by Michael Bray
“How much does your company stand to earn from this procedure? How many people will you have rushing to your clinics, sure that they are infected and paying your extortionate fees just to be examined?”
Longborough stammered, and couldn’t formulate an answer.
“You paint me as a monster, and it’s true that there are crimes that I am guilty of, but you are worse, because you can’t admit to yours.”
Silence.
Greer looked at the jury. They were looking at him in wonder and at Longborough with contempt. Winthorpe had his head in his hands and had seemingly lost interest in proceedings.
“No further questions.” Greer snapped, and returned to his seat.
“Okay.” Judge Jeffries said. “We will take a brief thirty minute break, then reconvene for the final statements from both parties before we hand over to the jury.”
Court was dismissed, and the various television crews hyped up the final statements. Public opinion was strictly divided, and the consensus was that the result could go either way.
The court reconvened, and the final statements were ready to be made. Winthorpe stood, having recovered from his head in hands dejection from before lunch. He approached the jury, smiling confidently, then paused, basking in the silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” He began. “You have heard the information. You have heard testimony of experts and also of those directly involved. You have also heard the words of Mr Greer, a man who delivered a very convincing, heartfelt speech. But don’t be fooled. Here is a man that for two hundred years has maimed, killed and murdered all for his own self-gratification. Look at him now, ladies and gentlemen.”
Winthorpe paused, and looked at Greer with a smug half smile.
“Look at him. What looks to be an innocent man on the surface, is actually a cold blooded monster. And yes, perhaps mistakes were made by my client in his manner of treating Mr Greer, but nevertheless, his intentions were sincere. And rest assured, his reasons for the manner of removing the Longboroughvampirosis from Mr Greer were genuine.”
Winthorpe turned back to the jury, making sure to make eye contact with each of them.
“My client has devoted his life in the pursuit of a cure for what is, without a doubt, the biggest single threat to humanity, bar none.”
Winthorpe smiled, and inserted one of his trademark pauses.
“Just think about that for a moment. On one hand you have a man who has devoted himself, his life, and his own personal fortunes and that of his company to devise this cure, and then on the other side you have Edwyn Greer. A murdering, violent monster that has terrorised this planet for over two hundred years. Make no mistake. Edwyn Greer is guilty. And Edwyn Greer deserves to be punished, if only to show others of his kind that wanton murder of innocent people is unacceptable, and will be punished.
Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. Ensure that whatever decision you make is the correct one, because to make an incorrect choice, could lead to more deaths, murder and more suffering for countless innocents the world over.”
He stood straight, and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Edwyn Greer is guilty, ladies and gentlemen. And it’s up to you to see that he is punished. Thank you.”
Winthorpe returned to his seat, and the Judge motioned to Greer. He hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. He wasn’t even sure if his legs would hold him, but he stood up smoothly, his restraints rattling as he shuffled towards the jury. He wasn’t even sure how he was going to begin, or what he intended to say until it happened and he found the words ejecting themselves from his mouth.
“I won’t try to dazzle you like Mr Winthorpe over there. I won’t even try to sway your opinion. I’m sure by now you already know what you are going to decide. All I will say is that I didn’t ask for this. On that day many years ago, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And because of that, and the control that my parasite held over me, yes I did terrible things. Things which, now that I am free of it, I deeply regret. Truth be known, I don’t blame Dr Longborough for what he did. Although he performed his procedure on me without permission, I don’t blame him. In fact, I want to thank him. Because he freed me. And yet, it seems that he also wants to see me put to death, which begs the question why? Why would a man who was referred to by his own representative as a man who had devoted himself to curing this disease, then be so determined to see me put to death?”
Greer walked towards Longborough, and watched him carefully.
“Greed? Personal gain? Fame? All valid reasons. I wonder if this is the fate that befalls everyone cured of the parasite he has given his own name to. What if one of you, here in this court contracts it and do not seek help in time? Perhaps you too would be put on trial and put to death. Freed of your curse, only to be punished at the very first scent of a freedom which is then taken from you.”
Greer walked back towards the jury.
“Perhaps, this entire procedure is worthless if those cured are put to death. Some might even say a waste of time and money. In closing, ladies and gentlemen, let me ask you this. If the parasite is responsible for my actions, and then removed, why punish the man? Surely I am as innocent as any of you here in this room? Either way, for better or worse, I have lived for a very long time, and think I have seen enough of human nature to know that we are a flawed species. The real battle is already won, and with Dr. Longborough’s cure, nobody need suffer as I have suffered. So please, ladies and gentlemen. Do not punish the man for his misfortune of contracting a disease that was neither understood nor curable. Perhaps I am wrong, and the flaws that I have seen in our species over the years are not quite so clearly cut. That is for you to decide. And whatever the outcome, I thank you.”
Greer returned to his seat, and sat as Judge Jeffries organised his papers.
“The jury will now recess to formulate their findings. We will reconvene as soon a decision has been made.”
Greer was led away to the holding cells, as the jury filed away to discuss the evidence before presenting it to the Judge. He assumed the jury would take a lot of time to go through the evidence that had been presented, and thought there was a good chance that the trial could yet stretch into a fourth day. He was wrong however, and less than three hours later, a verdict had been reached.
For what would be the last time, no matter the outcome, Greer was led back into the courtroom which was already full, as nobody wanted to miss the verdict.
Greer glanced over at Longborough and Winthorpe, but both were intently watching the Judge.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
The head juror, a middle aged woman with short hair stood and responded.
“Yes, Your Honour. In the case of Greer versus Longborough, we find the defendant. Not guilty.”
The courtroom became a symphony of whispered chatter and excited murmur. Greer sat for a moment, not quite able to comprehend what had happened. He glanced at Longborough, who was glaring at him.
“You got it wrong.” He bellowed standing and staring at the Judge with wide eyes. “He’s a murderer, a mass murderer.”
“Sit down, Mr Longborough.” Judge Jeffries warned, as Winthorpe tried, and eventually succeeded in calming his employer.
Judge Jeffries took a deep breath and addressed the court.
“The decision of the jury is, for the record, one which I am in full agreement with. The actions of Mr Greer were conducted under the influence of what has been confirmed to be a very violent, very potent parasite. One which is now cured. I urge everyone here in this courtroom, and everyone watching around the world to acknowledge this fact. And also to allow Mr Greer to live his life now in peace as he should have done many years ago. Even though, many have suffered, Mr Greer cannot be blamed. He was as much a victim as anyone, and although I won’t go into it here, I suspect that the main reason for this trial taking place were, as suggested, financially motivated.
Mr Greer, you strike me as a man who has lived through years of th
ings which most of us cannot begin to imagine. You also come across as a very sincere man who, despite your years on this earth, has not yet had a chance to experience life as it should be lived. I urge you to go forth from this courtroom and live that life to the full, and try as best you can, to put the events of this trial and the events of your life, which have led to this moment, behind you.”
Greer nodded, and the Judge turned to Longborough.
“ As for you, Mr Longborough, for as much as your procedure is appreciated, and its brilliance cannot be denied, I sense that you are a man who will do anything to achieve whatever he wants to in life, and will stop at nothing to do so. Your treatment of Mr Greer was nothing short of barbaric, and Mr Greer would be well within his rights to take legal action of his own, if he so desired, although I would hope that he would take my advice and not waste any more time with disputes in this or any other courtroom.
I give you this warning, Mr Longborough, knowing that the eyes of the world are upon you. Pursue this no further. Leave Mr Greer to enjoy his life and you in turn go back to the brilliant work that you are conducting in the advancement of science.”
The Judge stood, and looked at Greer with a small smile.
“You are free to go, Mr Greer.”
The armed guards that had been with Greer since the trial began released his shackles, freeing him at last. He rubbed his wrists and looked around the courtroom, unsure what to do. He hadn’t really ever planned for winning, or what he would do with himself if he did. He supposed it was possible that some fanatic might try to kill him, or make an example of him, but he decided that it wasn’t something that was worth worrying about too much. The world, for better or worse, stretched out in front of him, and finally free of the thing that had consumed him; he couldn’t begin to even imagine the possibilities. With everyone watching him in silence, Edwyn Greer stood, and walked out of the courtroom as a free man.
CANDYLAND
Bill Norton was almost out of gas. The Arizona Desert rolled by his blue Cadillac as he enjoyed the peace of the road, which for the best part of the day had pretty much belonged to him alone. It had been blisteringly hot, the kind of day where just standing out in the open would leave a man covered in sweat within minutes, but Bill was kept cool by the constant rush of air as the car raced on.
He had only decided to drive from Los Angeles to San Antonio because he was deathly afraid of flying. The entire notion of being inside an aircraft of any form, horrified him to the point where he suffered severe anxiety attacks, and so the only option had been to hit the road. He only wished that the reason for his trip had been something positive. His sister had called to tell him that their mother had suffered a stroke, and that he really ought to get down there as soon as he could. Without her having to say it, he could read between the lines well enough. It wasn’t a get well visit as such, but more than likely a farewell.
As he imagined happened with most people in similar situations, he wished he had made more of an effort to see her, made time to go visit, or even just to call more often to ask if she was okay. He could give many reasons why he didn’t, the job that demanded so many of his hours, the family who he was trying his best to nurture and protect, or even the fact that there never seemed to be enough time. However, he knew, deep down, that they were all just bullshit excuses.
He never went, because he was selfish.
His attention was drawn back to the road by the sign which rolled out of the heat haze as he continued down the pencil line of blacktop.
REST STOP/ SERVICES!
Last chance for gas for the next 100 MILES!
Take next slip road!
He smiled to himself at the urgent nature of the faded green sign, and the way in which its message was composed. There was a demanding quality to it. Why so many exclamation marks? He imagined the words being said by some backwater preacher, each line read in such a way as to give importance to what should otherwise be a standard message for a driver looking to take a break. It read like a demand, which only served to further pique his curiosity.
Take next slip road!
“Whatever you say pal.” He said to the relentless desert, smiling as the sign flashed past him. Even though he very much doubted that the aforementioned rest stop was the last chance for gas, he didn’t want to take the risk and be left out in the middle of nowhere after dark with no fuel and a car which had no roof.
He could see the slip road ahead, snaking off out of sight around a brushy hillock, and if he wasn’t curious enough, the next sign ensured that he would definitely be stopping to check this place out.
Like its demanding counterpart, this sign was also green and aged by the elements, but if the first sign was demanding, this one was written with some sense of finality, a statement of fact. The chipped and faded white letters this time carried no bullshit, no false information about how limited fuel supplies may be. It simply stated where in the world Bill Norton was going.
ENTERING
Candyland
Pop. 122
As far as place names went, it was pretty cool, and Bill didn’t think twice as he slowed and peeled off the main highway and down the bumpy slip road.
Candyland, he thought to himself as he jostled the car along. What a fantastic name.
The car bustled and jolted on its suspension, as Bill Norton made his way into the unknown.
Candyland was barely a town. Bill cruised down what he presumed was the main street, taking in the ambiance of the place. The stores - those which weren’t closed and boarded over - were tired and jaded, and looked to be showing signs of giving up the fight against the constant abuse of the elements.
There was an eerie silence, and Bill immediately noticed that the streets were empty. Nothing moved, and he was aware of just how loud the Cadillac’s engine sounded in the hot July air. Despite the heat, he felt a chill brush down his spine.
There was another sign ahead; penned in much the same way as the one he referred to as the ‘shouty’ sign. It was tied across the length of the street between two lamp poles, and was no less subtle than its predecessor.
This is CANDYLAND!
Do NOT mis the fete in the town square!
Hot Food! Cheap Gas! Frendly welcum!
Not only was this also an exclamation point overload, but was also badly spelt. He didn’t like it, and was so overcome with the feeling of being watched, that he almost turned around and headed back the way he came.
You can’t do that, He reminded himself.
And why not?
Because you need gas and this is the last chance to get it for the next 100 miles. The sign said so.
He thought about telling his inner monologue to go screw itself, and that an exclamation mark did not mean something should be taken as gospel. Besides, surely to god in today’s modern world, somebody, other than in a shithole like Candyland, would have decided to set up shop and supply gas for weary travellers like him.
But you can’t be sure…
Again, his inner voice was correct. The facts were that he needed gas, and if he had to stop in Candyland (Population 122) to get some, then so be it. He tried to ignore the ramshackle storefronts and sagging roofs as he proceeded down the street, which although devoid of people, did have some life.
A skinny, runt of a dog with patchy, matted fur limped across the street ahead, and he also saw a couple of alley cats pawing through a mound of garbage bags piled at the side of a bakery that last looked to have done business in the fifties. But of human life, however, there was no sign. The road turned right ahead, and he hoped that somewhere beyond there would be some signs of civilisation. He drove around the corner, and suddenly, the world of Candyland was alive.
The town square was filled with people. Stalls were set up around the perimeter, leaving ample room for people to mingle and chat. The explosion of chatter and the mouth-watering smell of barbecue instantly dispelled Norton’s fear, and he noted that even his inner monologue had retreated back
to its hiding place. Norton brought the car to a halt, instantly feeling the burning heat of the sun. He looked at the on-going fete which had been advertised by the sign on Main Street. There would be ice cream, maybe even deliciously cool lemonade, and of course, that wonderful smelling barbecue, which was making Norton’s taste buds come alive with desire. Part of him knew time was of the essence, and that he really couldn’t afford to stop, but on the other hand, he had been driving all day, and was a good couple of hours ahead of schedule.
“Hell with it.” He muttered to himself as he shut off the engine and climbed out of the car.
He walked towards the village square, his shadow thin and stretched ahead of him. One of the locals saw him and veered to meet him.
“Good afternoon to ya' good sir! Welcome to Candyland.” The man said.
He had some kind of speech issue, and pronunciation of the letter‘s’ came out as a ‘ttth’ instead.
He was short and overweight, and somehow squeezed into an ill-fitting cheap blue suit which looked straight out of the '70's. Rivulets of sweat ran down his balding head and over his face. The man whipped out a handkerchief and wiped himself dry, and then rolling his eyes he looked at Norton and flashed a yellow toothed grin.
“It’s so hot the god-damn birds are layin’ their eggs sunny side up.”
Norton nodded, as the man stuffed the handkerchief back into his breast pocket, then held out a pudgy hand.
“My name's Clayton Candy, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Norton shook the man’s hand. It was soft and sweaty, and Norton couldn’t wait to have his grip released.
“Pleased to meet you Mr Candy, I’m Bill Norton.”
“So, what brings you to Candyland today?”
“I uh, need some gas. Almost out.”
“Oh, we can certainly help you out there. No problem at all. Won’t you stay and enjoy the fete with us? It’s quite the event here.”
