Elijah M:
Laying Down the Facts
By Sampson Kenly
The courthouse is clean and polished, just the way my shoes look at the beginning of every morning. I sit at my desk, facing the judge, and justices. Most of them are looking in the direction of the defendant, but the justice to the judge’s left is staring directly into my eyes. In unnerves me a little. He averts his gaze, as if his test was completed. Then I remember that most of the people here are on my side. I am the “good guy” here. I have a job to do, and I plan to do it. I look over at my opponent. He has been accused of robbery. It shouldn’t be too hard to convict him. He hasn’t opted for a lawyer because he believes it isn’t necessary. Poor man, I almost feel sorry for him. I myself have never been to jail, or felt the scorching, searing, smoking, scalding hot branding iron against my cheek. But I do know of some who have. Of course the iron would be an R, for robbery. I can see it, propped up against the wall, over in the corner. It’s lying in the light of the sun, through the window. You can see the tavern and the milliner’s out on Duke of Gloucester street. It’s a beautiful day outside, without a cloud in the sky. Only the deep blue of the ocean, mixed with the rays from the glittering sun. A perfect day to win a case if you ask me. I rub my hand along the smooth surface of the polished mahogany fence between me and the people behind me. It’s like rubbing hard silk. I look behind me and see the expectant faces of many people, who have come to watch. But through the expectant faces, there are a few of devastation and sadness. Loved ones of the accused. The judge taps his gavel on the desk with a deafening bang. To tell the truth, I really shouldn’t be here. But it is my job, and I have to. In fact, it’s a great honor. A lot of things depend on me.
I am a lay person, which means that I do legal work because I am highly regarded by my community. I actually have no legal experience whatsoever. But because there are almost no lawyers, people like me are asked to do this. I am of the gentry class, and am proud of that. I have worked hard in my past, to live in luxury now. I also coincidentally, just so happen to have inherited a large sum of money from my deceased father. But that has nothing to do with it. I am white of course. Only white people are allowed to be lay people. A white male. Actually, a white male, who owns over 100 acres of land, and is Christian Protestant. I, luckily fit all of those qualifications.
Eli Harris:
Two Sides of the Family
I wake up. It’s very early and Pheobe, my wife is not up yet. I look outside. There is a slight drizzle outside but nothing too bad. After I look outside I get dressed for the day ahead of me. As I start to put on my boots Phoebe wakes up.
She says, “Good Morning Jeremiah.”
I respond with a grin, “Good morning.”
After I walk over to her to say good morning, I slowly walk downstairs to set out for my day. You see, I am part of the house of Burgesses in the English government. There is a trial today on the crime of witchcraft and I need to be present at the trial. Although it is drizzling, my wife and I live very close to the capitol and the walk should not be that bad. I step outside, it is a crisp autumn morning. The sky is grey like the hide of a wolf as I look ahead and see the capitol. I start to walk as my boots crunch below me on the gravel. My position is very important in this colony and I know this is a privilege. One problem though you see is that, well, my wife doesn’t love my job. She is kind of against it in a way. I do not think she understands the power and privilege of being part of the house of Burgesses. At some points I don’t think she even respects me. Do you know how hard it is to work without her support? I believe so deeply in what I work for and live for and she doesn’t even acknowledge that at all. She doesn’t understand how important I am in society, and sometimes it feels like she is against everything I am with, but nevermind that. I just carry on with my life trying to ignore it.
I arrive at the courthouse. In a matter of minutes after I arrive the trial begins. Although I am supposed to be present in this, I can’t stop think about the disagreements my wife and I have. It just bothers me so much. You see my family is from England and I carey on the legacy that they created there. Her family is also from England but sometimes I don’t think she remembers that. I think she needs to remember where she is from and who and what her husband works for. She is all about protesting but really that is not important and the government and my work is most important in our family and society. It just infuriates me that she does all of this protesting. She doesn’t support me at all and frankly she doesn’t know it yet, but she’s in for a rude awakening when she doesn’t get what she’s protesting for. Who in their right mind would ever protest for that? I could talk all day about this but I have to watch a trial.
Although I am supposed to be paying attention, I just can’t help myself from thinking about the grief between my wife and me. I want so so much for her to believe in what I believe but there is just something that I believe that she just doesn’t seem to stand for. I really do not want to think this but really I think it is horrible that she is protesting for these things. Trust me I love my wife but women are really not going to be taken seriously while protesting. I think she should stop and really focus on what’s most important and that is my work. She also needs to start believing in her religion. I totally forgot about this part. Sometimes she doesn’t even go to church. Actually that makes me the angriest because why would you go against the religion of your home country? I mean it’s everything we live by and she just ignores it. It is just really disappointing.
The judge raps his gavel once more, and shouts “The court is now in session!” Everybody quiets down at his fierce tone. I’ve met the judge before. Actually we’re long time friends. He was a very compassionate man, and I admired him. Of course, I’ve done a few things myself that were cause for admiration. “Prosecution, call your first witness,” he says with a wink at me. I am a bit taken aback, because everyone knows you can’t let your personal life interfere with the courts, but I continue anyway.
“The prosecution calls on Mr. Duncan Templeton,” I say in a confident voice. On the inside, I have almost no clue what I’m doing. Duncan Templeton stands up, and shuffles forward. He is walking with a slight limp, and his clothes showed that he wasn’t too wealthy. Probably from the middling class. His ragged left shoe drags against the carpet and makes a swishing sound as he walks. It seems like it takes forever to get to the stand, but in truth it was just five seconds. He finally gets passed the bar, and is sworn in by the bailiff. He speaks in a very confident voice, and almost rushed, like he’s ready to get this over with. He sits down, and I start my questioning. I ask him a few questions about the events that took place three days ago. The defendant, Linus Pedan, had allegedly stolen an entire box of fruit and vegetables from Mr. Templeton’s market stall. He answered all of them with complete certainty. This was great for me, because it sounded like he was telling the truth. But actually, I had no clue whether he was or wasn’t. After Mr. Templeton stood down, I started to question the defendant, Mr. Pedan. He looked frightened but I kept on pressing. Of course it was my job to forcefully interrogate the defendant until he or she confesses. It sometimes gets a bit rough, but that’s just how the court system works. As our argument advances to a bellow, Mr. Pedan breaks out into tears.
“I didn’t do anything!” he sobs. “I didn’t do anything! Notanythingididn’tdoanything…” he starts to slur his words and mutters to himself. He curls up into a little ball, and cries softly to himself.
The jury and justices confer for a few minutes. My eyes lay on the poor defendant, unwilling to move. So much depended on these next few minutes for him. He could either suffer, or go on with his normal life. And his punishment will be harsher of course because he’s in the middling class. Had he been from the gentry class, he might not even be punished at all. The justices and jury all go back to their seats. The bailiff escorts Mr. Pedan out of the room. The judge asks for a vote.
“All who believe Mr. Linus Pedan is guilty, raise your hand.” Almost everyone raises a hand. A few stray members keep their hands down. “All who believe he is not guilty, raise your hand.” One of the people with their hand in the air sighs. He raises his eyebrows and slowly shakes his head as if to say: “Sorry. At least I tried.” I would feel good about winning this case, but I know that the odds were in my favor. The odds are always in the prosecutor’s favor. Who knows if Mr. Pedan was guilty or not? I don’t want to hear is reaction when the judge rules him guilty. I stroll out of the room, with my papers hand.
My job is actually pretty easy. All I have to do is verbally spar against someone, and the Colonial court system will do the rest. It’s designed in my favor, and the prosecution almost always wins. I’m very important to this colony, and they couldn’t thrive without people like me. Law enforcement is a crucial part of society, and I am its patron.