1 The Great Court Opens

The crackle of woodgrains splintering into the air rung throughout the court, as my fist bashed against the surface of the defense's dais. Gaslamps gleamed across my face as sweat and vigor oozed from my cheeks. I tightened the swells of my blue cravat and thrust my finger towards the witness stand. Stalling time was over!

"Your Honor, his fingerprints were on the pistol! He was standing over the victim's rotting corpse!"

I caught my breath for a pause, channeling all my will into the weight of my voice.

"Blood soaks the witness' hands!"

The public gallery that hung overhead went up into a frenzy like banshees. Howling away, clutching onto their fretting bonnets and bowlers, their chatter fumed into the air and created a vortex of sound. I saw the clash of movement before my eyes: those swinging fists and gaping pupils, sitting sharp against their birchwood chairs as a statue of Lady Justice peered on with interest. I found strength in the disorder, to make chaos the order of the day. The world must be turned asunder to shake the deepest assertions of men—for entry into the gallows, or to the innocent grace of God.

This was the royal court of the Griffin's Mane, and I felt a mythological force working up at my muscles, the room rising all around me.

The judge cracked the end of his gavel with continuous force, the braids of his wig teetering right and left as he joined in on the cacophony.

"ORDER! O R D E R! Mr. Battersby!"

I stood at attention, a coif of a smirk forming over my face. The brown flannel of my sleeves rustled, the cross of my arms matching the surety of my mind.

"You have just accused Mr. Northgard of murder! Are you mad, man!?"

The only one with earmarks of insanity was the stalky man in the tweed suit, cordoned off at the witness stand—Silas Northgard. His face paled with terror, his hands quaking as they grasped the stand to buttress his body and his soul. If only I could plunge the fear out from the swollen circuitry of his bones, to make him bleed the course of his guilt for all to see and gasp—I knew victory was firm. He couldn't buy a path to innocence!

"I've never been more certain in my life. The truth doesn't falter, my Lord!"

Even still, the barest of chuckles trickled out from the opposing dais. It seemed to quiet the room with its ever-present oddity, slicing through the ruckus of the moment like a bayonet through flesh. The discordant notes of humor came from the mouth of London high prosecutor James Adderley, whose presence stung from his shoe-soles to the blinding shine of his spectacles.

"The defense counsel's state of mind should rightly be in question, Your Honor."

Adderley's voice was as deep as the roots of decaying trees burrowing into the ground, his earthen baritone crooning of plea bargains and mass convictions aplenty. He propped his hands up on the tip of a walking stick and leaned towards me. His gangly fingers jutted out, tendrils from his wrist.

"Mr. Leopold Battersby, is it? Calker's son, born on the musty wooden planks of a whaling ship? Rose his way out of the gutter to slither his way through Oxford Law? I'm impressed, truly, a living paradigm of British tenacity."

The man clapped—attempted to, anyway—and the motes of dust that once stuck to his skin sputtered out into the air. Emboldened by the silence of a hundred souls, he steeled his gaze on my face.

"I'm afraid your meteoric tale has come to an end."

Adderley plunged his stick against the mahogany floor, causing an uproar in the crowd once more. Vicious barbs rained down from the rafters against my psyche—old refrains like "pauper's son!" and "leach of the law!" and "Oxford bastard!" ringing in my ears. I yearned to bang the tableside once more and defend my honor before the rule of law.

("OBJECTION! RELEVANCE!") Heat and hatred boiled in my mind, as I pondered what to say. But I knew the court of public opinion ruled all, and that the judge would deliver my case the death penalty if I needled that windbag about it.

I looked on to the back of the courtroom, meeting the wearied eyes of Mr. Francis Boucher—my client—as his life stood in the balance. While his beret seemed to stray from the top of his head, dangling left and right, it never left the bounds of his temple. I nodded back, steadying myself like an ironclad taking anchor.

"The defense asserts that Mr. Northgard's fingerprints were on the pistol?"

Adderley gave a grim smile.

"The prosecution accepts this as fact. It was his gun, after all. A firearm used for self-defense in only the direst of circumstances—"

He protruded his stick out towards the defendant, its terminus lacquered with a deathly black.

"Such as when the accused wrestled him for possession of it! Proceeding to fire upon the victim with ceaseless rage!"

My eyes were so caught up in the vigor of it all that I didn't notice the pair of smoke-colored hands that laid on the opposing dais. My pupils dilated.

"Your Honor, may I turn the Court's attention to these gloves that were discovered at the scene of the crime, nestled in a bush only a few feet from the victim's corpse? Not only do they happen to belong to the defendant; they're soiled with the victim's blood!"

"Conjecture...!" I'd mutter between clenched teeth and gritted fists, clutching onto the woodgrains as I expected the worst—

"The Prosecution contends that the defendant overpowered Mr. Northgard and shot the victim to death!

There is no other outcome!"

Something cracked within me. A bone fracture, perhaps, or the forced twisting of a few ligaments. My temple banged against the dais. My mouth dispelled a shriek, before waning to a baleful whimper. I was so close! I could see the face of Mr. Boucher brightening like London streets upon the night sky, holding out hope for his freedom—before being shadowed by the bars of a jail cell.

"I see Mr. Battersby has gone moot. Where's that usual fire, boy? Where's the spark?"

And there that sonorous chortle capered out from his mouth like bats from a cave, its loudness growing with his confidence.

"Even the defense falls silent to the almighty truth of the law! You can't escape it!

And neither can the jury."

Through the brown strands of my hair, I saw a grin mold across his face, as he gestured over to the jury's rafters. Six men and women began to deliberate amongst themselves, with occasional looks of pity peeking out from their quorum towards my crumbling character. I couldn't think. I couldn't write. That sniveling bastard was right—the truth was under my nose! I just couldn't see it through my own eyes!

But maybe the man at my side could.

"Pull yourself together, man! We've still got time!"

It was those words crowed in the French tongue of Jacques Bernard-Martin that sparked a pulse through my veins. The black of his suit and collar was stark, like a spike of coffee in the morning. I dislodged my head from the bark of the defense's dais, glancing back into the blues of his eyes. His cufflinks may have been tinted an inky hue, his cravat may have angled downward in a stern direction, but there was a firmness to his gaze that bellied his moribund attire. I couldn't ask for a better co-counsel.

"Their case is all circumstantial, Leopold. There's not a shred of decisive evidence in sight!

We've got the upper hand. We've got the fingerprints. You've just got to piece it all together!"

I nodded back. It's so easy to get swept away when such a momentous event happens—when your entire world flips upside down, and it feels like you can't do a thing about it. But just like the British shore against the lapping seas of the English Channel, no matter how much of my resolve is chipped away, I've got to stay firm amidst it all.

Jacques examined my expression, rolling his eyes. He always got frustrated when I was stuck in a trance, pondering about all that was to happen in the world. But I only smiled back, the lines of my face straightening outward, brimming with poise.

"Are you prepared, Leopold?"

I nodded back. This was my moment, and I swore by the Queen's name that I wasn't going to squander it.

"Good. That's good. Because you need to wake up, Leopold."

The sound of a great thump came from the outer walls of the court, with the public gallery going into a malaise of chaos once more. I flinched, blinking back at his motionless face.

"What? But it's just getting started! Jacques-"

"It's time to wake up, Leopold. Rouse yourself!"

Another BANG slammed into my ears, and my head collapsed against the dais once more. The last image I remember was the proud expression of James Adderley, crossing his arms against his gnarled chest as my vision faded to darkness. . .

* * *

When I opened my eyes, the visage of a fist striking against the polished surface of my desk was there to greet me.

"LEOPOLD! WAKE UP!"

I recoiled, gaping back into my seat. The room I was in slowly sundered into view, the beige coloring of the walls and the ceramic tiling of the ceiling registered at last. So too did the cramped architecture of my desk piece itself together for my vision, bundles of case brief papers and ink dispensers scattered about its surface. The acrid aroma of these documents speared my nostrils, too, as the fumes of discovery analysis were always a welcome smell at the office. Perhaps the thing that jumped at me most was the light puddle of saliva that drooped over the name of the defendant I was researching: "Archibald Southwell."

Well, for all the pieces of text that my mouth had the option of drooling over, I suppose the demented industrialist's name wasn't too bad of a choice.

"Have you come to yet? Good. You're certainly ending the year off in roaring fashion."

A roaring finish indeed. One that required me to grate my hands against my eyes for a moment, shafting the bridge between my vivid dreams and the vivid contours of reality—emotions and logic, dueling about my mind.

It was time to get things settled, now. No time to waste!