BOOK ELEVEN - !BUSTED¡
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX - “THE TRIAL!”
Forty-five minutes Hurtian after his interrogation, Turpin is escorted by uniformed shurts into the cluttered office of Dr. Hamanavisqoo, Regency Criminal Psychiatrist… a doglike creature who gestures to him to lie on the couch.
“Don't wanna lie down,” Turp protests. “Don't wanna be here, as a matter of fact… I ain't bool. I guess I did what the shurts say, but I can say so standing up.
“I'm afraid it's protocol,” and the shrink gestures to the four shurts. “Make him comfortable…”
Two of the shurts lay into him with clubs and a stungat, the other two wrestle him to the couch and secure him with wrist and ankle restraints as the doctor activates a camcom.
“That's better. Are you comfortable?” the Doctor inquires.
“Comfortable? They’re cutting me…” Turpin protests, shaking his wrists and trying to kick out, “…what are these things made out of, anyway, ground glass?”
Hamanavisqoo sighs. “Snaker Turpin, you seem anxious? Are you sure that you're comfortable?”
“I told you…” Turp begins, then looks over his shoulder, seeing his attorney staring at the wall. “Are you going to do anything about this?” he appeals.
Omar the lawyer ignores him and moves closer towards the wall, where a small brown bug is crawling upwards. His hand flashes out, snatches the insect and pops it into his mouth.
“Are you always so nervous?” the Regency psychiatrist asks him again. “So angry? Do you always feel other people are out to do harm to you? Is that why you feel so hostile towards authority and the law?
“Jam the Regency!”
“Do you always feel so hostile towards authority?” Hamanavisqoo drones on, as if from memory. “Your parents, for instance… did you ever wish you could do harm to your father?”
“Jam you… he's been dead years! What does this have to do with my jammin' case?” Turpin snarls.
“Subject is prone to usage of foul language, often of a sexual nature,” the shrink explains, turning the camcom onto himself, then back at the prisoner. “Have you ever desired sexual relations with your mother?”
“You jammin' veeb…” Turpin cries out, straining against his fetters, “jammin' pile of rawth…”
“Is it these feelings of persecution that make you feel entitled to flout the law?
“I ain't lootootootie, you are!”
“Might be!” Hamanavisqoo smiles. “But I'm the Doctor… and you're the criminal!”
He gestures again to the shurts who lay into him with their weapons, all four of them, this time.
An hour later, Rateyes and Turpin… both of whom have been beaten and electroshocked into barely conscious pulp… slump in the dock in Judge Spavery’s court with Omar, the lawyer standing by, licking his withered lips at all of the tasty bugs inhabiting the Yellow Palace. The Prosecutor is a tall, white-haired plud; alcoholic fumes wafting from his breath with his every word as he lays out the basics of the case and every time he answers a question from the Judge. Seated on the public side of the bench are Crandall, Pimm, Dr. Hamanavisqoo and the witnesses against the accused… including the Sailors' Relief lady, Gif Maloom and Junkyard Tony.
“Has the Regency’s advocate anything to add?” Spavery finally asks, after the gorler has gorled and the witnesses have lied.
Your Honor,” the Prosecutor. We do note probable complicity of defendants and
perhaps others, yet to be apprehended, in other unsolved criminal acts -
including the disappearance of the gangster Ras Sihree and presumably retaliatory actions from
“Well those charges subscribed to are sufficient, I would believe… unlawful entry into a Regency Electromagnetic Preserve, vandalism to and theft of historical resources, other incidents of theft and fraud, as attested to by the witnesses, resisting arrest and destruction of Regency Probes, the murder of one Davis Clegg the Fourth, vandalism to and theft of components of the… uh… medicinal ilaam, causing the death by misadventure of Dr. Kollucks in the course of criminal action… also a capital felony… do you have anything to say for yourselves, boys? Counselor?”
“The defense rests,” Omar fires back.
“Hai Johanna we do!” Rats summons up the clams to speak out. “This trial…”
Two of the shurts waddle in, shocking and beating the defendant back into oblivion.
“Ain't talkin' to you, or you either muckhead,” Spavery frowns at Turpin. “I repeat… you have been duly charged and indicated and the jury will render its verdict. Is there anything of a constructive or mitigatory nature that either defendant wishes to tell this Court before sentencing? If I may be specific,” he coaxes, “the identity of the so-called Collector, or the fourth member of your crew… and we all know that such persons exist. Mister Turpin?”
Turp shakes his head.
Rats opens his eyes and then his mouth, from which a torrent of blood spurts. “Your Honor…” he gurgles after a moment…
“Yes?” replies the Judge. “I’m waiting.”
“Jam yourself and the jammin' Regents.”
Shavery, smirking, shakes his head and the shurts fall back. “So noted,” he says, banging his gavel down to end the proceedings. The jury shall now determine, and I shall pronounce, sentence.
With a theatrical flourish, Crandall yanks the shroud off a Regency computer that, although plasmic, is theatrically designed to resemble twelve small humanoid heads. The computer within whirrs and pronounces the verdict on a ribbon of tickertape that the designers have incorporated to simulate the aura of a device hundreds of years old.
Judge Spavery reads the verdict to the defendents…
“Percival Ray Frobisher, having duly and justly examined evidence and heard testimony, the Regency finds you guilty of two counts of capital murder, theft and lesser crimes… finding no mitigation and probable implication in many, many other felonies, it sentences you to Tammawt, the death of deaths. You shall be probed… your memories extracted to detect those with memories of you who shall also have those memories excised; only then will you be discorporated. Have you anything to say before this Court?”
“Jam the Regency! Rawth forever and will always be…”
A nod from the Judge prompts Pimm to jam his club into the prisoner’s midsection, muddling his words into inaudible groanings and grunts.
“About as expected,” Shavery sighs again, wearily. “Timur Turpin, the Regency also finds you guilty, but being of feeble mind, acting under the influence and duress of defendant Frobisher, you have been adjudicated an accessory, hence you are to be sentenced to imprisonment for the remainder of your natural life in the Gileast Stockade, ineligible for pardon or for parole. Have you anything to say?”
Turp glances at the limp, bleeding Rateyes, spits blood of his own. “Nothing, sir!”
Al here. In my younger days, at the Patent Office, I knew my way around Regency Law… hid behind it, to tell the truth. A demise like Kollucks' wasn't murder, shouldn't have brought even mawt by common dematting, let alone Tammawt. If Percy Ray Frobisher, the thief and gambler, passed from the memory of men, many yet cherish and remember Rateyes, the dreamer and bon vivant who made hummucks of the Regents in death, and never gave up a friend.
All in all, however, Rats and Turpin got the justice they expected, if not deserved.