‘Doubtless, he will soon call upon my colleague, Mr Swai-Phillips, to argue that his action was “an accident”; and, doubtless, the defendant would also argue — as have so many of his compatriots — that the Sangat clam is “an accident”, that the tontine is “an accident”, that the asbestosis of the Kellippi miners is “an accident”, that—’
‘Objection, your honours!’
Swai-Phillips was on his feet — Tom was hyperventilating. As calumny had been piled upon lie by the skeletal Chief Prosecutor, he had swooned with the injustice of it alclass="underline" that this still-smoking Anglo had the hypocrisy to so accuse him.
‘You have the floor, counsellor,’ the Anglo judge whispered.
‘To compare my client to a single invasive element might provide my learned friend with the substance of an analogy. .’ Swai-Phillips paused, vainly patting his wig. Tom was impressed by the clarity of his diction — there was no beer, here. ‘But to arrogate to Mr Brodzinski all the ills of colonialism is, I venture to suggest, a false syllogism: all alien species are destructive. Mr Brodzinski is an alien species. QED. . But I’m sure I don’t need to explain the suppressed premise to minds as logical and finely tuned as those of your honours’.’
He abruptly sat down, clearly well pleased with himself.
The bench also appeared taken by Swai-Phillips’s reasoning. The Anglo judge turned to his Tugganarong colleague, and they entered into urgent sotto voce conversation. Chatter broke out in the rest of the court. Tom turned to Swai-Phillips and asked: ‘Exactly how long is this going to go on for?’
‘It’s in our interests’, the lawyer said, ‘to curtail it as soon as possible. But, all things being equal, I wouldn’t anticipate a conclusion of the prelims in under a week.’
‘A week!’ Tom gasped.
The $5,000 he had initially deposited with Swai-Phillips had been eaten up by the pre-trial meetings alone; two more had gone on the astande ceremony. Tom had arranged for a further $10,000 to be wired to the lawyer’s account, but Swai-Phillips had been blunt about the costs of his representation: ‘It’s a K a day, every day we’re in court. Just ’cause I’m a solicitor-advocate, it doesn’t mean I’m not the best, right.’
Seeing Tom’s distress, Adams took pity on him. ‘Jethro’s only fooling with you, Brodzinski. Remember, the Intwen-nyfortee mob’s retributive claim takes precedence. Immediate precedence — especially given that Mr Lincoln has lapsed into a coma.’
‘A coma?’
‘Yes, a coma, sometime during the night. You’ll see: this will cut things short on the prelim’ hearing. The Intwen-nyfortee mob will want to squeeze as much as possible out of you right away, in case—’
‘In case of what?’ Tom broke in.
Adams sighed wearily. ‘In case the old man dies. Because then the charge will change to murder, and their, ah, blood money’ — Adams’s nose wrinkled with the bad smell of this term — ‘will have to be recovered from the state’s presumptive bond — and that could take years.’
The Consul swivelled in his seat. ‘But, if I’m not mistaken, here comes the doctor from the hospital with the medical bulletin. This will shake things up — you’ll see.’
Escorted by two armed police, Vishtar Loman approached the bench and passed the elderly Anglo judge an envelope. His Tugganarong colleague ignored the exchange; he’d produced a pocket knife from his raggedy-doll robes and was conspicuously cleaning his nails. Loman and the Anglo judge exchanged a few words, and the doctor was then dismissed. The Anglo judge relaxed back into his seat, a relieved expression on his mild features. General hubbub welled up in the court. The Anglo judge passed the envelope to his colleague, who opened and read it. He then shifted along the bench so he could speak through the thorny screen to the painted makkata. The makkata, in turn, relayed the information to a figure that writhed beside him, and who Tom thought must be Atalaya’s manager, the Entreati sorceress.
Then, a tremendous ululation went up from behind the screen and dark shapes threw themselves against it. The Anglo judge gestured to the beadle, who thumped his staff on the floor until order was restored.
‘This court is prorogued,’ the judge said. ‘Mr Tancrop-pollopp, Counsellors Von Sasser and Swai-Phillips, you will all assemble in my chambers in ten minutes. And Mr Swai-Phillips’ — Tom’s lawyer rose respectfully — ‘bring your client with you.’
Tom spent the break sitting, shaking, on the bench he had occupied all morning. Swai-Phillips went out to smoke — and Adams went with him.
The DA and the Chief Prosecutor came sweeping past. Then Von Sasser turned back and approached Tom. ‘Mr Brodzinski.’ He pecked down with his hawkish beak.
‘Y-yes?’
‘You will almost certainly be heading over there in the near future. If you chance to encounter my brother, Erich. .’ He paused.
‘Yes?’ Tom was perplexed. ‘What about him? I mean, is it likely? Isn’t “over there” a big place?’
‘That is correct.’ Von Sasser spoke with pernickety precision. ‘Never the less, my brother’s is a very expansive personality — he takes up a lot of the interior, he. .’ But then Von Sasser broke off, clearly feeling he had said too much, and, turning on his heel, stalked away, without any goodbye.
When Swai-Phillips came back, Tom told him about the encounter.
‘Those Von Sassers,’ the lawyer snorted. ‘They act like it’s their personal bloody fiefdom over there. Y’know, it’s been years now. .’ But then he too bit his tongue and, together with Adams, began ushering Tom down a corridor that led towards the back of the building.
‘I thought Von Sasser and the DA had to come to the judge’s chambers as well?’ Tom protested.
Swai-Phillips snorted again. ‘That? Oh, that was just for show, yeah.’
But whose? Tom thought, as Adams knocked on a nondescript door, and they were admitted by the beadle.
At once, Tom had a strong impression of cloying homeliness. There were lace doilies on occasional tables, muddy watercolours of the cloud forest on the panelled walls, while an electric jug chuckled and spat on a tray.
Then he saw the Intwennyfortee mob. They were sitting on drab easy-chairs around a coffee table slathered with magazines: Atalaya, the Entreati sorceress and two other women Tom recognized from the hospital. With them was the zebra-striped makkata judge. The kettle must have boiled once already, for the natives were all nursing steaming mugs, and, as he watched, the makkata leaned forward to pop two sweeteners in his. Atalaya was chomping on a chocolate-chip cookie.
‘Tea, Mr Brodzinski?’
Tom turned abruptly; hovering by his shoulder was a tiny old Anglo man wearing only paisley-patterned boxers and a string undershirt, through which snaggled a few limp chest hairs.
‘I–I’m sorry?’ he stuttered.
‘Tea,’ the old man reiterated. ‘Would you like some?’
It was only then that Tom noticed the judicial robe, with its hanks of multicoloured ribbons, hanging on a coat stand and realized that he was being addressed by the judge.
‘Um, yuh, sure, thanks, your honour,’ he floundered.
‘Brodzinski.’ Swai-Phillips gripped his upper arm. ‘This is Chief Justice Hogg.’
‘S — Sir.’ Tom half bowed to the old man, uncertain whether he should offer his hand. Justice Hogg seemed not in the least put out. He skipped away, and began shooting out remarks as he made tea for the new arrivals.
‘Excuse my informality. Bloody robes so uncomfortable — never got used to them, yeah. My colleague, Justice Antollopollollou, skedaddled. You appreciate — restitutional arrangements, interim stuff. . of no concern to him. Sugar? Milk? Lemon, perhaps?’