Logical and Eloquent Mr. Y
This is an introductory chapter for a fiction book I am writing, which I submitted to a writing contest at my university earlier this month. Unfortunately, I lost, but I am still proud of how my writing turned out. This also gives me a chance to post something a bit different from most of my posts, which are more formal arguments.
Oskar stared at the mechanistic lawyer in the mirror, a logical and unsympathetic tool compelled by an invisible force to fight for justice. A black cloth hid his hair, eyes, nose, chin, and ears behind an empty void. The nothingness replacing his head lived above a formal suit. A grey coat with a red tie only half visible before vanishing behind a button. His hands were gloved, the same fabric and color as his mask. He brushed the tips of his fingers on the device strapped to his throat, feeling for the power button. After testing the voice modulator with a few vocal exercises – the typical “testing, 1, 2, 3” – he picked up his files from the desk and walked to the courtroom. At this moment, he was no longer Oskar Vilde, a unique character with a personality and history distinguishable from everyone else, but Mr. Y, a deliverer of reason and fairness.
Silence purified the air, aside from the poisonous shuffling of people moving into their seats. He saw his client already near the front of the room, closer than anyone else to where the judge will be. The faceless lawyer strolled next to his client, Patrick Riamo. Alleged criminals have the right to hide their own faces in court – something that Vilde had recommended to hide the scar across the right side of Riamo’s forehead – but his client had refused. He believed that forcing the jury to look him in the eye would make it harder for them to convict an innocent man. Mr. Y disagreed, having represented far too many cases where the defendant’s looks only cost them their freedom. He sat down and looked around the room. Behind his left side, the jury were already discussing Riamo’s negative physical features.
“Where did he get that gash?” one lady asked.
“He looks guilty to me,” an older man decided.
“…deserves to go to prison,” someone else whispered, although that may be from the audience directly behind him.
Next to each exit stood two police officers; their faces were covered with dark blue masks made from the same fabric as Mr. Y’s. Certain government employees had their own specifically colored masks, each of which offered vision to the outside world from within, but not the other way around. This had multiple effects; firstly, it encouraged a hive-mind mentality for all government employees to fulfill their duties and obligations for the benefit of their community and nation. Most people are surprised to learn how a simple wardrobe change can drastically affect one’s treatment to and from others. Secondly, it reduced the prejudices of ordinary citizens against the government employees. They are not distracted by trivial factors such as gender, race, or facial appearance. Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done about height, and very little they could do about body shape, but at least this was one way to level the playing field. Early prototypes of the masks were difficult to fit over one’s head or facilitate breathing, but with enough innovations, they became more comfortable for almost everyone. For the few who still disliked them but worked in government, they could make a special order.
To the right sat the prosecution. It involved a middle-aged woman, who also chose to remain visible, and her lawyer with a black mask stretched over his face. They were looking over case files together for the last few minutes. Mr. Y had already memorized all of the relevant facts; he had to since the odds were against him and his client. The jury and the audience already seemed to have made up their minds about Riamo, meaning that reason alone would be his best hope of being acquitted. Vilde predicted this when Riamo told him of his decision to stay visible, and he forced himself to recite all the details in the case file and his arguments until they were scorched into his brain.
After a few minutes, everyone was asked to stand as the judge entered the room. They had a white mask covering their face, another color to represent a specific government position. It is supposed to be reminiscent of the white wigs that the Founding Fathers wore centuries ago when drafting the founding documents of this great nation. Oskar wondered if they would be proud to see what their legal system had become – a testament of true freedom and equality under the law, or at least as close as one could practically get to it. Not only guaranteed liberty and fair treatment by a parchment and ink locked away in a secure building, but also guaranteed safety from irrational biases and assumptions embedded in human psychology. Under his mask, Oskar couldn’t help but smile at the thought of delivering the promises of Jefferson, Washington, Hamilton, and everyone else he considered a hero. When he realized what he was doing, he snapped back to reality and silently ordered himself to remain stoic. Judge M took his seat and officially began the trial.
“Good morning, everyone,” he began, “We are here today for the final day of the trial of Mr. Patrick Riamo, a man accused of assault and first-degree murder of Mrs. Sali Kinzer, a mother of two children and a first-grade teacher at Florence Elementary School.”
Mr. Y turned towards Riamo, then noticed people from behind staring at him. Riamo himself had his face angled slightly downwards, but his eyes looked up towards the judge to compensate.
“The bad news is that this is going to be a long day, but the good news is we are almost done. Let’s get right into it. We will begin with the prosecution.”
Mr. H, representing the prosecution, stood up and began talking. For the next several hours, a flurry of arguments, documents, witnesses, security footage, and DNA tests were presented to the court. The two sides went back and forth, hitting the ball across the net before quietly allowing the other person to complete their turn to speak. Mr. Y ignored his nervousness every time he took his position, carefully eyeing where his rival struck and quickly deciding how to best respond. The light from outside gradually brightened, and the hands of the clock on the wall slowly crept towards greater numbers.
Eventually, it was time for closing statements. Mr. H and Mr. Y presented their final thoughts, then Judge M struck their gavel and began speaking again. “That concludes the presentation of the evidence. I will now ask the jury to retire to conference room B, down the hall and to the left. The two officers nearest to you will guide you there while you reflect on the evidence, and when you are ready, you will present us with your verdict. I implore you to consider the information you have seen here today with as much clarity and reason as you can possibly muster, for this may be one of the most important things you do as a duty to your community, and your country. I also want to thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here for the last several days. Determining whether someone is guilty or not of a crime as serious as this is difficult, both for a person’s head and their conscience, but it is vital for a functioning society meant to be filled with trust and civility. With that, we are adjourned until further notice, but please do not leave the building until we have delivered a verdict.”
With one more strike of the gavel, everyone started murmuring and walking out of the courtroom. Mr. Y looked at his client frowning and staring at an empty spot on the wooden table under his hands. It must have been torturous in his mind; his fate now fell into the hands of a dozen people who did not know of his existence only a month ago, and who owed him absolutely nothing. There was no promise of empathy or understanding, only an order to review the evidence before them. For all intents and purposes, they may as well have been callous machines. Mr. Y nudged his shoulder to catch his attention. When Riamo looked up, he gestured to walk out of the back of the room with him.
When they were in the “Private” area, dedicated only for the people directly involved with the case – lawyers, the judge, immediate family members, and a few security officers – Riamo’s wife, Laura, came up and hugged him. Two officers stepped towards them, but Mr. Y put his hand up to signal that it was okay. They backed up, but kept their gaze fixed on them through the blue masks.
Laura made promises she couldn’t keep – that everything was going to be alright, that Patrick was not going to go to jail, that no matter what she would always love him – and then turned her attention to Mr. Y, who still had his mask on.
“Be honest,” she said, “What are his chances?”
Mr. Y stood silent, which was enough of an answer for her. She simply thanked him and continued conversing with Patrick. Suddenly feeling short of breath, Mr. Y hurried to the bathroom and removed his mask, gasping for air. He placed his hands on the sink and felt sweat dripping down his forehead, almost like he was sick. After a few moments, he was able to calm down and slow his breathing, then splashed some water on his face to remove the sweat. Oskar looked at himself in the mirror, and now saw the opposite of what he saw before. Instead of a cold, rational representative of a client who couldn’t be swayed by the most heartfelt expressions of emotion, he saw a human being with wide eyes and terrible posture. His hair was disheveled. His voice modulator was loose. His mouth was open, consuming air that cyclically inflated and deflated his chest. The back of his neck was starting to itch, but somehow, he was unable to force his hand to move and scratch it. The unpredictable faceless lawyer that could only present information and data, unsure of whether it will sway anyone, was replaced with a man who felt certain that he was a failure. There was no question about it, and yet there was no way to truly prove it.
When the itch strengthened, he finally regained the capacity to move. Unfortunately, the gloves made it difficult to scratch it properly, so he had to yank the one off of his right hand to continue. A momentary pain replaced the omnipresent discomfort in his neck as his nails shoveled dead skin cells into the air. After a few extra seconds of recomposing himself, Mr. Y put his mask and glove back on, then fixed his voice modulator and his posture to make himself more presentable. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he returned outside and took a seat while he waited for the jury.
The next couple hours crawled along slowly. Oskar focused on his breathing and his posture while sitting, recognizing that there was nothing else he could do at this point. He might as well meditate and try to calm the deck of thoughts repeatedly shuffled and dealt by his malevolent brain. Some rounds he managed to win a few extra chips, but in most of them he gave in to the cruel and uncaring injustice of unfair odds. His mind continued to churn and writhe, and at any given moment when he finally felt that he might give in to resignation, a false sense of responsibility retook hold of him and shook him awake. He knew there was nothing he could do, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had to do something. Eventually, Officer B announced to everyone that the jury was ready to deliver their verdict and ordered everyone back into the courtroom. Mr. Y. obliged, returning to his seat where he was joined by Riamo a brief moment later. Everyone else flowed back into their seats, nearly all in the same spots they were before with only a few insignificant changes.
Judge M was the last to take their seat and spoke with their technologically modulated voice, resuming the trial. After a few formal comments, they followed up with the moment everyone had been waiting for with little patience.
“Jury, how do you find the defendant, Patrick Riamo on the charge of assault?”
A young woman in the corner of the jury’s booth stood up and read from a piece of paper. Her beautiful face stood in stark contrast to the monochromatic masks and the defendant’s ugly scar. However, her voice sounded almost as deep and serious to compete with Judge M.
“We find the defendant, not guilty, your honor,” she announced.
Mr. Y felt chills fire up his spine, a thousand pinprick needles quickly placed into perfectly precise positions by a professional acupuncturist.
“And on the charge of first-degree murder?” the judge asked.
“We find the defendant, not guilty, your honor,” she repeated.
Mr. Y became frozen again, unable to turn his neck. Was Patrick Riamo smiling? Crying? Laughing with joy? It was impossible to tell, until he grabbed his lawyer’s shoulder and shook him until he turned his neck. Riamo flashed a smile and silently offered – perhaps insisted would be a better word – for a handshake. Mr. Y granted his request, and then sat stunned while his client jumped up from his seat and went to the nearest officer to have his handcuffs removed. From there, he met his wife with a constricting hug and kiss, absent of any care in the world that he was in a public courtroom. The prosecution silently walked out of the room, keeping their own emotions much better hidden. Were they disappointed? Angry? Stoic? Perhaps it didn’t matter; all that mattered is that once again, the paralyzing doubts experienced by Oskar Vilde were misplaced towards the logical and eloquent Mr. Y.