by Hank Davis
“Yes, and properly so,” Joyce retorted.
Emily looked at him and nodded slowly. She went on:
“If I were that engineer, and I had any common sense, I’d be constantly aware of the difference between myself and my patron. I would remind myself, every day, that my patron was born to a family, and that my patron would, in turn, be permitted the sacrament of marriage when he desired it with a lady. I would understand that engineers were members of the people, and that my patron was a member of one of the First Families, or a Legislator, or a Justice. Realizing all this, I would always be careful never to encroach on the difference between us, accepting my fate in having been born to the people, and his having been born to a family.”
Joyce frowned. “That sounds a little bit as though you considered birth a blind accident.”
Emily looked at him silently. She took a deep breath. “Being an intelligent person, I, as that engineer, would attribute my station at birth to the direction of The Messire. You’ll hear no heresies from me, Sam.” She reached out and took his hand.
“That’s why I’ll say, again, that the girl in Nyack was foolish. That was the case in Nyack, wasn’t it? She did what none of us, in our right minds, would consider doing. Certainly, she did what I’d never do, but then, I’m older than she. I was older when I came to you, or I at least assume so, since you called her a girl.”
Suddenly, she bit her lip. “Young people in love are not necessarily in their right minds, just as people enraged are not acting logically. Who’s to say what their punishment should be?”
“There is Someone,” Joyce answered firmly.
Emily nodded, looking at him, her expression abstracted. Suddenly she said:
“Sam, have you ever really looked at yourself in a mirror? Not to see whether you’d shaved properly, or whether your wig was crooked on the morning before a trial, but just to look at yourself.”
He couldn’t understand this new tack.
“Do you know you have a very young face, Sam? Under that black beard-shadow, with the scowl gone, you’ve got the face of a troubled adolescent. You’ve taught yourself dignity, and put flesh on your body, but you’re still a young boy, searching for the key that will wind the world up to run accurately forever. Perhaps you believe you’ve found it. You believe in what you’re doing. You believe that justice is the most important thing in the world. What you do, you do as a crusade. There’s no wanton malice or cruelty in you. I don’t believe I’ve ever known you to do anything purely for yourself.
“I love you for it, Sam. But, except sometimes with me, you’ve submerged yourself in your ideal, until you’ve learned to ignore Sam Joyce entirely. You’re Mister Justice Joyce all the time.”
She closed her hand on his. “Something happened this afternoon, and I suspect it was drastic. You’ve come to me after facing an unarmed Accused—a girl, young and unskilled—but there’s a cast on your arm, and what must be a bullet hole under it. I don’t know what happened. I do know there’s a news blackout on Nyack.
“Sam, if the system’s been finally challenged, then you’re in terrible danger. Other men aren’t like you. Other men—people’s men and family men—act in rage, or fear, or love. If they tear down your world and your ideal—”
“Tear down—!”
“…If they tear down what you have given your life to, there will be nothing left of you. If the system goes, it takes Justice Joyce’s lifeblood with it, and only I know where the little fragment of Sam Joyce lives. It won’t be enough.”
“Emily, you’re exaggerating beyond all reason!”
Emily clutched his hand. He saw, to his complete amazement, that she’d shut her eyes against the tears, but that streaks of silent moisture were trickling down her cheeks.
“You’ve come to me for help, but I’m part of the world, too, and I have to live the way it lets me. After all these years, you want to know whether you’ve been right, and I’m supposed to tell you.
“I told you I thought the girl was foolish. Sam, I love you, but I don’t dare give you your answer. I told you: you won’t hear any heretical statements from me.”
* * *
The night had slowly edged into dawn. Joyce stared at it through the window beside the bed. He had no way of knowing whether Emily had ever gone to sleep or not. She was lying motionless, just as she had been all night.
Joyce’s eyes were burning, and the short stubble of his graying natural hair was thick with perspiration. The night had been sleepless for him.
His arm was much better this morning, but he still remembered the shock of the bullet.
If you believed, as you must believe, that The Messire saw every human deed, knew every human thought, and caused every human event, then what had He meant in Nyack?
If the sentence was correct, why did The Messire permit her that one shot? Why hadn’t whoever threw the gun been stopped before he could do it? If the sentence was unjust, why hadn’t she killed him?
Was it that The Messire approved of him, but not of the basis of his judgment? But his basis was the Law, and The Messire had handed down the Law!
Was it, as Kallimer had said, that The Messire was not as Joyce conceived of him?
What did Emily think?
He reminded himself that what Emily thought was irrelevant, as he had hastily reminded himself many times during the past night. Her opinion did not govern the truth or falsehood of justice. Justice was an absolute; it was either right, no matter what the opinions of Mankind, or it was worthless.
Was it, as Kallimer had said viciously, that The Messire was trying to make him understand something?
What?
What had He meant in Nyack?
Joyce lay on the bed, exhausted. He knew he was thinking wildly. He’d gone over and over this ground, trying to find the proper logic, and accomplishing nothing. He was in no condition to reason correctly. He only hoped he could act wisely at the hearing this afternoon.
He slipped cautiously out of bed, hesitating at every rustle of the sheets. Once out, he dressed hastily, and left the apartment as quietly as he could. He didn’t want Emily to wake up and see what condition he was in.
He walked into the hearing room with measured steps, hoping no one would notice his unsettled state of mind. When the Chief Justice showed agitation, what could anyone expect of the lesser Justices?
This, too, was part of the task, and the young, ambitious Associate Justice of Utica hadn’t had the faintest inkling of it, just as, throughout his dedicated advancement through the ranks of his profession, he could not have dreamed how difficult it would some day be to walk steadily through a door when sleepless legs and aching ankles dragged at every step.
He saw the tension rampant in every Member. No one was sitting down quietly, waiting for the hearing to begin. Knots of men stood everywhere, talking sharply, and there was a continual movement from one group to another.
Joyce scowled in annoyance and nodded shortly as most of the faces in the room were turned toward him. He looked around for Joshua Normandy, but the Bar Association’s Chairman had not yet come in. He saw Kallimer, standing to one side, wearing his frown and talking alone to a white-faced Pedersen.
Joyce went over to them. He hadn’t decided yet what to do with Kallimer. The man was arrogant. He seemed to derive genuine pleasure from talking in terms Joyce was unable to understand. But the man was intelligent, and ambitious. His ambition would lead him to defend the same principles that Joyce defended, and his intelligence would make him a superlative Chief Justice, once Joyce was gone.
For the sake of that, Joyce was willing to let yesterday’s questionable behavior go. Perhaps, after all, Kallimer had been right in asking for a reconsideration of the verdict.
Once again, Joyce was painfully conscious of his inability to arrive at any firm opinion on yesterday’s events. He stopped in front of Kallimer and Pedersen with a shake of his head, and only then realized how peculiar the gesture must look to them.
“Good afternoon, Justice,” Kallimer said dryly.
Joyce searched his face for some indication of his state of mind, but there was nothing beyond the omnipresent frown.
“Good afternoon, Justices,” he said finally. “Or have the election results been confirmed, Legislator?” he asked Pedersen.
Pedersen’s face was strained. “Yes, sir. The results were confirmed. But I resigned.”
Joyce’s eyebrows shot up. Recovering, he tried to smile pleasantly. “Then you’re returning to the Bar?”
Pedersen shook his head. “No…uh—” he husked in a dry voice, “I’m here simply as a witness to…uh…yesterday.” He was deathly pale.
Kallimer smiled coldly. “Mr. Pedersen has decided to retire from public life, Justice Joyce. He now considers that his first attempt to dissociate himself from the Bar was inadequate.”
Joyce looked from Kallimer back to Pedersen. The younger man, he suddenly realized, was terrified.
“Blanding’s dead, you know,” Kallimer said without inflection. “A paving block was thrown at his head yesterday afternoon. It’s uncertain just what the circumstances were, but a member of the Civil Guard brought the word out.” Kallimer smiled at Pedersen. “And now our former Associate, his earlier presentiments proven correct, is shortly taking a trip abroad—the Lakes Confederation, I believe?”
“I have distant relations in St. Paul,” Pedersen confirmed huskily. “And there is an Ontario branch of the family in Toronto. I plan to be away for some time. A tour.”
Kallimer still smiled. “The key word in that statement would be ‘distant,’ would it not, Mr. Pedersen?”
Pedersen flushed angrily, but Joyce seized on Kallimer’s attitude as a reassuring sign. At least, Pedersen’s cowardice wasn’t general. For the moment, that seemed more important than the news of Blanding’s death.
His lack of astonishment made him look at himself in wonder. Was he that much upset, that a Justice’s murder failed to shock him? Was he really that far gone in his acceptance of the incredible?
He knew, with a calmly logical part of his mind, that before yesterday he would have considered himself insane to even think of anyone’s attacking the Law. Today, he could pass over it. Not lightly, but, nevertheless, pass over it.
“You’re sure of your information, Kallimer?” he asked.
Kallimer nodded, looking at him curiously. “The witness is reliable. And he brought out the gun, too. That’s an astonishing item in itself. You’ll be interested.”
Joyce raised his eyebrows politely. “Really?” He saw Joshua Normandy come into the hearing room, and nodded in the Chairman’s direction. “The hearing’s about to begin. It’ll be brought up, of course?”
Kallimer was frankly puzzled by his attitude. Joyce’s head was erect, and his shoulders had abruptly straightened out of their unconscious slump.
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Shall we take our places? Good afternoon, Mr. Pedersen. It was a pleasure, having you on my bench.” He took Kallimer’s arm, and, together, they strolled up to the long table facing the chairs of the lesser Justices.
Joyce knew what was happening to him, and the calm, judicial part of his mind, at last given something it understood to work with, approved.
He had been in a panic. At noon, yesterday, the foundations of his logic had been destroyed. The integrity of justice and Justices had been attacked, and his belief in the universal acceptance of The Messire’s Law had been proved false. He had discovered, in one climactic instant, that there were people willing to deliberately attack the Law.
He had been beyond his depth. He had no precedent for such a crime; no basis on which to judge the situation. Someone else, perhaps, such as Kallimer or Justice Normandy, might have the reach of mind to encompass sit. But Joyce knew he was not a brilliant man. He was only an honest man, and he knew what was beyond him. In the instant that he had stopped, staring dumbfounded at the gun lying on the plaza stones, with the Accused reaching for it eagerly, he had stopped being capable of evaluating the legal situation and taking steps to rectify it. Panic could warp a man’s judgment completely.
That was what The Messire had been trying to make him realize. The world was changing, and the Chief Justice was not equipped to deal with the change.
As an honest man; as a man sincere in his beliefs, he was ready to give up his responsibilities and let the better suited men take them up.
He nodded to Justice Normandy and the other Bar Association officers. Then he sat down calmly, with Kallimer beside him, and waited to see what the more intelligent men had made of the situation.
* * *
Kallimer was holding up the gun brought out of Nyack. Joyce looked at it curiously.
It was late in the afternoon, and a good deal of testimony had already been recorded. Pedersen stated that he was aware of angry movement in the crowd as Joyce made his draw, but that the gun had been thrown by an unidentified man before anything could be done. After the shooting, the man and a surrounding group of other men had been lost in the crowd. The crowd itself had been bewildered at first, and then divided in its reactions. That early in the riot, there had been no signs of unanimous effort.
The Civil Guardsman had testified that, as far as he knew, he was the only survivor of the squad detailed to keep order during the trial. He had seized the gun after the executed Accused dropped it, and run to Guard headquarters for help. It was his impression that the immediate deaths among family members at the trial were the result of spontaneous riot in the crowd, and not of any organized plan of assassination.
Justice Kallimer had commented that this was also his impression. The only traces of intelligent planning, he stated, had shown themselves in the cutting of the train cables out of Nyack and the attack on the radio station, where the supervising family man had smashed the transmitter before it could be captured. Note was made of the loyalty of the station engineering staff.
Now, Kallimer said: “Bearing previous testimony in mind, I’d like to call this hearing’s attention to the construction and design of this illegal weapon.”
Joyce bent closer. There were a number of peculiarities in the gun, and they interested him.
“First,” Kallimer went on, “the weapon is obviously hand-made. Its frame consists of a solid metal piece—steel, I’m told by a competent engineer—which bears obvious file marks. Moreover, it is of almost primitive design. It has a smoothbore barrel, drilled through from muzzle to breech, and is mortised at the breech to accommodate one hand-inserted cartridge and a spring-loaded hammer. Additional cartridges are stored in the butt, covered by a friction plate. It is fired by thumbing back the hammer and releasing it, after which the first cartridge case must be removed by hand before it can be reloaded.
“A hasty weapon. A weapon of desperation, thrown together by someone with only a few hours to work in.”
Kallimer put the gun down. “A hopelessly inefficient and inadequate weapon. I am informed that the barrel was not even drilled parallel to the frame’s long axis, and that the crude sights were also askew, further complicating the error in aiming. It is remarkable that Mr. Justice Joyce was struck at all, and it is no wonder at all that the Accused was never able to fire a second shot.”
Joyce shook his head slightly. It was perfectly obvious how the girl had managed to hit him. But, then, Kallimer, with his slightly eccentric viewpoint, would not be likely to take The Messire into account.
Kallimer was speaking again.
“The point, however, isn’t relevant here. It is the nature of this weapon which concerns us. Obviously, it was not constructed by anyone particularly skilled in the craft, and its design is hopelessly unimaginative. It is unlikely that any others exist. It follows, then, that the rebellion, if I may call it such for the moment, is largely confined to the Accused’s immediate…ah…relations. No actual large-scale organized effort exists.
“We have the testimony of Mr. Pedersen and the Guardsman. It seems obvious t
hat the gun-throwers’ plans culminated in the delivery of the weapon to the Accused. What followed was a spontaneous demonstration. This, together with some other relevant data already mentioned in testimony, is the basis on which we have formulated our program of rectification.”
Kallimer turned toward the center of the table. “Justice Normandy.”
Normandy was an aged, gray-headed man whose heavy brows hung low over his eyes. He rose out of his chair and supported his weight on his hands, leaning out over the table and looking toward the lesser Justices in their seats.
Joyce looked at him curiously.
Normandy had never been Chief Justice. He’d risen to Chief Associate under Kemple, the Chief Justice before the one Joyce had replaced. The oldest son of one of the First Families, Normandy had then retired from active work, becoming first Recorder and the Chairman of the Bar Association. He’d held the position longer than Joyce had been Chief Justice, and he was at least seventy.
Joyce wondered what he and Kallimer had decided to do.
Normandy’s voice was harsh with age. He forced each word out of his throat.
“Justice Kallimer has summed up very well. A purely personal rebellion against the Law in Nyack has touched off a spontaneous demonstration. You’ve noticed the lack of evidence implicating any ringleaders except the Accused’s relations. They’re nothing but woodworkers. There was some later participation by engineers, because it took training to see the importance of cutting off communications. But that wasn’t until this emotional upheaval had a chance to get contagious.
