Vernon God Little

The day of my court appearance is hot and soupy. I sense dogs across town, chilling under window-mounted air-conditioners, letting any ole cat pass by, and cats letting any ole rat pass by, and rats – probably too fucken lathered to even want to pass by. I'm the only one passing by, in fact, on my way to the classroom. I mean, courtroom.

'All-a rise.'

Court froths with sighs and the stench of hot clothes this Friday. Everybody stares at me. 'Oh Lord,' as Pam would say. Pam might come by later, but Mom can't make it. Faces disfigured with memories of black blood and gray skin dot the crowd. Kin of the fallen. Mr Lechuga stares death-rays at me, and he ain't even Max's real daddy. Lorna Speltz's mom is here, like a damp kind of turtle. I get waves of sadness, not for me but for them, all mangled and devastated. I'd give anything for them to be vastated again.

Vaine is gone, her table is occupied by a shiny man wearing black and white. Judge Gurie catches his attention. 'Mr Gregson, I take it you're appearing for the State?'

'One hundred percent correct, ma'am – all the way to the district court.' Perky fucker.

The judge picks Goosens's file off her desk and waves it at the prosecutor. 'I have a report on the defendant's state of mind.'

'We vigorously oppose bail, your honor.'

'On what grounds?' asks the judge.

The prosecutor fights a smile. 'In common parlay – the kid's stole more damn chain than he can swim with. We're afraid he'll go down with it, and we'll never see him again!' A chuckle runs through the court. It stops at the judge, who scowls at Goosens's file, then turns to Abdini. 'Any further submissions in respect of this application?'

Abdini stops fussing at his table and looks up. 'Is family boy, have many interest…'

'I know all that,' the judge flaps her hand, 'I mean anything new, like the – digestive condition mentioned in this report, for instance.'

'A-ha, the toilet…' says Abdini, mostly to himself.

'If your honor pleases,' says Gregson, 'we'd object to the court doing the defense's homework for them.'

'Very well. They clearly haven't been instructed, so I'll leave the clues at that.'

'Also, ma'am, we'd like to enter a statement from the witness, Marion Nuckles,' says Gregson.

The judge's eyebrows become airborne. Breathing dies in the room. 'I was told no statement could be taken until March next year!'

'It's a transcript of digital media taken at the crime scene, Judge. A reporter from CNN sourced it for us, in the public interest.' Motherfucker Lally flashes to mind. Makes you wonder which poor suck he's fucking over right now.

'Well that's very public-spirited of them. Is the defendant's alibi supported by the witness?' asks the judge.

'Not our brief, your honor. Our statement concerns the possible whereabouts of another firearm – I'm sure we all agree, that casts a serious light on the prisoner's bail application.'

Judge Gurie puts on her glasses, reaching for the document. She scans it, frowning, then lays it down and peers at the prosecutor. 'Counsel, the actual murder weapon was found at the outset. Are you saying you can link a second gun to these crimes?'

'Very possibly, ma'am.'

'Do you have that gun?'

'Not as such, but officers are investigating.'

The judge sighs. 'Well, it's obvious neither of you has seen the psychiatric report. In the absence of hard evidence, I'll be ruling on the basis of this assessment.'

An itchy silence falls over the room, measured in tens of thousands of years. The crowd divides its attention between me and the bench, all the while juggling the decent, downtown skills that let them soak it up without looking like they're at a traffic accident and fucken enjoying it. They juggle those skills with their eyebrows.

Judge Gurie sits still for a moment, then surveys the court. It freezes. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's fair to say we've had enough. We're fed up – outraged! – at these continual damned breaches of our rightful peace.' Applause erupts; some asshole even whoops like a TV audience. You wait for the chant, 'Gu-rie! Gu-rie! Gu-rie!'

The judge pauses to straighten her collar. 'My decision today takes into account the feelings of the victims' families, as well as those of the wider community. I also acknowledge that, despite the defendant's stable, if not very affluent background, he is a standing candidate to stand trial as an accessory to these crimes.' The typist looks over at my corral, probably to boost the polish on her own dumb kids. None of them in jail today, no sirree. 'Vernon Gregory Little,' says the judge, 'in light of the disorder identified in this report, and taking into account submissions by both counsels – I am releasing you…'

'My babies, my poor dead babies,' squeals a lady at the back. Outrage spews through the room.