Tuesday, May 05, 2015
The Proxy
A little used device, but when I was offered
a deal to stand in as a proxy in a white collar
trial, I accepted.
That way, Mr________used the time to keep his
swindling ways going.
My lawyer instructed me to always appear
attentive, which is more than I can say for
the jury. Each took turns snoozing.
Judge Buchanan looked disgusted! At them,
at me, at the evidence, and at my lawyer’s
inane twisting of it.
The trial dragged on. No sweat: I’m paid by the day.
In the seventeenth day, I found out why he was
called Crazy Bucky.
He dismissed the jury and declared my heinous crimes
merited Capital Punishment.
Whereupon, he declared me guilty, and scheduled
sentencing the following day.
Naturally I pled proxy then, the wrong guy, etc.
“You’re the only defendant we’ve got presently.”
But the lawyer and I begged successfully for an
additional day.
“Oh all right! I’ll play golf instead!”
“You’re in deep shit!” cried the lawyer when the
judge blackly fled. "Your only hope is that something
happens to the nut!”
I lacked such power. I thought. But in my dream
that night I saw Crazy Bucky shoot from his limo in
the garage, rushing to a small toilet for the
attendants. He expired in that mean place,
on its mean throne.
Actually.
In a week the governor’s limo dropped that August
Personage at my apartment.
He brought a signed pardon. Which operated for
me and the real crook.
Be that as it may, the governor hoped I’d use my
power for the good of the Commonwealth, and
gave me a dedicated phone, where bureaucrats
could call me.
A wonderful antique, red with a rotary dial, and
salvaged from a torn-down firehouse. A wall job.
Quite the bright spot in my sparse apartment.
No one, of course, calls.
Labels: irrational judge, justice system, pardon, proxy, trial
