Thursday, May 10, 2012
Trial in The Court of Authentic consists of judgment, a prosecutor, and a defendant. Some might ask after the jury, which some reckon upon being the rest of us, but I don't think so because there is still breath in my body. Others have argued that the defendant has access to council. He can look through the yellow pages of past time to find one. But more likely it is a lonely business up there on the dock, because in The Court of Authentic the trial never ends, which means the verdict can never be known. Nor is this a bad thing, in my view.
As I see him, the prosecutor is a diminutive figure with that complexity of personality that can only be seen in the sepia tones of really old photographs, or a hand writing that's legible, or that awful facial hair, politely called a goatee and which is quite obviously invisible to mirrors. He wields power, and when he enters the court, there is hush and fear, and trembling. A crying child is removed, giggling in the back row stops, and everyone says how wonderful and perfect the prosecutor is. And they do so loud enough for him to hear. Then one day the Defendant stands his ground and mostly it's a dumb thing to do, but sometimes wonderful to see.