The design of justice

By R. Lakshminarayan


Dedicated to Contra (Nisheet Pandey) who can kill the best character in a story with panache.


Synopsis

Every lawsuit is a game. A game of reason where the wheel of justice turns around to quash all evil, while stringently upholding the truth. Some cases are tried at the discretion of a jury. Some lawyers build cases on moral grounds eloquently playing the “race card”. Some lawyers free criminals on the basis of reasonable doubt or insufficient evidence. However, in all cases we believe that justice has been served. In the whole process, we all seem to forget the greater design. The design of Justice. It works on everyone. It waits for the right time. It may not be served immediately but it upholds itself on Judgment day. Still, at the end of the day we still wonder: Is this Just?

Prologue

John William Sweeney opened his suitcase and looked into it with tired eyes. He was fighting this case for his brother, who was charged for murder in the first degree. Nervously, he placed the suitcase on the table and sat down on the chair to meditate. This was a part of his therapy. He moved his head sideways and twitched his neck after a while. The Courtroom was going to be in session in an hour but he liked to get accustomed to his surroundings better. This was his third case and probably his toughest. His brother, Marcus William Sweeney, was the top lawyer of the firm Sweeney, Lewiston and North. Being the named partner of a law firm is not an indicator of hard work and dedication. It requires skills which only a prodigy like Mark could possess.

Marcus William Sweeney was no doubt a legend in his field. He could make the jury shed tears for a rapist with his closing statement, embroiling the accused in a veil of innocence

Mark was not only popular in the District of Massachusetts, but his exploits made him an international figure thanks to the famous Nazi war criminal trial for crimes against humanity of Herman Goering vs. the Republic of Israel in 1967. Astonishingly, Goering was found “not guilty” by the international jury of the World War II tribunal which resulted in public outcry as well as critical acclaim for Mark(Goering was later hunted down and killed by Israeli intelligence: Mossad).

Today, Mark was implicated in the murder of an abusive husband, who had died due to head injuries sustained from a blunt object. What was even more intriguing about this case was that Mark had never been charged with any crime throughout his illustrious career as a lawyer. There were three eyewitnesses to the crime scene. The wife of the deceased was the only direct and strong witness to the crime. The Boston Police Department was not even sure about Mark’s involvement in the crime. In fact, Mark had come forward and surrendered to the police voluntarily. He was neither related to the deceased nor his wife and to assume that he committed the crime with a motive was clearly baseless. The police were seemingly baffled and yet content with the fact that they didn’t have to go on a mad hunt to nail the killer. It was an open and shut case for them but the chief of police confessed to the media that he had never before witnessed an absurd and confusing case as this one.

Chapter I: Mark William Sweeney vs. the State of Massachusetts

John’s mind was speeding into darkness. His largely unsuccessful stint as a lawyer was again under the scanner. It was surprising that the brother of the top lawyer in the United States was the worst at getting clients. Not many knew that his brother Mark had never considered him worthy of anything. When John applied for the position of a legal associate at Sweeney, Lewiston and North, his resume was flung at his face by his own dear brother. Mark had also told him that he could probably defend a rotten pig for inhabiting a junkyard. And yet, here he was, in the district court defending his prolific brother for a murder charge, a charge which could send Mark to the chair of death. John could never understand why his brother Mark had asked him to fight the case. Was Mark playing a trick on him? Even as a child Mark made him feel impotent and weak.

They were brothers of destiny. Looking at them, one would think they are twins. They shared the same birthday but Mark was elder to John by 2 years. Also, Mark was about an inch taller than his younger brother. But people never noticed such subtle differences when they were seen in isolation. The real question in everybody’s mind was “why did Mark Sweeney, the best lawyer in town, choose his distraught and unskilled brother for defending him in a murder trial?” Was this the family reunion of the decade? Did they forget their social differences for the sake of brotherhood?

Chapter 2: The Case

All Rise. Honorable Judge William Madison will preside over the proceedings. Case number 1021: Mr. Mark William Sweeney vs. the State of Massachusetts on the murder in the first degree of Mr. Jason Rodham Rush.

Judge: Am I to understand that the defendant will be represented by Mr. Jonathan William Sweeney?

John: Yes your honor.

Mark (callously): Ditto, Your honor.

Judge: Mr. Mark Sweeney, Let me make this clear to you. You shall not use such words in my court and you shall not resort to any antics or I shall hold you in contempt. Is that clear?

Mark: (smiling deviously) Sure your honor. Since my brother is fighting this case, I just think that he may be far too dumb to even make such comments.

The Judge glared at the defendant with his bloodshot eyes as John still stood with his eyes fixated on his brother. Mark never had any real respect for John but he never expected such harsh words in front of the whole court room infested with media.

Judge: I would also remind the media that they are not to make any noise which could lead to their eviction from the courtroom. I shall now hear from the District attorney.

District Attorney Alan Harper was a seasoned lawyer in his forties. He had lost all his cases against Mark Sweeney and in the course of time, had developed an acute dislike for him and his manipulative tactics. He wouldn’t leave this chance to nail his nemesis. In fact, even before the case was put up, Harper launched himself into the police chief’s office for the case details. This was his redemption, his judgment day.

DA Alan Harper: May I please the court, the defendant is accused of murder in the first degree…

Mark: Your honor, I request you to waive off the reading. The defendant wants to plead not guilty.

Judge: Mr. Mark Sweeney, let your lawyer do the talking. Am I to understand that you feel inadequately represented?

Mark: Your honor, my brother is a moron. He should be sitting in an elementary school right now but I interjected on my behalf as I think Mr. John Sweeney doesn’t even have the balls to stand up without wetting his pants.

Judge (angrily): Sit down Mr. Sweeney. I am warning you.

Mark (smiling): Why are you getting angry? I haven’t even started talking about your sexually deviant wife yet.

Judge (furiously strikes his gavel on the table): Mr. Sweeney, enough! One more word from your mouth and I will hold you in contempt.

Mark (still smiling): Thank You, your Honor for your kind words.

Judge: The Jury shall hear the case at 2 PM in this court. Till then, we are adjourned.

Chapter 3: Lies

As Mark and John made their way out of the courtroom cutting through the media’s glare and questions, John seemed to be in a state of humiliation. They sat in a car and Mark gave a big annoying grin to his brother.

Mark: Johnny, What the hell were you doing in the court? When will you get your ass off the chair?

John: Why did you paint me as an idiot in front of the cameras?

Mark (sarcastically): Oh. Now you are the big personality. Wait a Minute. We are fighting a murder trial here. We are not advertising for ladies lingerie out there.

John (angrily): What gives you the right to make me look like a fool?

Mark: Well, let us rewind here. Why did you have to bang the victim’s wife in the first place? You piece of shit, I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t swinging your bell in married homes.

Flashback (three months before the murder)

(John and Joanna in bed)

John (panting): When is your husband coming home?

Joanna (smoking): He is out washing hotel bathrooms with his dirty hands. I won’t let that dirty pig touch me ever. (Tears welling up on her calm and pale face) He should die. He should die for all eternity.

John: Shh. Shhh… Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I can’t see this beautiful face spoiled by tears. How can this piece of shit treat you like this?

Joanna: He treats me like a whore. He comes in drunk and swings his priced bat at me. He should die. (Bursting into tears of repression)

John: File for divorce. I will fight your case. Let me do it.

Joanna: Divorce. After two years of painful beating is that what I deserve? And then what? He doesn’t have a penny in his social security savings. I will still be a whore in the eyes of the world. (Suddenly her face lights up) I know how to do it. I know how to finish this off. Then we can go to Venezuela. My aunt stays there. Only you can do it. Only if you love me enough.

John: I will do anything for you. That bastard can never touch you again.

Chapter 4: May I please the court

1:55 PM (Present day)

John stood watching the fountain outside the courthouse. This was getting difficult for him. Mark was having lunch at Pencant’e de royale with his associates discussing new clients and making executive decisions. Why did Mark take up the blame? What is he achieving here?

2:00 PM

John: May I please the court. I have already submitted the witness list, your honor. On behalf of my client, I would like to plead not guilty to the charges leveled against him, on the grounds of insufficient evidence.

Mark: Objection, your honor.

Judge (whimsical): What?? You cannot object to your own plea.

Mark: Your honor. Request consultation with my lawyer.

Judge: Granted. Please resolve this issue Mr. Sweeney. The court will not tolerate your stupid antics in future.

(Mark walks up to John and grabs him by the arm.)

Mark: (whispering angrily) what the hell are you doing? Insufficient evidence? I surrendered for god’s sake. Get your act together, will you?

John: (nonchalantly) what? I just thought of raising reasonable doubt in front of the jury.

Mark: We are not playing that trick. I want this my way. You play along or I tell the court how stupid you are.

John: (grudgingly) Ok.

Mark: Your honor. Request for recess.

Judge: Mr. Sweeney. We just had lunch. Why the hell do you want recess now?

DA Alan Harper: Your honor. The defense is playing mute.

Judge: I am not blind Mr. Harper. You don’t need to point out every lunatic step in this case. I shall grant you 10 minutes recess Mr. Sweeney, but I warn you, you are punishing my patience here.

Chapter 5: The right defense

Mark: You stupid screw-up. What the hell do you think we are running here? A chicken factory? I have confessed to the crime, and yet, you want to prove insufficient evidence. Don’t you just get it? Is this what they taught you at your stupid third grade law school?

John: (trembling) I just thought I could play the reasonable doubt card. The jury will love it. We are practically identical twins. I can show them that I could have been the murderer. In law school they always say you don’t need to catch the real criminal. You just have to prove that your client didn’t commit the crime.

Mark: Yeah. Only if I hadn’t gone and confessed, you lousy junkie. (Yelling) WHAT THE HELL DO YOU… (Calms down) You know we are not identical. We are just reflections. The only difference is that your pea sized brain is not even good enough to distinguish between a spoon and a fork. You are a disgrace. Our parents should have drowned you in our backyard pool. Heck, I should have done it. What a fool. Shit. From now on, I am writing your lines. Follow my instructions and words and don’t you dare deviate from them. I have prepared a list of lines which you will use in court. Do you get that, you half bred mongrel? (Yelling) Did you get that?

Flashback (19 years back)

(John and Mark are playing in their room.)

Mark: Hey Johnny. Come on, give me your finger.

(John gives his finger reluctantly)

(SNAP! Mark breaks little John’s finger with anger)

Mark: Never touch my stuff again. You get it? Play with your own shitty toys.

(John starts wailing in pain. He cries for help. He calls his mom incessantly. Suddenly, Mark picks up a razor blade from his pocket and looks at John with a deviant smile and then runs the razor through his own palm thrice. Blood starts dripping from Mark’s hands. John looks in horror and stops crying. Why did Mark hurt himself? As their mother comes running towards them, Mark suddenly hugs John.)

Mark: Mommy. He didn’t do it on purpose, don’t hurt Johnny. He didn’t do it on purpose.

Mother: What did you do Johnny? What happened?

(Mark shows his blood drenched palm with a blunt face. Mom also notices a blood stained razor on the ground)

Mark: Don’t hit him mother. He didn’t do it on purpose.

Mother rushes ahead and slaps John who is unable to understand the turn of events. She then picks up Mark to dress his wounds. While leaving the room with his mother, Mark turns towards John wearing a sly smile on his face. John sits alone with a broken finger and a red face, still unable to conceive what had actually happened.

Chapter 6: Witness

DA Alan Harper: The prosecution calls its first witness, Mr. Engleworth, neighbor of the deceased Mr. Jason Rodham Rush.

Reader: Sir, Please take the stand. Do you solemnly swear in the name of god that thou shall speak the truth no matter what?

Engleworth: I do.

DA Alan Harper: Mr. Engleworth, Will you tell the court how the events transpired on the night of 2nd December 1990. Please do not miss out any details.

Engleworth: I heard some shrieks at around 10:15 PM. I was taking my nap and I was startled by the noise. I have heard these shrieks before at around the same time. But this time the cry was more painful. It sounded big, you know.

DA Alan Harper: Were these shouts of help coming from the victim Mr. Jason Rush’s house.

Engleworth: Yes. I’m sure about that.

DA Alan Harper: (looking at the jury) Please continue.

Engleworth: I crept to my window and tried to peek into my neighbor’s house. The lights were turned off and I couldn’t see anything. But I heard several thud like sounds, like somebody was being beaten or like someone was being thrashed.

DA Alan Harper: Did you raise an alarm or go to their house to inspect.

Engleworth: No. How could I? I am an old man. I have several prostrate problems. (Turns to face the jury) You see I am on these life saving drugs and I am afraid that I may fall down if I move too much. I just don’t want to strain myself. If I were younger I would have gone to inspect the house myself. Being a world war veteran, I like to have things under my control.

Judge: Mr. Engleworth, don’t recite your stories. Keep your answers specific to the questions.

DA Alan Harper: What else can you tell us Mr. Engleworth?

Engleworth: Well, I waited for long by my window. Then after an hour or so a figure appeared. It was a man. Just like the defendant. Then he sat in his car and drove away.

DA Alan Harper: Did you see the car Mr. Engleworth.

Engleworth: I didn’t have my glasses on so I could not see the number on his plates, but it looked like a Mustang.

DA Alan Harper: Thank You Mr. Engleworth. Defense’s witness.

(John rose from his seat and looked at Mark, who was quietly resting on his chair with a look of amusement on his face.)

John: Mr. Engleworth, The shrieks you heard. Were they the shrieks of a woman in distress?

Engleworth: Yes, as I said I have heard them before but…

John (interrupting): Mr. Engleworth, You said you stood for half an hour by the window. Why didn’t you come out of your house instead?

Engleworth: Like I said I was never sure if I would be able to walk across my …

John (interrupting): Mr. Engleworth, do you realize that if you lie in this court you may be committing perjury. Did the prosecution tell you to render these details or are you making them up yourself.

Engleworth: Well, well, you are a young scoundrel. I am a war veteran Mr. Legal pants, treat me with some respect you imbecile.

John: Mr. Engleworth, How old are you?

Engleworth: I am 85.

John: And you wear glasses, don’t you?

Engleworth: Yes I do.

John: How can you be sure that the person who came out of the house was the defendant and not someone else?

Engleworth: Of course it was him. My garage lights are always on. I could see his…

John: Can you tell whether it was the defendant or me? Can you say for sure Mr. Engleworth?

Mark: Objection your honor?

Judge: You cannot object to your own defense Mr. Mark Sweeney.

John: Can you say for sure that it wasn’t me who exit the house that night.

Engleworth: Well you both look like twins but I am sure it was the other fellow.

DA Alan Harper: Objection your honor. The defense is playing tricks.

Mark: For once I concur with Mr. Harper, your honor. May I speak to my lawyer this instant?

Judge: OK. This is getting ridiculous now. I will adjourn the proceedings. We will start the proceedings tomorrow at 11 AM sharp. And Mr. Mark Sweeney, please consult your lawyer “before” you defend yourself in court. The court is adjourned.

Chapter 7: In the car

Mark: What the hell were you playing there Johnny? I told you not to choose that line of defense. There is no reasonable doubt that I committed the crime. I confessed remember.

John: Confessions are not admissible to the court under section 34...

Mark: Shut up. SHUT UP you piece of shit. Do you want me to go ahead and tell the police that you killed Mr. Rush? Then you would be against me. And I will bring out all your dirty secrets. Do you want me to tell the court, how you used to fuck Mr. Jason Rush’s wife? You want me to tell them, don’t you?

John: Then you would have lied to the court. You would have committed perjury.

Mark: I haven’t even taken the stand yet, you moron, which means I am immune to perjury. The DA will have to reverse the case on you. Plus I will act as their witness if you don’t shut up and listen to me. As I told you, I will choose the path. I will plead the “right to protect an innocent”.

John: Why? So that the press portrays you as a hero?

Mark: No, you rotten sewer hole. I am doing this to save your pathetic ass. Do you understand me Johnny boy?

John: (silent)

Mark: Yes, just as I thought. You never had the balls to pull this off Johnny and you never will have. That is why they call me the justice man of America. I am taking over the case now Johnny. You can watch and learn from the expert. The jury will cry for me. Wait till you see me in action

Flashback (the night of the murder 10:14 PM)

Joanna: He shall come in any moment. I shall cry for help when you start hitting him. This way people will think he is hitting me.

John: Does he really hit you everyday?

Joanna: What do you mean? Where do you think I got these scars from? Shh… shh he is coming.

Mr. Jason Rush enters his house using his key and suddenly the power goes out. John swings the baseball bat on Rush’s head using all the force he can gather. Mr. Rush falls to the floor. He moans and tries to get up. By this time Joanna has started crying for help. John swings again in a fit of impulse. He then keeps swinging till blood sprays from Mr. Rush’s head. Joanna is still crying and John keeps hitting the head till some fragments of brain and skull fly across the room. Then he stops. Joanna stops crying. There is silence. John is suddenly overtaken by remorse and fear. He has never killed a person before. He trembles and drops the bat on the floor.

Joanna: There, you did it. You freed me darling. I don’t have to live in a prison anymore. (Sees John’s pale face) What is it Johnny? You saved me. We can now run away to Venezuela. I have his life insurance cover. No one can stop us now. Why are you worried? I have his will he left the house to me. I have already sold it to some tenants. Look at me Johnny.

John: I have never killed anyone.

Joanna: You did it for my protection. You saved an innocent.

John: But we planned this. We planned the whole murder.

Joanna: I love you Johnny. Do you love me? You didn’t commit a crime. You saved us both. We can live in peace. We are one now.

John: No. No. I killed him. (Starts weeping) I killed a man. Oh god! I killed a man.

After half an hour of self incrimination John starts running towards the door.

John: (with swollen eyes and anxiety) I have to run. Oh my God, I have to run.

Joanna: Johnny, wait. Wait Johnny. I love you Johnny.

John rushes outside to his car and speeds away while Mr. Engleworth watches in amazement and confusion from his window.

Chapter 8: Motive

Mark: Your honor. There is a slight change in the proceedings. I will defend myself. My lawyer will second chair.

Judge: Does the prosecution have an objection? If you have, you may speak now.

DA Alan Harper: None your honor. I am a fan of Mr. Mark Sweeney’s antics. There is nothing better than watching a clown show his tricks.

Judge: You may continue, Mr. Sweeney.

Mark: Thank You, Your Honor.

DA Alan Harper: Prosecution calls Sergeant James Thomas Billow of the Boston Police Department.

(Sgt. Billow takes the stand and the oath)

DA Alan Harper: Sir, What was your hypothesis on inspecting the crime scene?

Sgt. Billow: Well Sir, The fact is that we never knew about the murder before Mr. Sweeney showed up in the morning at the police station.

DA Alan Harper: Well then, what did Mr. Sweeney tell you?

Sgt. Billow: He said he had been driving through that street on the night of 2nd December 1990. Then he heard some shrieking sounds in the neighborhood and he stepped out of his vehicle in order to inspect the chaos. Then he heard some crying noises again. He identified the house and rushed into it. The door was unlocked which was later confirmed through the wife of the victim. He then picked up a 1986 wood class baseball bat and struck the victim Mr. Rush, on the head, thrice. He also claimed that the victim did not fall unconscious and was also attacking Mr. Sweeney, which compelled him to swing the bat again. This time however, the blow was fatal.

DA Alan Harper: Did Mr. Sweeney tell you precisely what compelled him to commit the crime?

Sgt. Billow: Yes Sir, he did. He said he was protecting an individual from domestic battery. In fact, he pointed out several sections in the law and the bible which justified the use of force to protect innocent people. He also claimed to have no contact with the victim or his wife, prior to this encounter, which made his cause of action legally unprecedented. He claimed that he was doing it to protect the woman, but also intended to render Mr., Rush unconscious so that he could be apprehended by the appropriate authorities. He confessed to the crime quite voluntarily which made it easier for us to investigate the crime scene. The wife of the victim was in shock and could confirm only some parts of the story.

DA Alan Harper: Sergeant Billow, Did you ever ask Mr. Sweeney, why he didn’t call the Police department immediately after the crime.

Sgt. Billow: He claimed that the phone line in the house was dead as was the nearest telephone booth. We confirmed this too.

DA Alan Harper: Sgt. Billow, I am now compelled to ask you, did you ever wonder why Mr. Sweeney didn’t rush to the police station on the night of the murder. In fact, records show that he waited till dawn to construct and justify a decent story. Isn’t that true Sergeant?

Mark: Objection, Speculative.

Judge: Sustained.

DA Alan Harper: Sergeant, did you ask Mr. Sweeney as to why he appeared at the police station only in the morning?

Sgt. Billow: We did Sir. But he said it was a cold chilly night and he was feeling tired. He felt that he could go home and sleep. Since we had his confession anyway, this delay really did not matter to us.

DA Alan Harper: Let me ask you this Sergeant. Do you believe in God?

Sgt. Billow: Yes Sir, I do.

DA Alan Harper: Do you believe this fairytale story Mr. Sweeney told you?

Sgt. Billow: Well Sir, I have to say that we bought Mr. Sweeney’s story completely when we saw the crime scene. But the only thing that came to my mind was fingerprints. I had a doubt at one point when I saw that the bat had no finger prints. I just felt it could be a well planned murder if the assailant was so particular that he left no finger prints. That is precisely why we charged him with murder in the first degree.

DA Alan Harper: You think Mr. Sweeney planned this? (Facing the jury) You mean he didn’t do it to save an innocent soul?

Sgt. Billow: That is what we felt after our investigation.

DA Alan Harper: Thank you Sgt. Billow. Defense’s witness

Mark: Sgt. Billow wasn’t it embarrassing for the Boston police department that they never came to know about the murder in the first place. They only came to know about it after I confessed. Doesn’t that make you feel incompetent, Sgt. Billow?

DA Alan Harper: Objection Your honor, irrelevant.

Judge: Sustained. Sergeant, you need not answer that question.

Mark: Sgt. Billow. How cold was the night of 2nd December? Just give me a rough idea.

Sgt. Billow: Well it was cold sir. Quite chilly I suppose. We had snow cover in most parts of the city.

Mark: Well in that case, Sgt. Do you wear a coat or a blazer when you feel cold?

DA Alan Harper: Objection your honor. What is the defense trying to achieve here?

Mark: That will be clear very soon your honor.

Sgt. Billow: Well yeah. I do wear a jacket to keep myself warm. In fact we wear boots, woolen trousers, thick caps and gloves to keep …

Mark: In that case, Sergeant. Is it very hard to believe that I might be driving my car wearing a pair of woolen gloves?

Sgt. Billow: Not at all Sir.

Mark: In fact, is it not possible that due to the escalating chain of events, I might have still adorned the gloves while holding the bat?

Sgt. Billow: It is possible sir.

Mark: (looking at the jury) I never thought the DA could stoop to such levels in order to make me look like a paid assassin. Mr. Harper here would have wanted my fingerprints on the bat. It is a crime to even wear gloves now. Please vote for our next presidential candidate Mr. Alan Harper.

(Laughter in the courtroom)

Judge: Order, order. Is that all Mr. Sweeney?

Mark: yes your honor.

DA Alan Harper: The prosecution has no more witnesses your honor.

Chapter 9: Joanna

Mark: The defense calls Mrs. Joanna Rush to the stand.

(Joanna steps to the stand and takes her oath)

Mark: Mrs. Rush, Did your husband abuse you repeatedly?

Joanna: Yes. He used to beat me with his bat after coming home drunk.

Mark: As Mr. Engleworth pointed out, do you cry for help when this happens.

Joanna: (tears) Yes I do. But nobody comes for help.

Mark: Mrs. Rush, on the night of the murder, was your husband beating you?

Joanna: Yes

Mark: Then what happened and I request you to address the court.

Joanna: (pointing to Mark) this man came to my rescue that night. Our door was open and he barged in to calm things down. Then my husband swung his bat at him. In an act of self defense Mr. Mark Sweeney here grabbed the bat and pulled it away from my husband’s control. Then he swung it once at my husband’s head to knock him out. (Now almost sobbing) But my husband did not stop. He lunged at this helpful man and tried to attack him with his fist. (Pause) (Wipes her tears)

Mark: Then what happened?

Joanna: Then Mr. Mark swung his bat again and my husband dropped dead.

Mark: What did you feel after that?

Joanna: I felt free. Mr. Sweeney had liberated me. (To the jury) I had an abusive husband and I was too afraid to complain to the police. He threatened to kill me one night because he felt I was not faithful to him.

Mark: Do you hold any grudge against me Mrs. Joanna?

DA Alan Harper: Objection. Manipulative, your honor.

Judge: Overruled. Answer the question Mrs. Joanna.

Joanna: No. On the contrary I was happy that Mr. Mark came to my rescue. (Facing the jury) I just hope there are people out there who can hear our cries. There are millions of us suffering…

Judge: Mrs. Rush, I understand your emotions but please keep your answers short.

Joanna: Yes, your honor.

Mark: Then what happened?

Joanna: Mr. Mark asked me if I was alright. Then he tried to call 911. But my phone was out of order. Then Mr. Sweeney asked me if there were any phone booths around. I then recalled that there was one at the corner of the 90th street. As he was leaving the house, I remembered that the phone booth was out of order. Mr. Sweeney then comforted me and told me that everything will be fine. He then left the house.

Mark: Have you ever seen me before, Mrs. Rush? And do address the court.

Joanna: No. Mr. Mark Sweeney came out of nowhere to save me.

Mark: Thank You, Mrs. Rush. Defense rests your honor.

Judge: Would the prosecution like to cross-examine the witness?

DA Alan Harper (nods his head and gets up): Quite a story, I must say Mrs. Rush. First, I would like to extend my congratulations to you for the receipt of your husband’s insurance claim. His death has made you a millionaire I guess.

Mark: Objection. Irrelevant and despicable.

Judge: Sustained.

DA Alan Harper: You say that your husband abused you physically. Why didn’t you register a complaint with the police?

Joanna: I tried. The police refused to file my report.

DA Alan Harper: Oh now you are making stories Mrs. Rush. I suppose you never went to the police.

Mark: Objection. Speculative.

Judge: Sustained.

DA Alan Harper: (with anger) how much did Mr. Sweeney pay you to tell this story Mrs. Rush?

Mark: Objection your honor.

DA Alan Harper (not listening to anything): You come up with a nonsensical false story and you try to defend Mr. Sweeney as your hero. How much did he pay you Mrs. Rush?

(The court is in mayhem. People start whispering simultaneously. There are hushed voices all over)

Mark: Objection your honor.

DA Alan Harper: Don’t you show your sorry face to me Mrs. Rush. The court knows you are lying. Tell me the truth. How much did he pay you?

(More hushed whispers)

Judge: Order, Order. Silence or I will throw all you journalists out.

Joanna: (with determination) Mr. Harper, you never got a beating from my husband. Do tell me when your spouse thrashes you. Then we will talk about the money Mr. Sweeney paid to save your ass.

(The court falls silent)

DA Alan Harper: The prosecution rests your honor.

Judge: Ok. I will have a recess. We shall proceed with your closings after the recess. The court is adjourned.

Chapter 10: Reason

All this time John never understood a word of what was going on. He gaped at the whole thing like a monkey in a bathing suit.

Mark: Well, Johnny that was swell, wasn’t it? Why are you looking at me like a chimp? Ha-ha.

John: How did you build up all this? How did you create this stuff? I never called the police.

Mark: Ha-ha. That my friend is great lawyering. Don’t you get it? That is why I am rich and you are poor. You need to plug the holes Johnny. But I must say the woman you are sleeping with has her brains in the right place. A meeting with her before today’s trial was amazing. You are too dumb to be even seeing her. Without her heart rendering testimony none of this would have happened. The DA must be banging his head on the desk by now. Hah! That sucker.

Flashback (meeting before the trial at Joanna’s residence)

Mark: May I come in Mrs. Rush. I am Marcus Sweeney, the supposed murderer of your husband.

Joanna: Yes. Please do. Sir, I am confused as to why you are standing for the trial? Why are you taking the blame for the murder?

Mark: Well let’s just say that I love Johnny. (Winking) Don’t you? But more than that, Johnny never had the balls to stand up for himself.

Joanna: I am sure you are in my house regarding the case?

Mark: Well yes. But I cannot help but admiring your body Mrs. Rush. It just makes my blood flow in several places

Joanna: (crossing her arms) May we please discuss the trial?

Mark: Sure. First, I heard you got your husband’s insurance claim. Was a hell of a lot of money? What are you going to do with it?

Joanna: I am planning to go to Venezuela to stay with my aunt.

Mark: Is that so? Okay. So Mrs. Rush, I am sure you must have heard about me in the papers. I am a very tough lawyer. I only look at important details. Like, was your phone out of order that night?

Joanna: No. I had severed my phone connection about 2 weeks before the murder.

Mark: Well then the case is open and shut. For your information, the nearest phone booth to your place in 90th street has been out of order for weeks too. Do you understand what I am trying to imply here?

Joanna: Yes. You are placing yourself in the crime scene and breaking all exit points for the prosecution.

Mark: So intelligent, and yet you sleep with my brother. Come to my place I will show you how the rich live and reproduce.

Joanna: Just tell me what I have to do in the witness stand. I just don’t want Johnny to go to prison.

Chapter 11: Closing statements

DA Alan Harper: Members of the jury. What we witnessed today was not only a trial for prosecuting a murder suspect but also a trial where killing a man was justified as an act of God. It has desensitized the issue of homicide. What kind of a world are we living in? A person who breaks into some home to kill a man and justifies it as an act of goodwill is not only committing a crime against humanity he is also bending the law at his whim. All you 12 people sitting here to pass a judgment on Mr. Mark William Sweeney very well know that this murder was not out of pity, but out of rage. Well the next time I kill someone I will just say that he or she was trying to kill me. Then I will walk across the street to buy an eyewitness. Does the defense think that we are foolish enough to buy his ill constructed story? Well, I am not convinced. Even if the 12 of you are, think about the way this crime was committed. It was cold blooded. The weapon was struck on the victim’s head at least 10 times. What is even more compelling is that Mr. Sweeney claims that he wore gloves to protect himself from the winter. Oh, come on now Mr. Sweeney that is not even close to an excuse. Mr. Sweeney took matters into his own hands. He planned the murder and made a deal with Mrs. Rush. He will refuse it. I mean, won’t we all refuse that we took a small down-payment to finish a convenient job. Murder for money. The wife plans redemption. She gets a top lawyer to iron out the legal wrinkles and goes home with a million dollars. Mr. Sweeney is a cold blooded murderer. We all know what the law dictates under such circumstances. Today, I ask the 12 of you to punish an act which has so blatantly been portrayed as noble. I ask you today to respect that law you uphold and punish this man.

Mark: My brother was 10 years old when he got into a fight. He was fighting a 15 year old large bully and was obviously losing heavily. Both of us were extremely small compared to the bully but in my heart I felt that the two of us could take him. I entered the fight and together we drove the bully away. Members of the jury, that day taught me a lesson. Stand up to injustice. I was moving through the 89th street that night to reach home early. People like Mr. Harper here, may feel that I wasn’t supposed to be there. But fate made me take that road that night. When I heard the cries of a helpless woman I knew that helping her was the right thing to do. In fact, even the police never did the right thing. They have never even considered coming to Mrs. Rush house to see the extent of abuse her husband was inflicting on her. Well, I was there to help her and so I did. A man died. Yes, a man died. But did he die because of my rage? No. As you all heard Mrs. Rush vouches that I did so to protect myself. If I could have knocked the man unconscious wouldn’t I have done that? I had no prior grudge against Mr. Rush and I am not gaining anything from his death, am I? Don’t you think it’s bizarre that I surrendered myself to the police? A planned murder? I did that because I wanted them to know that I did the right thing. Isn’t it bizarre that Mr. Harper comes up with an excellent urban legend to shame an abused, domestic lady? I say he should be a screenwriter. What a plot, what suspense.

I just wanted to help this innocent lady. How dare the prosecution ask me to not stand for what is right. If a man dies doing the wrong thing I say let him die. If a man is tried for doing the right thing, we all know that something somewhere is very, very wrong. Even if you feel that I did the wrong thing I still believe in what I did. Hell, send me to the electric chair. Even if you let me go free and I see someone in distress I will try and help that person. If the bad guy dies during the struggle I would say, so be it. Mr. Harper feels that I am making an excuse for wearing gloves that night. How low can you stoop Mr. Harper, to convict an innocent man? Please tell the court that our army is full of murderers. Why should they defend our country? They are killing human beings, they should fry in hell. They should be cut into pieces and thrown to the dogs. Oh, how does it matter that the enemy wants us dead? We should never kill. Its inhuman, its wrong to save innocent lives, isn’t that what you think Mr. Harper.

Mr. Harper raised the question of morality here. Let me ask him, how moral is it to beat your wife? We stand here today mourning over a person who abused his wife. How noble is that? I still think the world needs to understand the difference between right and wrong as clearly Mr. Harper, an expert practitioner of this profession, feels that saving an innocent, harried and abused person is still immoral if the oppressor is killed. That is all what matters to him. The death of a violent, abusive, drunk husband, who is not a man enough to keep his wife safe. What a pity. What a pity. Save the oppressor. Let the innocent die in pain. She signed up for it. I am afraid to live in this world of violence where a victim is painted as a conspirator. Where a good deed is painted as a convenient job. I don’t want to live in this world anymore. Please do Mr. Harper a favor. Give him what he wants. Let the victims suffer. Let the rapists rape your daughters. You want to stop them? No. Mr. Harper said you cannot kill an oppressor. He is a human too. Why don’t I offer myself for rape? Please rape me. Kill me. I will not complain. Because I cannot complain can I? Because even after you rape me my oppressor should be let free. He was just having fun. Yes, Mr. Harper. Is this the world you want us to live in? Is this the world?

(Silence as Mark returns to his seat)

Judge: Members of the jury will now be excused to confirm the verdict. Till that time, the court is adjourned.

(In the defendant’s chamber)

Mark: (jubilant) How was I?

John: You lied about our childhood. I was the one who got into the fight to save you. How manipulative can you be?

Mark: Hey, Hey, hey, lets not forget who is on trial here. I took the blame for your doings Johnny boy. If we are to lose today I am going to have my ass fried on a chair.

John: You haven’t done me any favor here. You wanted to be the accused.

Mark: Yes. I wanted to be in jail for your crime. I don’t see where I have become less caring or less brotherly.

Flashback (on the night of the murder 11:10 PM)

John nervously dials a number in a phone booth. His hands are trembling. More than anything he was disgusted with himself as he was calling the one person he hated the most.

Mark: Hello? Who is this? Don’t you know the time mister?

John: Marky, it’s me.

Mark: Oh, Johnny my whining brother. What happened? Let me guess. You are broke and you want money. Well, darling you know I don’t give a shi…

John: (interrupting) Marky, I committed a murder.

Mark: hmmm. That is interesting. Whom did you whack? I hope a homeless guy.

John: I didn’t do it on purpose Marky. You know this married woman I was involved with. I bludgeoned her husband. I was not in my senses Marky. Please get me out of this shit.

(A brief silence looms over the phone)

Mark: So you killed a married man? Hmm. Do one thing. Don’t go to the police. Tell me exactly what happened and I shall do the necessary.

John told him the whole account leaving no detail behind. As the conversation was nearing its end Mark had a distinct smile on his face.

Mark: Kiddo. Go to your home and sleep tight. Your brother Marky has everything under his control.

The next day Mark went to the police station assuming the role of a murderer and narrated all the details to the police chief. John never knew that his brother would do something like this. When John got the news of his brother’s arrest, his heart skipped a beat. Was Marky sacrificing himself for me? Why is he doing this?

Chapter 12: the verdict

Judge: Madam Foreperson, Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?

Madam Foreperson: We have your honor.

Judge: What say you?

Madam Foreperson: In the case of Mr. Marcus William Sweeney vs. the state of Massachusetts, we find the defendant Mr. Marcus William Sweeney, under the charge of murder in the first degree “NOT GUILTY”.

Judge: The court is adjourned. I thank the jury for their services.

Chapter 13: The last conversation

(John is driving the car and Mark is sitting beside him)

Mark: So Johnny. What did you learn today?

John: Try to act over smart and people will love you.

Mark: Shut your beak up. This is what you give me for saving your ass?

John: I didn’t understand one thing Marky. Why did you take the case? In fact why did you implicate yourself?

Mark: Oh Johnny, Johnny boy. You never understand, do you? This is what makes me the best lawyer in town. The true test of a lawyer is when he is asked to defend himself for a crime he has committed. I never had an opportunity like this. The fun, the racing adrenaline, it makes me swoon with amazement. Now I am being hailed as a hero as well. More than that, it was the excitement. To find yourself fighting death against all odds, even after you confess to having committed the crime is breathtaking. My record as a lawyer still stands to be envied. This is my pinnacle. No lawyer could have achieved this. A half breed mongrel like you could never understand this.

John: Well at least, Joanna is happy.

Mark: Ha-ha-ha-ha. Joanna. I still cannot believe that you are in love with a much smarter woman than yourself. You know Johnny that is your problem. You think that whore is a solution to all your failures. Do you really think she loves you? Do you really think she was beaten by her husband? I saw her scars that day. They were 3 years old. Actually, a moron like you could never observe such things.

John: You can call me names Marky, but don’t you dare speak about Joanna like that.

Mark: I will speak about her as I like. That fucking whore nails four or five people at the same time and still she gets a stupid fuck up like you to do her dirty job.

John: (getting angry) I am warning you Marky. Don’t spe…

Mark: Oooh. I am scared now. Who are you gonna call now? Mommy? You know why the whore is going to Venezuela, you numb nut. That is because the United States has no extradition treaty with Venezuela. And you think nailing her every night makes you her soul mate. She is worse than a bitch. But numb nuts like you fall for nymphs like that.

John: (angrily) Mark. Stop talking like that. Or else…

Mark: Or else what. You are going to sell that whore in a market? Well she must have been sold a million times. Probably that is what she does for a living. That fucking whore really got a good deal out of you. How many blowjobs did you get from that slut? Ten? Isn’t that the number of times you swung your bat at poor Mr. Rush.

John: Mark. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.

Mark: You noisy swine. You get enraged for a whore. All she does is fuck with many fools like you. Yeah, she is damn smart. The bitch made you believe that you are in love. That is no surprise since a fucking dunce like you can fall for a fly giving you a lap dance. You know what love is? Why don’t you crawl up to mommy and suck on her boobs. That is love for you, you imbecile. Anyway, at least Joanna would stop supplying milk for a week. That bitch may even open a whore shop for stupid fucking idiots like you.

(John loses himself and draws Mark’s gun from the glove compartment and shoots Mark in the head. The car skids to a stop. Johnny comes out of the car and drags his brother’s dead body on the empty road.)

John: There is your love. (Shoots another bullet at his head). You feel my brotherly love now Marky, you piece of shit (he empties 4 bullets in Mark’s brain but restrains himself from shooting the last bullet).

(After some time John is unable to stand on his feet and he sinks to the ground with remorse and anger. He weeps by his brother’s body.)

John: (with a choked throat) Why Marky, Why. Why couldn’t you just shut up? Why?

Chapter 14: Venezuela

John drives past Joanna’s house and suddenly stops the car. He must see her. They are leaving tonight for Venezuela. He has to take her in his arms. Oh, how he longed to see her. How much this moment had cost him? All he wanted now was a glimpse of the lovely look on her face.

(As he entered the apartment he called out for Joanna. Suddenly Joanna started shrieking and ran from her bedroom naked to embrace John.)

Joanna: Help me Johnny. Help me. This man is trying to rape me.

John: Who?

An old man: Hey. Who the fuck is this?

(John raises the gun and fires a bullet into the man’s head. The old fellow falls in an instant.)

John: (throws away the empty gun) Baby, Who is this fellow? How did he get in here? Come quick pack your bags. We have a flight to catch.

(As he turns to pack his bags, he finds the chief of police uniform on the floor along with the nameplate and his badge.)

John: (startled) Honey, This old man was the chief of police?

(Then another deadly realization dawns upon him.)

John: Joanna, Why didn’t you shout for help before I entered your apartment?

(As he turns around he finds Joanna holding the chief’s gun against his temple.)

Joanna: Your brother was right, you piece of shit. You really are the dumbest, aren’t you? Why did you even come here?

John: But baby, we have to catch the flight. I love you.

Joanna: What didn’t you understand about me? I do this all the time. Every year, a slain husband makes a posthumous payment for my vacation. You were just the means Johnny. You are cute, but you ain’t the brightest.

John: What are you talking about? I love you baby.

Joanna: Keep your love in your pocket, you idiot. I have had many lovers. May their souls rest in peace.

John: Baby, I love you. Why are you doing this? I love you baby.

Joanna: Yeah, and I loved your shoes Johnny. But I have only one ticket.

(And then she pulls the trigger.)

By

R. Lakshminarayan

Disclaimer: The events and characters in the story are fictitious. Some lines used in the story may not be an accurate representation of actual legal arguments. The author does not vouch for the exact sections in the law quoted above. All matters regarding legal issues cannot be referenced to this story as a legal source.

The wrong train

By R. Lakshminarayan

Prologue

Every situation has some irony associated with it. The irony is either amusing or tragic. Since I travel by train a lot, I believe my responsibility to describe in detail the aspects of travel and the social ethos associated with it, is essential. As they say, ordinary situations create extraordinary circumstances. Again, I wonder whom are people referring to when they use “they”. I liberally assume that “they” refers to a group of cranky village philosophers sitting under a peepul tree delivering random statements with no particular significance. The best thing to do is not to mess with them as they may be wannabe motivational gurus desperate for recognition. My grandmother tells me that it may be their first step towards “shankaracharyadom” of some “new” ancient mutt which will be discovered later by carbon dating and the new TV serial on NBC. However, I should move on with my story about the passenger train “Gondwana express”.

Chapter 1: People

Getting inside a train is an easily forgettable experience. Because, by the time you reach your seat, devious railway agents may already have reserved that seat for three other gentlemen, who on confrontation show pale sweaty faces filled with remorse and exasperation. They realize very soon that until the TT arrives their travelling seat and bed would be the famed Indian railways toilet. After settling on my seat, I invariably look out for the most dangerous traveler – a travelling middle aged lady. The travelling lady usually occupies a lot of space, and it should be noted that I’m not simply trying to pour scorn on obese ladies. It is just that, irrespective of their size, volume, weight, area, and head weight, these ladies carry a great deal of baggage. They probably carry some of their housing bricks with them, just to avoid homesickness.

In fact, given a chance, the lady would hire a carpenter to construct an open wardrobe in the train and shed tears of joy watching her 150 pieces (!!!) of clothing dance with joy in the peaceful wind blowing through the train windows, while other harried passengers would haplessly dash for a place in the already overcrowded bogey, leaving the unluckiest ones to cling on to the ceiling fan like primates.

She would then pull out a mammoth sized lunch carrier from her mountain sized handbag and wait for the train to start. As soon as the train starts to move, she would execute her plan with skillful precision. Out of nowhere, the “she- Houdini” would produce 5 jars of pickles and hand it over to the nearby passengers who hold them with intense curiosity, peeking at the lifelessly floating pieces of vegetables in the sea of oil. Shortly afterwards, she would pass on some of the food to her daughter- in - law who would invariably seat herself at the end of some other coach. Assuming that she is bound by law to not get up from her seat, the travelling lady would play a game of “pass the parcel” with the passengers. By the time the container reaches her daughter – in - law, most of the food is already in the stomachs of vengeance seeking passengers (some of whom are genuinely hungry).

The train is however, not a platform for a one man/woman show. There are other interesting people who unknowingly make their presence obvious. There is always one old man removing his dentures before going to sleep. There is another fellow who would squat like a heron while his friend would lie down like Lord Venkateshwara in his heavenly abode “Vaikuntham”.

Then, there is a first time mother, holding a seemingly claustrophobic baby and adjacent to her seat an experienced mother instructs her confidently on bringing up children the right way, while her 15 year old son is busy gazing at the nonchalant European girl sitting in some other compartment and secretly picturing his own fantasy version of a transcontinental “Romeo and Juliet” with her. There are also some passengers who catch up on their extended afternoon siestas that generally last for days and nights.

Chapter 2: The Setting

This time my compartment had all these characters from the above described social ensemble. The incident I shall narrate involves three compartments in the bogey. In my compartment an old man, two afternoon siesta fellows and two newly met individuals were having a dull time. The two newly met individuals engaged themselves in a dry conversation and alternately assumed the heron and Lord Venkateshwara position, while I sat on the top berth with a magazine as the train chugged through stations. The old man was very particular that his dentures were safe and to ensure its safety he didn’t allow his to eyes wander. It is critical to note here that the two sleeping people made no significant contribution to this setting but I should include them for the sake of completeness and humanity.

The adjacent compartment consisted of the seemingly claustrophobic baby, its mother, the over confident experienced mother and the fantasy driven teenager, all of whom were deeply involved in their social engagements as described in the previous chapter.

The next compartment had the danger woman – the travelling middle aged lady, the European beauty and three disgruntled men.

Chapter 3: The Night

In my compartment the two newly met individuals talked for a long time, exchanging ideas, smiling at each other, posing arguments and twisting their moustaches. They were discussing the outcome of a cricket match between Muscat and Egypt. After a lot of head scratching and moustache twisting, they came to the conclusion that the argument had no significance as Muscat and Egypt probably don’t even have a cricket team (even if they had one, nobody cared as such). The short balding man wore a blue shirt while the other guy sported a French beard and wore horn rimmed glasses. For the sake of simplicity I shall refer to them as “Baldy” and “Frenchie”.

Baldy was a bit younger than frenchie, but frenchie was younger than the old man. As the night descended over the train, the old man made preparations for sleep. The lights were off and everyone assumed sleeping positions as darkness infiltrated the compartment through the windows. After a few moments I heard some strange noises and in moments someone turned on the lights. The old man was up on his feet and Frenchie and Baldy were looking at each other with anger and bewilderment. “Awwyooeh vooeuyyuu? Whaayaay doyeee?” said the old man. It took us time to understand that the incoherency in the old man’s speech was due to the absence of his dentures. After putting them on, he reiterated his words “What is this? What are you doing”? Immediately, both Baldy and Frenchie stood up and shouted “This man is a thief”.

Chapter 4: Confessions

After this development the characters in the train exhibited an unprecedented transformation in their behavior and eagerly took turns to interrogate Baldy and Frenchie separately. The travelling lady was visibly terrified that someone might steal her sandals, which would seem out of context here, but the thought process that goes inside the mind of a travelling woman is so complex that even experienced researchers have often found themselves at sea while analyzing this dangerous traveler. With utmost caution she put her sandals in her purse while people walked all over her luggage frantically, just to catch a glimpse of a thief. The real problem is that thieves usually do not look notorious nor do they have fungus infested faces expressing cruelty. They may even resemble your friendly neighbor- hood spider-man. In fact the spider-man outfit helps these burglars to hide their identities. The important issue at hand was that the thieves were deceptive and, after a lot of thought the old man ordered Baldy and Frenchie to give a brief account of the incident.

Frenchie was conspicuously calm and elegant during his disclosure. “I was reaching for my bag when this gentleman made a dash for my left back-pocket in which I had my black leather wallet.” Suddenly Baldy rose from his seat and exclaimed “Aha, your wallet is in your right back-pocket and your wallet is not black, but brown in color, you liar”. Frenchie gave him a wry smile and said “Oh yes sir, you must be correct; after all I couldn’t keep an eye on it all the time. However, it seems that you were responsible enough to look after it, for me, thank you.” With this he crossed his arms and looked at the confused audience flashing a victorious grin. By this time Baldy had realized that Frenchie had bamboozled him, triggering the sudden outburst of truth from him, which would eventually precipitate his downfall. Baldy nervously explained events which could never possible occur in a train and stuttered so many times that the crowd unanimously felt that Frenchie was a better speaker and had the potential to turn into a politician some day. It was evident that Baldy had technically hammered nails on his own coffin because everyone was convinced that Baldy had made a dash for Frenchie’s wallet. They chained baldy to the upper berth ladder and one exceptionally excited man rushed to the train guards. Soon, the gathering dispersed and people started losing interest in the thief. Slowly Frenchie approached Baldy and whispered to him with supreme confidence “I’m sorry mate, two thieves cannot loot the same train, it just shows that you are an amateur. If you were my apprentice I could have taught you backup measures in case you get caught. You see, the key to burglary is tact, and as you can see I’m a master of this art”.

Moments later, the railway policeman tapped on Frenchie’s shoulder and as Frenchie turned around; his expression underwent a sea of change. Frenchie’s shock revealed rivers of sweat on his face, as soon as he saw the policeman.

Chapter 5: The Culprit

“Mr. Patel, isn’t it? You were the one who stole my gold watch last week from this very train. We were having a wonderful conversation after which, you snatched my watch at night and vanished. That day I was off duty and probably you caught me off guard as well. But, I cannot believe that you would commit the classical mistake of boarding the same train the second time” said the policeman as Frenchie hung his face in shame and disgust. As everyone watched in silence, the policeman released Baldy and frisked Frenchie away to the police compartment. Baldy heaved a sigh of relief and wore a defiant smile accentuating his ultimate victory over Frenchie.

Two hours later we found out that Baldy had just disappeared and the travelling lady’s box of jewels was missing. It is very surprising why no one could point out to the policeman that even Baldy might be a thief. However, the only thing that ran in my mind was the one line Baldy would love to tell Frenchie if they ever met in future- “I may have touched the wrong wallet, but you boarded the wrong train.”

Conscience at the crossroads

By R. Lakshminarayan

Chapter 1: Confession

I am not a thief. I try to earn a living for my family. My life has a meaning and I always wanted to achieve something better. Destiny painted me gray because it left me with no money. One harsh twist of fate left me penniless and I had to indulge myself in a painful activity which tested my conscience.

I pick pockets. I have a wife and a son and they still believe that I work in an insurance company. This is not the story of my expeditions and techniques, but this is the story that crushed the purpose of my existence.

Chapter 2: Beginnings

My father was the most respectable man in the neighborhood. He was hailed as an honest, principled peon in the government hospital situated in the heart of Chirag Delhi (an urban township in 1985). I was brought up near the slum- like government quarters allotted for unskilled employees. My father never denied me anything. He took pains to send me to a good school so that I could equip myself with proper knowledge which, he could never receive. All my materialistic demands were met, as my father would buy me expensive clothes and continued to adorn his ragged, torn dhoti wherever he went. My educational capabilities were below par but my father encouraged me to do better. If I scored very poor marks in a term, my father would go to the janitor’s room in the hospital and shed tears, but he would never show disappointment on his cheerful and gentle face. After many failures and relegations, I reached high school and since higher education was more expensive my father barely managed to pay my fees at school. At this crucial juncture my mother contracted pulmonary tuberculosis and after a few months she passed away in pain and suffering. My father’s dejection was uncontrollable after her demise and her sweet memories accentuated the agonizing void in our lives. Shortly my father suffered from bouts of pneumonia and doctors linked his failing health to the depression caused by my mother’s death. Days skimmed past our deprived lives making each day more difficult and nostalgic.

On the fateful night of August 15th the rain gods poured fresh water on the parched landscape, filling the roots of magnanimous old trees with precious crystal clear water, forcing the birds to abandon their quest to conquer the sky and allowing earthworms to jiggle through perforations, digging their trenchant heads through the tender soil like spiral wires. I arrived at my home in the dark, drenched and tired. My eyes fell on a new cycle placed magnificently on the entrance gleaming from the moon light that shone on its water soaked body. My dad had bought me my first cycle, spending his lifetime savings just to see a large gleaming smile on my face. When I rushed inside the house beaming with joy, I saw my father lying on the ground, soaked in rainwater which was streaming down his nostrils. His pulse was ticking but his body was as cold as a block of ice. He had braved the rain to buy me a birthday present. As I rushed him to the hospital his miserly heart gave up hope and his stubborn lungs refused to admit fresh air in its domain. My father’s last gesture hurt my sanity and this inexplicable grief ripped my heart apart. He was my life, he was my hero and he was my God. That day destroyed all elements of faith in me and since then I have trudged a path of deceit and dishonesty with an impassive heart and a trounced soul.

Chapter 2: Habits

My aunt brought me up after my father’s demise and I spent my youth by taking up menial jobs like selling papers and delivering eggs in the locality. The income I earned from these makeshift jobs would hardly fetch me a square meal. There were days when I would ask myself about the effort my father made to educate me and my utilization of such opportunities. Such questions would increase my desperation and deepened my grief. If I couldn’t study even after working hard in school, why was God sacrificing my happiness at crucial junctures in my life? Why did he take my father away? Why was I the only one to face the burden of incapability along with the loss of dear ones? Why did God deliver pain to my father in return for his honesty? Maybe, these questions have no answers.

My elder cousin was extremely obtuse and insufferable, yet he earned a lot of money. He claimed that he was an insurance agent but I always felt something ominous about his way of life. To unravel this mystery, I kept a close watch on my cousin for a week and followed him like a shadow. He lavishly spent money on filthy entertainment and extravagant food. The only thing he brought home was the salary of an insurance agent. Where exactly was he generating such a huge income? A week later, when I followed him to a bus I discovered his secret. He was the best pickpocket I had ever seen. In fact, his swift catch was so mind-blowing that one couldn’t guess what he was doing. This revelation meant instant wealth at the expense of others, but then fate had been cruel to me and principles had evaporated from my psyche leaving it high and dry. If destiny wanted me to redeem myself and feed myself at the expense of others I was not a parasite but, a social scavenger, one could borrow some hope from people by sharing his poverty. It did seem logical to me that if something is there to be picked, why one should hesitate to grab the opportunity. My starvation gleefully approved my thoughts. My downtrodden life groped for emancipation.

Through observation I mastered this malevolent art and in no time I developed a knack of picking wallets wherever I went. It came naturally to me and I perceived my victims as a bunch of clothes bearing wallets waiting to be picked. The element of risk seldom affected me as I assumed an innocuous semblance warding off any traces of suspicion. My initial conquests were unrewarding and a tinge of remorse downplayed my confidence but the instant returns helped me trounce my scruples. As riches poured in I moved in a modest rented house and as a token of appreciation for my aunt, I sent her gifts every month. This also served as my redemption. The loot sustained my parsimonious expenditure and helped me save some money for the future. Although it may seem that picking pockets would bestow marginal returns, smart pickups and clever prey selection served me well. Soon enough I was married into a poor, unsuspecting family and in no time I had a son and in the true sense, a complete family.

My cousin may have realized that I was using the same decoy (an insurance agent) but to protect his cover, he never asked me about the transition. And I enjoyed success until someone invented the credit card.

Chapter 3: Adaptation

To sustain an occupation, one needs to move with time and change with time. He has to improvise and invent methodologies to survive. After the invention of credit cards and debit cards and various other encrypted cards, my job became more difficult. My riches vanished, largely due to my lavish spending and I was barely able to provide for my family. My hunting grounds were busses and markets where electronic systems were still unconceivable. Even in such places many people carried empty wallets. Even if they had some money on them it was too scarce to even pay for a single meal. Instead of two or three wallets a week, I had to pick around 20-25 wallets in a week and selected random locations in order to avoid investigators, who may discover some sort of a pattern if I operated without caution.

Chapter 4: The final act

As the sun dipped to the horizon blurring its shape at the edges, birds dived through the hanging bliss of orange light decorating the outline of the sky. Every beautiful sight reminded me about the irony in my own life. It prompted my mind to harvest the crop of prudence, and yet my greedy senses groped for redundant pleasures. The bus roared to a stop near the busy fish market and new boarders ascended with a renewed hope of meeting their loved ones at the fag end of the day. It had been a particularly satisfying day for me, picking 23 pockets and collecting enough money to settle my account with the neighborhood grocer. I had decided to resign for the day when I spotted a natural prey.

This man was sitting just in front of me and his wallet was gleefully peeking out of the back-pocket of his pant. I removed the wallet in a flash when the bus jumped on a speed breaker, and held it firmly in my hand. As I got off at the next stop, I recovered its contents and threw the wallet off the bridge into the depths of the river Yamuna. Pleased with my latest catch, I reached for my back-pocket to produce my wallet. I was in for a shock. My wallet was gone! It took me some time to realize that my alacrity in stealing the alluring wallet had cost me my own wallet. As I turned my dejected face to see the bus dash past the bridge, I noticed a man running towards me. He was the fellow whose wallet I had picked. As I turned my face to avoid him, he waved, gesturing me to stop. He finally stopped in front of me and said “Hey mister, you dropped your wallet on the bus. It must have fallen from your pocket while you were getting off”. I was standing still as a stone from the fear of getting caught and doubted his intentions but he smiled and continued “Today is my son’s birthday. I was going to the market to buy him a cycle. I had to work overtime and withdraw a part of my life’s savings to pay for it”.”He will be so happy to see it”. “Anyway please take your wallet, and please don’t thank me, God is great and he always helps people in trouble”. Uttering these words he handed me the wallet and ran behind another bus to catch it. Before I had any time to react, the bus sped away on the road as if nothing in the world could stop it. All the contents in my wallet were intact. I was still clutching the crumpled notes stolen from the man’s wallet. The image of my father flashed in front of me. I staggered down the road with a blank face and a trampled soul. The money in my hand was representative of my sins.

My father would have hated me today…

R. Lakshminarayan

Identity

Identity crisis

By R. Lakshminarayan

Prologue

My name is R. Lakshminarayan. R doesn’t “stand” for anything; it is the abbreviation of my father’s good name. I forbid any kindergarten kid to use my name as a reference to learn the alphabetical sequence (as in “A for apple, B for bat… R for R.Lakshminarayan). For starters, the name is derived from the symbiosis of lord Vishnu and his wife goddess Lakshmi. For the past 20 years, the name has been broken up, mutilated (sometimes by me too), and used as a reference to a particular billionaire. This is a story of my name and my existence.

The name

I was registered in my school as R. Lakshmi Narayan. Most of you may not have noticed the “gap” between Lakshmi and Narayan. But in kindergarten, the gap made all the difference. I was referred as Laxmi, Lacchmi, Laccho, Laccho darling, Chameli ??!!(I wonder where that came from). As a child I did not like being referred as a female, not that I am a male- chauvinist, but I was sure about my gender.

To counter all these attacks on my gender “security” I decided to keep names for my fellow mates. As it turned out they were offended and kid’s parents focused their PTA meeting time to discuss my misbehavior.

Teacher: Mrs. Singh, your son is failing in a few subjects. This is really bad for his…

Mrs. Singh: (interrupting) Madam, We (“we” refers to herself and her husband, who is, by the way, busy looking at embodiments of the opposite sex and gaping with awe) heard that some fellow named “Chameli ka bageecha” refers to my son Jagannath as “Jaggi”. This is outrageous! Please tell his parents that we cannot tolerate such misbehavior on his part. This is outrageous… blah blah… blah blah… na… haan… huun haan.(husband still gaping with awe at other objects of his affection)

Teacher: (With a grave expression) this is serious Mrs. Singh. I will talk to his parents. Your son is such a bright kid.

End of discussion. The child is not reprimanded for his poor grades and also earns the teachers sympathy. When my turn comes, I get reprimanded for both.

Also, Mrs. Singh earns the right to call me names (she was innovative enough to add bageecha and turn me into a garden) and yet a simple and efficient modification to her son’s name earns me her wrath. Sooner or later she is going to call her son “Jaggi” instead of Jagannath. Reason? ->No one has time for long names. Chinese and Japanese realized this without delay. If you notice, no Chinese name would span over 3 characters. They simply don’t have time. They would Yin, Yan and do an occasional Chan before the world comes to an end.

Later, I devised a new escape route by deciding to divert everybody’s attention to the second half of my “broken” name. It just led to a new series of names. Now, I was Nari, Nidri, Nariyal (English translation- coconut). No, my head doesn’t look like a coconut; neither do I have three eyes covered shabbily with husk.

Fortunately, one particular derivative of my name (“Nada”) was less offending and I decided to adopt it. Thank you buggers for coining such a wonderfully convenient name. I am Nada... and I shall have my revenge

The Masterpiece

The final test of loyalty

Chapter 1: the day of placement

One couldn’t ask for a better day to retrospect. Sitting on the grass, waiting for the night to cover me with its shadow of peace, I felt a deep force running through me, the feeling of accomplishment. Placements had just started in our college and I had been quite lucky to land up with a sweet job at the start itself. It was as if my college life was finally getting over. During such moments in life people look out for other people in trouble, which I believe is a sadistic impulse one gets. The touch of fur and hair would remind me of a long haired guy in college who would throw himself on me without provocation, but, unlike his brute touch it was extremely soft and momentary. With a swift turn of the head I could see him. His majesty had to be acknowledged. Silvery white hair, brooding jaws and two eyes which displayed grace were lost on me in an instant. The hair on his body was like grass on the meadow waiting for the wind to work itself through it, the wind, like a mermaid wading through the blue ocean with sheer joy. His domestication and age were apparent from his grace and sublime submission to the work of time. It was strange that a dog from the elegant and sophisticated breed of Pomeranians could be found wandering near a boy’s hostel.

Chapter 2: acquaintance

“Where is his rightful owner?” “What is this pet dog doing here?” “What about the hostel hygiene?” the student mess in-charge was in a foul mood and a fleeting look at the creature basking under the afternoon sun certainly aggravated his irritation. The authorities had handed out several memos to the members of the hostel committee and the content demanded specific budget cuts in the food supplies which were unreasonable at this point of time, since the cost of vegetables were scaling record heights. Some of the hostel mates were quick to notify him about the dog’s history and rendered a calculated narrative which could explain why the creature was enjoying its afternoon siesta out on the hostel lawn bench. The dog had been abandoned by the owner for some reason and ironically, he found some solace in the noisy environment of the hostel. The mess in-charge was able to direct his anger at something else and the dog was perhaps, able to brood over a lost bone. Evidently, his claws had worn out and his latency was quite a concern for many dog lovers in the hostel but there was nothing much they could do about it. His prior domestication and inoculation from the wild had made his body a slave to medicinal shots. Without veterinary facilities the dog was considered as a living host of diseases and some inmates kept a safe distance from him. Some youngsters pitied the mongrel and spared some food occasionally. “We should call him “Stalin”” remarked Basu. Basu was a music maniac and loved to flaunt words in his vocabulary and as any ardent follower of communism; he carried a volume of speeches delivered by Marx in Russia with him even to the rest-room. His belligerent response to everyone’s disgust was a simple statement delivered with conviction, “If Archimedes could frame a theorem in his bathtub, I am just seconds away from self discovery and enlightenment”. Despite Basu’s idiosyncrasies, his discussions were emphatic and engaging, forcing many inmates to believe that he was some kind of a ‘misplaced’ philosopher. However, everyone seemed to like the title he blessed the dog with and Stalin was now ‘unofficially’ the new resident of our hostel lawn.

Slowly, everyone got used to the presence of Stalin and any reference to him helped us distract ourselves from the usual arduous routine in the hostel.

Chapter 3: The incident

The sophistication involved in a dog’s life can be slowly understood by studying their general behavior. Stray dogs divide themselves into groups and clusters where each group understands their territorial limitations. The territories are usually divided according to the benefits in an area and some compromise is reached, which not only allows them to live in a chartered manner but also helps them to claim food in their zones. Any intruder in their zone is unwelcome barring human beings who are apparently their “perpetual masters”. It took only a week before Stalin had to face the native dogs and the incident remains etched in my mind.

It was a cold winter night, and all the hostel inmates were busy with assignments and reports they had to submit the following week. A packed hostel in the night is reminiscent of a busy office on the streets of Manhattan before the close of the stock exchange. The only difference lies in the nature of work and the type of noises that erupt infrequently. The night draped a blanket of darkness over the pavements and roads leading to the hostel. Stalin crouched on a bench in the lawn lazily drawing his eyes to close. Then out of instinct he opened his eyes to see a dozen glittering eyes advancing towards him. The stray dogs of this zone had decided to attack him and this had to be done to assert their authority and rights in the zone. Stalin stood his ground. He had none of the tenacity his opponents possessed and was clearly outnumbered. He had almost decided that it had to be his final stand before death when Basu and I walked out of the gate in the hostel. Basu was the first one to notice the standoff and in an effort to save Stalin, he picked up a rock and threw tentatively at one of the attackers. Following suit, I aimed at two other attackers and visibly stunned the stray animals ran for their lives. Satisfied with our effort we stepped on an old haggard motorbike and drove to the night canteen which was 4 Km from the campus.

We finally reached the gas station to refuel and searched our pockets for money. “Hey, somebody picked my wallet” remarked Basu. “How the hell can you be so careless?” my reprimand did not make any significant impact as our vehicle was comprehensively dry and we were stranded at the petrol pump without any cash at our disposal. “Eh, this is gonna be our longest night together, comrade” joked Basu. I was not in the mood for jokes as I had to forward an assignment next morning and the worst part was that I had no clue about the topic. “Guess what, Stalin followed us to the station” remarked Basu. As the exasperated animal came closer we were in for a special surprise. Stalin had picked up Basu’s wallet from the road, where he had carelessly dropped it, and ran all the way to pull us out of the mess.

Chapter 4: The Final Test

Keeping track of seasons and describing them with passion and panache is a hobby well suited for poets and great writers. However, such changes rarely make an impact on a superficial community which yearns for materialistic benefits just by joining pieces of metals and plastics to conjure a device used by a million lazy people to simplify their lives. The only thing which mattered to us was the mess timetable and whatever they had to offer during the recess.

In the evening, hostel inmates loved to squat on the lawn, making groups and explicitly narrating their chronicles of successes and failures which were inevitably spiced up with infectious laughter rendered by the audience. The clock of life had changed Basu, who by now had developed certain capitalistic inclinations after reading about the ideological shifts developing in socialistic nations. It was still hard to say whether he was an ardent follower of Marx or a Friedman enthusiast, but it did not matter much as nobody ever took his political views seriously. Stalin was an apathetic member of the confluence and he had developed no special interest in Basu’s theories and arguments.

Many people enjoyed their evening walk and some people walked their dogs in the college campus which included the hostel premises. Hostel lawns also served as grazing grounds for numerous cows and buffaloes and soon their open defecation in specific areas caused uproar amongst students who demanded the disposal of cow dung from the hostel. However, the authority thought it was best not to entertain such complaints as students may start demanding more luxuries. In fact, some wardens even publicly spoke in favor of the defecation, specifically relating their childhood accounts of playing with cow dung and slapping cakes on their walls, which were received with suppressed expressions of disgust and dissent. Fortunately, cows realized soon enough that their nature’s call was the topic of a public debate and wisely refrained from public excretion much to students’ delight. This kind gesture earned them the right to roam freely near the hostel premises and agitations were unanimously withdrawn by inmates.

Dusk was fast settling in when somehow, an evening dog walker unintentionally irked a bull and subsequently, the bull started charging at him with blood shot eyes and murderous intent. The dog walker went white with fear as blood drained from his face. The poodle accompanying him concealed itself behind the fellow’s legs and slightly raised his cowering eyes which betrayed a stifling feeling of helplessness. In a flash, something sprang up on the bull’s ear biting into the soft and hairy hide with aggression and skill. The bull was evidently surprised by Stalin’s move and temporarily lost control over its objective. The bull ran in various directions before deciding to shrug Stalin off its ear. The bull rammed him on the ground with a force apparently equal to ten times his body weight. Stalin’s bones would have been pulverized by the impact but he still held his jaws tightly on the bull’s ear. The bull rammed Stalin on the trunk of a nearby tree and unable to withstand further pummeling he broke free. The bull was still in frenzy as the shock of being attacked had almost driven him crazy. While we rushed to Stalin for help the bull swiftly disappeared into the thickets. Stalin wasn’t breathing. The dog walker wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead and stood awkwardly, struggling to maintain some form of composure. “Yeah, what a waste. He was no good anyway. He was more like a roaming box of fleas. I had to abandon this beast” retorted the dog walker. This ungrateful fellow was the erstwhile owner of Stalin. The whole gathering raised their heads in his direction and sensing resentment he hurried down the road without looking back. Everyone was silent. Stalin was lying tangled on the tall grass near the tree and yet, he looked calm. “Maybe this is what they call honor; saving people who no longer need you” said Basu silently. For the first time everyone agreed with him. Stalin had cleared the test; the final test of loyalty.

R. Lakshminarayan

“Dedication and loyalty are virtues of the great”

The Case Of A Wooden Stick

For Ami...

Prologue
Freedom is a right and it cannot be manipulated. Freedom is an expression, it is a religion. Even if one person finds this piece relevant to his life, my purpose is solved.
All my stories start with my homecoming, so here I go again.
I came home after placements, satisfied with my selection. My parents were happy to see me but soon I discovered that their elation was not directly related to my arrival. We were renovating our house and quite conveniently my brother was working hard and earning his daily bread in a land far, far away. The situation demanded a person to look after the house and supervise the whole process. After a painful process of elimination my parents decided that I was marginally more trustworthy than our domestic help which ultimately led to a unanimous conclusion that I must sit at home. As usual, I tried to carve out my escape route by telling my parents about the importance of my independence and the doctrine of “hanging out with friends”. My mother, I must state, is a great negotiator and my father always nods his head in approval (only when mom is not around...). She extolled her words with delirium and spun such a fine web of deceit that, in between her words of wisdom, I almost made up my mind to dedicate my whole life to human service by offering to look after renovations initiated by anyone and everyone.
Quite obviously, I succumbed to the fine arguments my mother had to offer.
The work started in two days and a dozen laborers stormed the house like backyard gladiators. The harmonic rhythm emanating from the hammers was quintessentially deliberate and the house danced to its tunes with harmony but later my head danced in agony. The work had been going on steadily and was now nearing a stage where its completion was inevitable. Suddenly my mom wanted to add a new thing. She now wanted a room outside the verandah. Essentially the work was piling up. My vacations were going to be ruined!
One day, the “kattae” was lost. (Kattae- a wooden block in Tamil)
The history of Kattae
When security arrangements would be made at my house, my grandparents would be particularly concerned with the verandah. In their opinion it was an invitation for thieves to practice their profession freely. The outcome of this issue demanded a protocol where all decisions should support a calculated and an efficient effort to seal it off. The plan had been to put an iron shed over the verandah, covering it fully and to reinforce it; a welded support had been put in place connecting it to the wall. After this we had put two locks on a swinging door. Finally, we had deployed a heavy wooden door secured with three locks. My father had been quite satisfied with this arrangement as even international borders couldn’t have been so impervious.
The highest authority in our house, my grandfather, had inspected the arrangement and after a careful assessment he had thundered “We need more security. Always make sure that the thief finds an extra obstacle when he tries to enter”. And so he had suggested that a wooden support be placed horizontally on the door acting like a secondary unmovable reinforcement, such that we could place the block whenever we wanted to seal it and to open the door we just had to remove it from its resting place, which was embedded at the extremes, one near the knob and the other close to the door hinges.

The block weighed 2 kilos and had been carved out from solid wood. If I had had to define my perplexity at that moment I would have bluntly said, “If I were a thief, I wouldn’t dare to even look at this house”. When such an arrangement had been sanctioned by my father with complete belief in this philosophy, it had become my divine duty to place the block on the block-rests before going to sleep. In fact, any complacency on my part in this matter had been looked upon with utmost seriousness. If I had forgotten to place the block on the rests, statements like “The thief must have seen that the block wasn’t in place” and”The block is the final hope for our family” and the classic “You don’t care much about your father’s house… How will u take care of your own house?” had been delivered without any delay or apprehension.
My mother had not particularly been interested in the philosophy and purpose behind the existence of this block but out of respect for my dad’s wishes she had chosen to advocate a routine where the block would get prime importance.
The relevance of such a detour from the actual story would be clear very soon.

Revisiting the story from where we had left…
When my ma discovered that the kattae was gone, she became extremely anxious as she knew that my dad would be disturbed. She searched for the block in each room and after failing to find the block she exclaimed “Deyy Narayana, where is the kattae?” in between her attempts to retrieve it. And I simply nodded my head to indicate my helplessness in the matter. “Appa will be anxious””Ask the laborers tomorrow”. After her brief search my ma hit the sack.
My dad entered the scene from the basement after completing the day’s work on his thesis. Instantly, a realization clouded his mind and he rushed into frenzy. “Oh my god! Where is the kattae? Narayana… ask the workers about it.””Where is it?””Don’t forget, ok?” “Where could it be…?”
After repeating these words with much concern he lost interest temporarily and went off to sleep.
The next day, my father questioned the workers about the kattae. They refused to associate themselves with its existence. My dad’s concern deepened. My mother was concerned that my dad was concerned. I was speculating the outcome of this situation. Soon, my dad decided that without the block in place we shouldn’t go for any further construction. “Without the block, it is akin to sleeping with our doors open”. My ma tried to reason with him “But what about other locks and doors?” “What about the shed?” “We are still safe”.
However, my dad was adamant “No, u don’t know, the block is gone and now the thief will walk the ramp in our house.” I was left wondering about this proverbial thief who would do anything to loot our house despite such strict security arrangements.
After this, there were no questions (and no answers either!). The work stopped. Finally, it was time for my return to Nagpur. Before I left for Nagpur, I told my mom that I had a pleasant surprise for her in the verandah and that she should look at it after I leave. There she found the old block, placed majestically on the door!
Yes. I had hidden the block and yes, it had served my purpose.
R. Lakshmi Narayan
Edited by: Ami Dhar
Writers Note:
This edict is fictitious and any conclusions drawn from it have to be objective. I love my family and idolize all my elders. The story is from a very satirical point of view and any speculation leading to denigration shall not be entertained.