Meek
jurors in cramped boxes
sweat, as
slow moving fans
laden
with dust quietly churned small rivulets
of stale
air in no apparent direction.
Flamjibberant
and with great crajillity
the
Prosecutor took center stage.
Bavoomish
accusations echoed off of
veneer covered walls.
Floorboards
squeaked as the larger words
bounced
off deaf ears and fell before the jurors.
There
would be a ship's trial today
and the
Judge sat in great form
before
the masses.
The ever
so slight rocking,
up and
down, back and forth,
lifted
and sunk the horizon
from
porthole views. But
this jury
was not about to be
swayed. Like the Prosecutor,
they held
tight to their convictions.
The
ship's bell chimed away the
long and
crippled hours, as tedious
accounts
wafted past dozing spectators
and
squirming jurors.
Swinging oil lamps
were lit
as the trial sailed into the
night.
Then the
buoyant defense attorney bobbed up.
His
wingtip shoes glided him across
the
deck. His slick, city ways glistening
from the
light of the oil lamps.
It wasn't
long until jurors and spectators alike
had
forgotten about the heat, for this barrister
painted
with brighter colors, using broad strokes.
His
light-hearted banter toyed with grim accounts
as if
they were pillows of air.
Even the
motion of the ship was dismissed.
No longer
were people coughing, squirming
or
murmuring. They seem to hang on his
every
word.
He did
not carry the frown and scornful
tone as
did the Prosecutor. He looked
deep into
the jurors eyes and spoke
as if
they had been life-long friends.
He was
not from around here
they
could tell. Nor had he the Sea
Legs
required for such a lengthy
trial.
As eloquent a speaker as
was ever
heard, he had concluded
in a
manner that had left
no other
doors ajar.
Had it
not been for his
exasperating,
projectile punctuation
spewing
fourth at the conclusion of his summation -
he may
have won.
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