Just John v. Susie, part two of a one-part series
“Order, I demand order in the living room!” A gavel, the household’s only cooking device, pounded on a makeshift sound block, which would be more commonly known as “a book.”
John (Just John) and his friend Maxwell stopped whispering to each other as the proceedings began.
“Prosecuting counselor, do you have your paperwork ready?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Maxwell ventured. He just wanted to see John’s new mattress, which John had received for his recent ninth birthday. He suspected this was all a test of his manners. His mother had made him take a class about manners to build his character. Maxwell didn’t know what character in the abstract meant, but he assumed it was the same as resentment.
The Honorable Chief Justice John Roberts peered down at John and Maxwell from recliner sofa on which he sat. The boys stared down at the floor nervously. The sofa creaked; the floor wished it belonged to another owner.
“Is Maxwell Hensington your counselor, John? You know I don’t approve of him.”
“He’s my friend,” John shot back. Then, checking himself, he said, “Your honor, I think it befits the circumstances—namely the lack of young … very young attorneys—that Maxwell be my counsel.”
“Very well. And, you, defense? Do you have your paperwork ready?”
It was chaos over by Susie’s makeshift desk. Her lawyer, Maria from across the street, had not brought her briefcase. It was too heavy, and—besides—her father was using it. She wasn’t even supposed to cross the street. Like Maxwell, she was here to see Just John’s new mattress. Supposedly this one had 5% more springs. She wanted dancing lessons, but she only got math textbooks.
“Math is like dancing, but with the brain. It’ll get you a real job,” her parents said.
“You know what’s more like dancing? Dancing.” But she kept this thought to herself and took her “good-time quiet & focus” medication.
CJ John grew furious at the incompetence of the defense, and his anger casted a silent pall over the room only interrupted by his only too-audible screaming at the defense counsel.
“I don’t want to play this game anymore,” Maria said quietly.
“You think this is a game, counselor? I’m charging you with contempt of this court.”
“This is just a dining room,” she shouted.
“You’re so wrong. It’s a living room. It’s a living room!” And he would not stop repeating it. Spittle flew from the recliner throne and splattered like the corrupt maggots of a rotting judiciary branch.
At long last, he too grew silent. He cleared his throat.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to the jury.
Thirteen young boys and girls from the neighborhood stared at him with eyes the shape of flying saucers on steroids. They quivered in your folding chairs. They began to realize perhaps today wasn’t the day they were going to see a new mattress. A mattress! Such a better gift than math textbooks!
“Stop quivering,” CJ John commanded. “You’re scratching our wooden floor.”
Just John sat embarrassed in his chair, face in his hands, his heart in his throat, and all his other organs in the wrong places as well.