Alternate Ending
By William B. Stronghold
Lawrence Lackman, Larry, for short, was sitting in his office examining the history of alternate reality law. It was a short history, the practice only coming into practice within the last 35 years or so. It was introduced by President Calvin McDougal, when he was accused of the cold-blooded murder of everyone he held dear. Hiring the greatest mathematicians of his day, ones that are far greater than our own, he successfully proved that while he did, in fact, slaughter his best friends and family, in an alternate reality he was innocent of all blame. The 342 page math equation was entered into a computer simulator, and what the joint session of congress saw before them was the depiction of President McDougal standing peacefully next to his fireplace puffing on a pipe filled with harmless herbal tobacco substitute. The peaceful representation was enough to forgive the misdeeds of this particular reality.
All three branches of government celebrated together that night; celebrated the formation of a defense plan that would allow their corrupted natures full reign over their behavior, leaving their socially modified selves to their tasks and resigned to remote realities that they themselves would hardly be responsible for except for the occasional equation to prove their existence.
Lackman was a man possessed; not of demons and otherwise frightening beasts, but of the notion that he was a politician at heart. While law fascinated him plenty, he was all the more obsessed with the idea of being a senator inside the Beltway, gently sipping on merlot in the middle of a harem of young interns. Also a member of this fantasy was his heartless cruelties, to himself and others, that he would never be held responsible for because of the gently and kind hearted nature of the other-him that certainly existed in one of the dozen million other known realities who would be called upon in mathematic form to prove his own corrupted innocence.
Alternate reality law was this: the wink-wink excuse for people in power to behave how they like with no real-world consequences. The proven existence of alternate realities only decades earlier spurred the American mind to the conclusion that while one may be wronged here and now, in another inaccessible, though proven, world, right was being done. This was enough to get a handshake, chuckle, and carry on from all the other hoodlums in
Despite his fanciful fantasies, Lackman was now only a lawyer. He was involved neck-deep in the first ever case of Alternate reality prosecution. A woman, Mrs. Blakemore, was suing her husband, Allen Blakemore, for wrongful death. A team of mathematicians from UC Berkley assembled on her behalf, and during the prosecution’s case, proved that in one of the millions of other existences, Allen Blakemore killed his wife with a jackhammer. Lackman, a disenchanted defense attorney, had a plan to shut this case down. Not that he cared for the well being of his obviously guilty client. Lackman wanted to make a name for him that would propel himself to a shoe-in candidacy for California Governor. From there, it was a skip and a jump to the total immunity of
Only one thing stood in his way.
Fanning himself in the courtroom, awaiting the not-so-punctual return of his arch nemesis was Donald Marquee. With his over-starched white shirt and Kentucky style bow tie, Marquee fancied himself a public defend of the mid 20th Century, standing up for the rights of a poor discriminated Negro who couldn’t even afford his legal fee. Quite the opposite was true, as he was no defender, and would have nothing to do with anyone who couldn’t pay for anything. Marquee was the top prosecutor in all of
But only one was to realize this dream.
Lackman re-entered the courtroom a full half-hour late, wearing a smug grin and carrying a briefcase full of plans for his senatorial mansion. He nodded gently to the judge, who was not only annoyed, but had often considered wielding a gun at crowds of lawyers and pilots; the two groups of people who were convinced they were better than anyone else on earth. No sir, Judge Baldrick Malcolm was no trifle to be messed with. It was said of him, two counties away, that he had once bullwhipped a group of curious Quakers just to watch them lose their hats.
Lackman joined his soft-spoken client, who was scared out of his wits (for he had once been Quaker). Allen Blakemore sat in his seat like a cat in the car, constantly convinced that he was going to tumble to the ground by no fault of his own. He rarely stole glances at his wife across the room, wondering when she came up with the scheme to take his taco shell fortune by means of having him put in jail. Often the large curly-haired woman would feign tears for the court’s approval, eliciting a large harmony of sympathy from the jury.
Ahh, the jury. For every male involved, both lawyers, the judge, and the poor accused, all had their eyes on juror number four—the flustered young widow. The recent victim of tragedy had gained national notoriety after inheriting several hundred billion dollars at the hands of said tragedy. The papers had labeled the incident “the attack of the billion dollar boars,” for her husband and his father were both torn limb from limb by a pack of bloodthirsty pigs on the western slope of the Sierras. This money, kept secret by the curmudgeons that were her husband and father-in-law, now belonged to her. Every society publication in the nation ran feature articles full of speculation as to whom she would finally wed. So far, when asked, the flustered young widow, juror number four, only giggled and blushed.
The subject had materialized several masked times throughout the course of the prosecutions case in the preceding days. It was attorney Marquee who made the first reference, appealing to the jury for reason, sanity, and perhaps a polite drink with one “very special young woman.” The judge stopped such nonsense when it unearthed itself, instructing the jury to only pay attention to the facts of the case and come-ons by people who have earned big black robes, who have much more respect than anyone else in the community, as well as more streetsmarts, when it came down to it, though there was the chance that said character might be somewhat of a bad boy who needed taming. The bailiff, always loyal, would then ask, “whoever could tame such a bundle of trouble?” to which the answer would undoubtedly be the judges rote response “I don’t know. Perhaps someone young and flustered; someone who hasn’t yet let the world corrupt her. Woe as me!”
Juror number four never let it bother her, nor did the other just-as-elegible-though-not-as-weathly jurors. Everyone knew the cameras were rolling and every bit of drama would be captured for posterity.
Lackman, taking his seat, opened his briefcase. He gave a glance of pure confidence to his client, who responded with a sigh of pure self-pity. Lackman paged through the layers and layers of schematics concerning his senatorial mansion, the desired names of 150 interns for his harem, and at last found the one page defense plan.
“Don’t worry, Blakemore, I’m about to mop up the jury with this one,” he whispered, head away from the microphone.
“But it’s so short! How can you disprove the Alternate reality prosecution with one sheet of paper?” Allen was just about as flustered as a well-known juror. “We don’t even have any mathematicians to find flaws in their calculations?”
“Mathmatics cost money,” Lighman’s response was calm and collected.
Judge Malcolm hesitatingly addressed the defense. “Are you ready to present your case?”
Lackman nodded and rose to his feet. He shot a quick but threatening glance in the direction of his opponent; not so frighteningly aggressive as to produce a shriek in its victim, but enough to get a flinch followed by a grumble of discontent. Four jurors marked this surprising move down as points for the defense.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” Lackman began, “I don’t need witnesses. I don’t need mathematicians. I only need your good judgment and unbiased common sense.” He flashed the jury a charming smile. This small statement of trust and confidence was enough to make the jury burst into a short round of applause, ending when Lackman calmed them with a “hush-hush” gesture.
“I know that our country is caught up in the madness of Alternate reality law. From its founding, it was a noble practice. For who of us would hold President McDougal responsible for something that his alternate selves were too cowardly to do; forcing him to take destiny into his own hands?” Tears welled in Lackman’s eyes. “Or who of us would find Senator Davies guilty of drug trafficking when it was proven that reality 2571, Davies died in a tragic car accident driven by a drug addict?” A dramatic pause followed. “Yes, karma has taken care of these things in the cosmic infinity. But to use Alternate reality law as a method of prosecution is foolish!” He yelled this last part at the top of his lungs, letting his last words echo in the rafters. “Why, we might as well prosecute Mr. Blakemore for the bombing of
The jury laughed out loud at such absurdity, then followed that laughter with a quick and calm round of applause. Lackman met the fanfare with a gleaming smile that seemed to say soon I will be your governor, provider, father. I will decide what is right and wrong, and you will have no need for anything but my word and smile. Juror number nine even said quietly, though audibly, “No wonder he got to go last. He really is much better.” A nod of thanks was the response.
“Why, the law clearly states that what one is innocent of is important. But what one of guilty of in other realities is just plain silly. Try this one on for size: in another reality, it’s quite probably that I am nothing but an underwear model.” Lackman faced his backside at the jury and shook it seductively at juror number four. Juror number four became a bit more flustered, seemed to be a bit younger, and her husband was all the more dead. She had to resort to the disturbing image of tusks and hooves to calm the passion that the thought of Lackman’s buttocks produced in her.
“That’s enough council,” said the judge. “Your point is made. It’s much more probable that I am the underwear model. The jury doesn’t have a good view of my but from where they sit, but I assure you it is second to none. While none of us here would see an advantage to the death of a loved one, or even two loved ones, I am blessed with the sight to see a silver lining to said hypothetical situation: the attainment of my own rear-end.” The bailiff nodded in agreement.
“Your Honor,” spoke Lackman. “While we can all agree that you are indeed a specimen, it is clear that neither you nor I are on trial. It is also clear to see that this case need not go any further. I rest.”
The jury burst into a final round of applause, culminating in a second performance of Lackman’s conception of the behavior of an underwear model.
The press rushed to phones to report the shocking turn of events. The jury reveled in their excitement. The judge stewed in his seat. But the most surprising thing was the lack of interest displayed by Marquee. He sat calmly, serenely, quietly. He looked straight ahead with an unconcerned look on his face. When the commotion finally died down, all eyes were on this pudgy man, awaiting whatever move he might make. Juror number nine thought sure that he was going to cry.
The courtroom was so silent that you could hear the individual heartbeats. Marquee stood up dramatically and walked to the chalkboard where just the day before, his crack team of mathematicians had outlined the equation proving Allen’s otherworldly guilt. He picked up an eraser, and removed two small proofs. He replaced them with a new and dynamic series of numbers and letters. Then he turned to the jury.
“That equation, as you will no doubt remember,” he began. “Showed us the reality of universe 365119. The changes I have made now show us reality 25643. Can you verify this, Professor Janson?”
Janson stood up in the audience. “Yes, 25643, indeed.”
“Thank you,” Marquee said. “Now, let us turn on the computer simulation. This display should show Mr. Lackman that alternate realities are no laughing matter.”
The lights of the courtroom dimmed so that the computer screen could be better seen. A screen above the bench popped into action. On it, the unmistakable events of another reality took shape. In this reality, Allen Blakemore entered Ford’s Theater, clubbed Abe Lincoln over the head, then went into the future where he stuffed his corpse with nuclear warheads and dropped it on
The courtroom was silent. Lackman was in tears on the ground, Blakemore had killed himself.
Marquee waltzed calmly over to the jury, took the flustered young widow by the arm, and moved into the Governor’s mansion that evening with his new bride.
1 comments:
Keep up the good work.
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