federal Ridge, not guilty. On count five..."

The clerk droned on and on through the forty-seven different counts of mayhem and murder. The end result of each count was the same: not guilty. The elderly man swaying at the defense table listened with a look of bewilderment on his face. Several of the jurors smiled reassuringly at him.

At the end of the reading of the verdict, the defense attorney turned to his client, and carefully shook his hand. By a pre-arranged agreement with the judge, the defendant, now free, was led out through the judge's own chambers to avoid the media circus in the lobby. The attorney assisted his client into the back of a large limousine with darkened windows to keep the curious at bay.

Climbing in after the old man, the attorney signaled the driver to pull away. Within three blocks, a transformation occurred that would have astounded and sickened the jurors had they seen it. The gray hair proved to be a wig. The wrinkled face was a rubber mask. The sad, watery eyes shed their contact lenses and gained a feral glint. The frail bent body suddenly became straight. The attorney fawned over the transformed man, offering champagne to celebrate his victory.

The Hood accepted the fawning as his due. He sneered at the weak-minded fools who had set him free. When it became clear that International Rescue would not come out of hiding to testify against him, it had been easy to develop a story of sadly mistaken identity. The Hood never left behind any witnesses who could identify him, and bribes had destroyed vital security tapes long before the trial took place.

His attorney had performed flawlessly, presenting his disguised client as a doddering old fool who simply was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Hood would reward the man in a manner most fit. The cocaine that fed the attorney's habit would be the finest available. And if it happened to be laced with arsenic, well, the man would die happy and another potential loose end would be tied up.

The Hood relaxed into the soft leather of the limousine's executive seating. He tuned out the nattering of the soon-to-be-dead attorney and let his mind drift to his next mission. International Rescue. International Rescue and its moronic agents.