The Robert Smalls Jurist

The witness has been suborned. The gallery has gathered. The press are here. I have donned my robe and mounted the bench, and now I must play the role.

The outcome is rarely so well arranged in advance, but this is what I do. I don the robe. I don the manner. I choose the words. I speak in stentorian tones. I scowl or listen with wise, indifferent expression. This is what I do.

How rarely do I actually apply the law? How often am I simply an actor on a stage, giving the proceeding gravitas and meaning? I am like a priest in my robe, moving across the front of the courtroom as the priest moves across the chancel at communion, dancing the prearranged, expected dance, making the motions and mouthing the words that so comfort the congregation. The priest does what is expected. The judge does what is expected. This gives comfort and peace. We have danced the dance of the universe. We dance out the will of the Almighty. We move in our preordained circles, doing nothing that is of any real significance, but the dance itself is of all significance, of all importance. For we are dancing the deep unfolding of life. We are doing what will be done. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

The accused stands before me. His innocence or guilt is irrelevant. His sins (and we know, of course, that he has sinned- no innocent man has ever stood before me) his sins may not be relevant to the charges at all. His sin is theft, for sure. He stole a Confederate ship. He stole himself. He stole his wife. He stole other men's property. He stole our pride.

He is accused of theft of public trust, of bribery. My goodness, what politician in Columbia is not guilty of that sin? This is the sure charge. There can be no doubt. Sweep through the streets. Seine the public houses. Bring them all in, the elected. They are all guilty. There is no doubt.

Yet this man stands here as if he were innocent. Oh, come now. Wouldn't they all stand there with that look? The irreverence. The defiance. The indignation. “I, an elected one? How can you accuse me?” Like a Presbyterian before the seat of Judgment.

Yes, this witness they have produced is a weasel. Really, could they not come up with someone better? The scoundrel oozes deceit. Has he ever said an honest word in his life? He reads from his secret book, written in secret code, he claims, that no one else can decipher. Oh, it IS rich. It IS so delicious. If this pack of thieves is going to accuse one of the elect, it IS delightful to see such a ridiculous story laid out.

But I must maintain the show. I must stay in character. I must dance the dance. We must move toward the inevitable, the preordained.

The jurors sit with vapid faces. What is it to live in such ignorance, such prejudice and stupid faith, so devoid of hope and imagination they can be bought for a song, be fed a ridiculous feast of lies, and then be counted on to deliver their own hero to his condemnation? God save us from a jury of our peers.

For his part, Smalls is doing the dance awfully well. I love his suit of clothes. How MUCH did the man pay for such elegance? Surely he is on the take. He sits in earnest outrage. How DARE they? He is so above the weasel in the witness chair. He looks as if he would spit on the weasel if such a man ever dared to speak to him directly.

Who knows the truth in such matters? I've been doing this long enough to know the truth is rarely revealed to us in ways we can understand. How often, in those trials where I sat disinterested, the outcome intriguingly NOT preordained, have I watched the weight of truth waft back and forth between the antagonists? I fear truth may simply be withheld from us mortals.

But judge I must. It is my destiny. It is my role.

The stories must be told. That is what the attorneys do. They tell a story. They take the truth, the lies, the imagination, the outrageous, the laughably false, they take it all, and they dance with it. They do their dance as I do mine. I see them in my mind's eye wheeling like dervishes in front of the jury, dancing their stories into being.

And so we take the testimony of this weasel, the scoundrel no one would ever believe if he spoke to them face-to-face, and we dance it into the most wonderful of tales. I wouldn't be surprised if the tale weren't far from the real truth. How did Smalls get to be so rich? What has he ever done but steal a ship and hold public office? Really now. He lorded it about this town like a king. God knows how he's been prancing around Washington.

But he maintains his innocence. He sits in outraged dignity. His attorneys assail the obvious as they attack the witness. The witness's credibility. My God! As if the word “credibility” could be used in the same sentence in which this man is referenced. It IS laughable. But the outcome is preordained. I must make my rulings, and the dance must be danced.

The jurors, in their imbecility, must feign objectivity and honesty before they render their verdict. With no practice and experience are they aware of the expressions they must display as they listen to the proceedings? I watch them. They, of course, are not aware. They look more weaselly than the bloody witness himself. God help us.

And, so, when the dance is all done, and the newspapers have made up their stories and printed them, and the attorneys have twisted everything, and the jury has adjourned to ponder the inevitable, and they have returned with their preordained verdict, it is now time for me to render the judgment that has been arranged.