Seamus Grant

Seamus Grant

"With that said: it’s time, bailiff, please let the jury enter.”

Judge Port Raymond

The courtroom carried a persistent scent of sweat and rain.  Mothers in the back fanned themselves with pamphlets or programs. Many of the men had removed their jackets and some had loosened their ties by the time the jury returned with a verdict.  A short verdict for a short trial, Embassador Seamus Grant bitterly mused. The quiet stirring from the balcony that viewed the entire courtroom above ended suddenly when Judge Port Raymond entered.  Judge Raymond was a formidable presence in the courtroom because he seemed to empty it of viable air.  The long labored breaths he took made Seamus Grant wonder if the man’s lungs still filtered oxygen from the stale humid air. 

It was a very hot Mediterranean day on the large Greek island when Grant landed weeks earlier.  The welcome he received was conflicting.  Cheers broke out as he exited the small jet yet was immediately detained by Cretan officials.  Grant’s private plane that had left Spain was re-routed from Newtopia while somewhere over the Atlantic to Crete.  Grant was now being charged with international investigative obstruction and conspiracy to commit espionage. Being a Newtopian ambassador to the Spanish he expected his home country to have pressured Crete into releasing him by now.  Yet in Crete he remained.

The relationship between Southern Europe and Newtopia had become dark in general.  Recently, obscurity yielded to abrasive mistrust.  Also, Northern European matrimony with America embittered and militarized the smaller southern half of Europe.  Vineyards became centers for localized military development and propaganda.  Young males would bound from their home cities to the large grape plantations to work, train, and bed with the prostitutes that soon followed.  Young Spanish men and women picked arms and moved in groups from city to city peacefully, at first.  Soon they took what they needed as the groups grew and lacked organization.  Wealthy Muslims and long-standing Spanish families franchised the young, coalescing bands of angry students and young people.  Austrians clashed daily with Germans in pubs and football games.  Poland became polarized and crept towards civil war.  Russians fled their motherland.  And Crete was a fortress.  The EU’s chaos had mimicked that of the growing volatility of Europe in recent years none-the-less.  Yet it remained intact functioning as a central think tank intent on unifying currencies, dissolving the militant groups, and the like.  Now the EU reaches into my life messing things up.

Judge Raymond WAS appointed Judge by the EU’s chairman of international law, Marcus Muwili, WHO sat on his chair releasing a violent gasp as he did.  A chill hit Ambassador Grant and he felt the metal bands around his wrist.  Warranted by the new silence Judge Raymond braced his desk with both hands and began, “Before I begin,” he took a long breath and moved his eyes around the room finally settling on Grant.  “I expect whatever the decision someone will be displeased.”  Without knowing why Grant picked up his head and looked around the room.  In an offensively piercing manner he met the eyes of Tony Barccelli, the prosecuting attorney, and stared. “I also expect the most proper conduct and the like once the ruling is made.  With that said it’s time, bailiff, please let the jury enter.”

The first juror that walked out from the small room looked at the large crowd then looked down.  The second stared at Seamus Grant, the third at Tony Barccelli.  The fourth looked at the judge who was staring at her.  The fifth, sixth, and seventh looked down as the first one had.  And they all sat down in unison.  Judge Raymond broke loudly into their vulnerable silence, “jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have your honor.”  Grant saw that it was raining outside. “We find the defendant guilty.” At least it will be cooler tonight.  Humidity is bad but warm humidity is worse, he thought.

The next thing Grant heard was his attorney minutes later saying, “…because appeal is our next step, Seamus.” The rain is such a welcome.  And then he was walking.  His knees were sore which reminded him where he was, then suddenly and for the first time he tasted the guilty verdict: foreign and painful.

He looked around for Barccelli.  There is so much noise.  A man he thought that was Barccelli was within shouting distance so he shouted, “I’m sorry Tony.” When the man turned Grant looked away embarrassed, scared.  Bodies had moved out of their isles as Grant did and were backing into him and the officer escorting him.  He felt so weak that each contact with another body seemed like a tidal wave against his torso and fatigued knees.  He saw the threshold the officer was guiding him towards and turned in the direction to indicate compliance.  Presently people blocked their way, stuck in a busy, loud courtroom.  Is the rain outside as real as this courtroom, these people, my aching knees, the verdict?

He would go forward and back according to the force of footsteps and bodies.  “Hey Seamus,” a familiar voice said.  Eagerly Seamus searched beyond the heads to where he thought he heard the call.  And then a bright black gun squeezed through two bodies and shot twice.