Elizabeth Webster and the Court of Uncommon Pleas

by William Lashner

  “The clerk will call the next case,” said the judge. “We don’t have all night. Or maybe we do, but that doesn’t mean we must waste it.”

  The tall green woman called out in her garbled voice: “Harrison v. Long.”

  My nerves, already stretched thin, started vibrating. What happened next was the oddest thing—the out-and-out most extraordinary thing—and something that would change my life forever.

  Four of us stood at a table in the front of the courtroom. Henry, Natalie, and I shivered like freshly shaven lambs, and then there was Barnabas. The judge stared down with distaste, as if he had just eaten a rotten fig.

  I turned to the row of wig-wearing barristers, hoping against hope to see my father among them, in his robe, beneath a white mop head, ready to come to our aid. But all I saw were strangers, staring at us with gazes cold as Popsicles.

  One of the wig wearers stood and took his place at the other table. Tall and pudgy, he tossed us a smile that looked insanely pleased with itself.

  “Josiah Goodheart at your service, sir,” he said in a raspy, rhythmic voice with a southern twist. “I’ll be representing the defendant, Beatrice Long, a Class Three animated spirit.”

  “Goodheart?” whispered Barnabas. “Why is he representing poor, dead Beatrice? He is Redwing’s counsel.”

  “Redwing?” I whispered back.

  “Quiet in the court,” said the judge, glaring at us with those solid-red eyes. As the judge stared, the ram on the wall, still chewing, snickered. “Mr. Goodheart,” continued the judge, “as always it is a pleasure to have you before us. And is your client present?”

  “I can summon her, Your Lordship.”

  “Then do so, Mr. Goodheart. Time is wasting on us all.”

  Josiah Goodheart uttered a few words beneath his breath and waved his hands a bit like he was being swarmed by gnats. Suddenly I felt the telltale breeze swirl around us, along with the scent of flowers. In the next instant the space beside the barrister glittered with light as Beatrice Long, in her tight sweater and poodle skirt, made her ghostly appearance at the table.

  “Very good,” said the judge. “We’ll be with you shortly, my dear.”

  The ghost moved her lips, and though no sound came out, the judge nodded.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Your counsel will explain it all. Now, is the plaintiff here? A Mr. Harrison?”

  Natalie gave Henry an elbow in the ribs. Henry, who was staring with his mouth open while his ghost fluttered her fingers at him, turned to the judge. “Uh, yeah. I’m here. Yes. Henry Harrison, sir.”

  “Ah, so you know who you are,” said the judge. “That is always a good first step. Now, where is your counsel? No one can stand before the Court of Uncommon Pleas without proper counsel.”

  “I, uh, I don’t know?” said Henry.

  “You don’t know? How is that possible? You don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Is this man’s lawyer in the courtroom? Come on, speak up.”

  At this, Barnabas said, “If I may, Your Lordship.”

  “I know you, Barnabas Bothemly,” said the judge with a shake of his head. “You clerk at the disreputable firm of Webster and Son. But you are not permitted to stand as counsel for this young man. So who will?”

  “Mr. Harrison’s lawyer is Eli Webster,” said Barnabas, “who appears to have been detained.”

  “If I may interject right here, Your Honor,” said Josiah Goodheart. “Mr. Webster is indeed detained, I say quite detained. But what bearing should that have on the case at hand? According to the rules of this court, your very rules, the plaintiff still needs counsel.”

  “Yes, he does,” said the judge. “Yes indeed. Or there will be consequences.”

  “What do you mean, ‘detained’?” I said to Goodheart with his white wig and diabolical smile. I knew I should have kept quiet, but I didn’t like the sound of that word, detained, and what it might mean for my father.

  “And who are you, young lady?” said the judge.

  “I’m, uh…I’m, uh…”

  “Out with it, girl.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Webster. Eli Webster is my father.”

  “Ah, so, another Webster. You Websters are like a plague. And believe me, I know of the plague. But you have no standing to speak here. I don’t even know why you’re standing here in the first place. Sit down.”

  I dropped into a chair by the table.

  “And keep your mouth closed for the rest of the proceedings,” said the judge, “or we’ll have to close it for you. You might find it difficult to eat with a muzzle of iron where your lips should be. Now if there be no barrister on your behalf, Mr. Harrison, then you must suffer the consequences. That is the way we do it here, and the way we do it here is the way it has always been done. And consequences, as I like to say in my courtroom, are consequential.”

  The judge picked up his gavel and raised it in the air.

  “In the matter of Harrison v. Long,” he said, “an Action in Ejectment of a Class Three animated spirit, the court rules that—”

  A voice sounded out from the back of the courtroom, a rough, familiar croak of a voice. “Not so fast, you old pepper pot.”

  Judge Jeffries jerked his head up, sniffed at the air, squinted into the distance. “Who is that brazen…ah, it’s you, is it? I should have known.”

  I turned and saw my grandfather, and my heart leaped. He would handle the judge. He would save Henry and my detained father. My grandfather would be the hero of the day.

  The old man, bent almost in two, banged his cane on the floor as he moved forward.

  “How dare you show your face again in my courtroom, Ebenezer Webster,” said the judge. “After the matter of Tinsley v. Van Helsing, which was an absolute scandal, you were forever banned for contempt, for a contemptuous contempt, I must add, and you accepted the punishment willingly, so I’ll hear no appeal to that judgment now. Nothing you say can change the facts that this boy, this Harrison, has no rightful counsel and that you are forbidden from filling that role.”

  “Don’t worry your foppish little head,” said my grandfather as he continued toward the front of the courtroom. “I would sooner roast on a spit than argue before you.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “I’m not here to lawyer for Mr. Harrison. I have come instead to introduce before the bar of this court the attorney who will try this case. Someone you haven’t yet bullied into submission, someone who will do us all credit.”

  “Well, get on with it, then,” said the judge. “The sooner it is done the sooner I can be free of your noxious presence. What barrister have you brought before me and where are his credentials?”

  “I bring you,” said my grandfather, “Elizabeth Webster.”

  “Who, her?” said the judge.

  “Who, me?” I said, standing.

  “Yes, her,” said my grandfather with all the force he could manage. And then, turning to me with a voice soft with sympathy: “Yes, you.”

  “No, Grandpop,” I said, not understanding what was going on, only knowing that it could not possibly be what I feared it might be.

  “Quiet,” said my grandfather, softly, so that only I could hear. “Our Mr. Harrison is in grave danger. Remember what Beatrice told you. ‘Save me, save him.’ We have no choice here.”

  “Have you gone mad?” said the judge. “This Elizabeth Webster is just a sprite. Has she any education in the legal arts? Has she finished her apprenticeship? Has she passed her exams? The answer to all these questions is clear. She has done none of it. Additionally, she has no robe. How could she dare appear before me without a robe? Not to mention that she is a girl. In all my years on the bench, I have never stooped to listen to the hysterical ravings of a female barrister, and I don’t intend to begin now.”

  “What?” I said, startled into anger. “That’s just rude.”

  “You are out of order, Miss Webster. You too, Ebenezer Webster. Enough nonsense. It is time for judgment.” The judge lifted
his gavel once again. “In the matter of Harrison v. Long, I rule—”

  “Even if all of what you say is true,” said my grandfather, once again interrupting the judge and provoking a hard stare from his red eyes, “none of it matters a whit. She is a Webster and need not follow your rules. She has been granted rights by a higher authority than you. Go ask Scratch himself if you must.”

  A gasp ran through the room. The judge recoiled. The little flying babies on the ceiling all covered their eyes.

  “Though I would be careful waking him,” said my grandfather. “He tends to be grumpy early in the millennium.”

  “Yes, there may have been a promise, if I remember my history,” said the judge. “But where are her credentials? I need do nothing without credentials.”

  “You want credentials?” said my grandfather, pulling a brown scroll out of his jacket pocket. The scroll was bound by a red ribbon. “Here are her credentials.”

  He handed the scroll up to the judge, who looked down suspiciously before he untied the ribbon and straightened the scroll into a long piece of vellum, aged and absolutely blank.

  “You mock me for the last time, Ebenezer Webster,” said the judge. “This is even more contemptible than your contempt.”

  “All she need do is mark it with her proof and then you will be bound by our grant,” said my grandfather.

  “I suppose, yes,” said the judge, “and then the proof, as they say, will be in the groaty pudding. So, it will be done. Come, girl, and mark this skin.”

  “You want me to sign it?” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the judge. “Your right is all about the blood, and that is what you must mark it with. We’ll see if you be imposter or real enough to fulfill the vow. Do it quickly, girl, or I’ll hold you in contempt along with that old fool who claims to be your grandfather.”

  “Go ahead,” said Barnabas as he slipped a small pocket-knife from his vest and pulled it open. The edge of the blade glinted. “Be brave.”

  Now you tell me: What was I supposed to do? If ever there was a club I didn’t want to join, this court was it. At the same time, who would step up for Henry? Who would step up for my detained father? Should I trust my grandfather and do this thing, or should I trust my instincts and race like a startled rabbit out of there? I was torn and uncertain.

  But there sat Judge Jeffries high on the bench, the rehanging judge, looking at me with those horrible red eyes, hoping I would fail somehow so he wouldn’t have to listen to the hysterical ravings of a girl. Maybe it was time to rave on.

  “Fine,” I said, grabbing the knife out of Barnabas’s hand.

  I stepped up to the bench and jabbed my forefinger with the point of the knife. A drop of blood beaded on my skin. I smeared the blood on the blank piece of vellum, and the red streak disappeared—as if it had been swallowed by the goatskin.

  I stepped back. Judge Jeffries stared for a moment at the vellum.

  “Aha,” he said. “Nothing, exactly as I expected.” He showed the blank document to the whole of the courtroom. “This will be the last straw for you, Ebenezer Webster. This is beyond contempt, this is an outright fraud on the—”

  He stopped talking as printing began to appear on the vellum, careful and ornate, as if being drawn by an invisible artist. The lines became words, and the words slowly filled the whole of the goatskin.

  The judge’s mouth turned down. He handed the document to the tall green clerk, who held it open before the head of the great ram. The ram stopped chewing long enough to read it to the courtroom.

  “‘To all persons to whom this writing may come,’” bellowed the ram. “‘Greetings.’” He went on to read a detailed history of the promise given to Daniel Webster by the Lord Demon of the Underworld. Then he read out my name and granted me the degree of Juris Doctor. Finally, he gave me the right to represent the damned before the Court of Uncommon Pleas through the whole of my life, and then through the whole of my afterlife, to the end of time, or to the day of judgment, whichever came first.

  There was a moment of stunned silence in the courtroom before a great cheer went up from the spectators. A cheer for me. Imagine that. Sparks fell from the domed ceiling as the little flying babies waved fiery wands like the sparklers we wave during the Fourth of July.

  Natalie jumped up and down. Henry patted my back. Barnabas, still long-faced and mournful, reached out to shake my hand. Josiah Goodheart at the other table gave me a nod and a toothy smile as the barristers in their wigs rose to their feet and clapped their hands, hurrahing. Even the ghost of Beatrice Long was clapping, as if she had intended this moment to happen all along.

  Best of all, my grandfather looked at me with tears in his eyes and gave me a hug. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Welcome to the team. Welcome. Welcome.”

  It felt, all of it, true. Like a part of me I didn’t know existed had been exposed to the world and that I, Elizabeth Webster, was worth cheering for. Explain that if you can. I couldn’t. But still, all I wanted to do was jump around like a fool and celebrate.

  “Order!” yelled Judge Jeffries with a bang-bang of his gavel. “Order in my court. Quiet down or I’ll put all of you in chains and hang you by your ankles from the rafters. This is a courtroom, not a barnyard. Order, I say.”

  The celebration quieted. I tried to stifle my smile.

  “Now, Miss Webster,” said the judge.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Congratulations, I suppose, are in order,” he said in a sour tone. “You may make merry over your elevation on your own time, but this is my time and I shan’t have it wasted. Take back your credentials and answer me this. In the matter of Harrison v. Long, are you ready to proceed?”

  I took the scroll from the clerk and then looked at Barnabas, who nodded at me.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Well, then do, Miss Webster. Call your first witness.”

  We’ve all watched enough television to know how the whole trial thing works, right? Some guy sits in the chair, you ask questions, he answers them, and you win. Pretty simple. Sure, it might have been my first case as a barrister standing before the Court of Uncommon Pleas, but I had the blood of Daniel Webster in my veins. And I had Barnabas whispering in my ear the whole time, making sure I asked what I needed to ask. What could go wrong?

  You tell me.

  We called Natalie to the stand. While she sat in the witness chair, the tall, green-faced clerk approached her with halting, stiff-legged steps. The clerk held a red satin pillow on which sat a skull covered in gold. The ram ordered Natalie to place one hand on the top of the skull’s head and raise the other.

  The golden skull shivered to life. “Do you, Natalie Delgado,” it said in a voice with a very proper British accent, “swear on my severed royal head to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, or be tossed into the dark realm of the Puritan king slayer Oliver Cromwell, where no dancing, no prancing, no fun at all is to be permitted now and through all eternity?”

  “The skull seems a little bitter,” I whispered to Barnabas.

  “With reason,” whispered Barnabas back. “It is the skull of Charles the First, and Cromwell took off his head.”

  “Lots of missing heads in the spirit world.”

  “In our world, too, if you look closely enough.”

  The judge leaned over his bench and stared at Natalie. “Say ‘I do,’ child.”

  “I do,” said Natalie. And so it began.

  I asked Natalie questions about what she saw the night we served Beatrice Long with the alder stake. We even put the stake, which Barnabas had brought, into evidence. Then Henry sat in the chair and swore to tell the truth on the skull before I asked him about what he saw on those nights when Beatrice Long appeared. After that, Barnabas made sure I asked about the deed.

  “Who owns that house?” I asked.

  “My mom and dad,” said Henry.

  “Do you have, like, a deed or something?”

  “Yes
. A deed. Here.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I found this.”

  Barnabas whispered in my ear.

  “I move the deed into evidence as plaintiff’s Exhibit Two,” I said.

  “No objection here, Judge,” said Josiah Goodheart.

  “Fine, it is in evidence,” said the judge.

  Barnabas whispered again in my ear.

  “And did you bring something else with you, Henry?” I asked.

  He lifted the brown paper package that had been sitting on his lap. “You told me to bring some of the ground from my property.”

  “Good. Now I think what you have to do is open the package and pound the dirt with your fist and then…”

  Barnabas whispered in my ear.

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  Barnabas nodded.

  “And then say three times as you hit it, ‘I eject you from my property.’”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I think,” I said. “Is that right, Judge?”

  “It’s a formality, but vital. Just do it and get this over with.”

  Henry unwrapped the parcel, showing a square piece of dirt with grass growing out of it. He looked at the ghost, who was pouting back at him. I could see Henry hesitate.

  “Do it,” I said.

  Henry pounded the sod three times, pausing to speak between each strike. “I eject you from my property. I eject you from my property. I eject you from my property.”

  Each time Henry hit the dirt, the ghost of Beatrice Long moaned. And each time he said he ejected her, she brightened and brightened. The third time Henry repeated the statement, the ghost of Beatrice Long burst into flames.

  I thought that was the end of it. I had won my first case as a lawyer. Easy peasy. Maybe I had found something I was actually good at.

  But when the ghostly flame went out, Beatrice Long was floating beside Josiah Goodheart, just as she had been before.

  Barnabas whispered in my ear. “The plaintiff rests,” I said.