Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

Jack pondered this.

“I guess that’s a fair point,” he conceded after a minute, his eyes on the empty fireplace. “But, Senator, you can argue most compellingly and rationally, and I’d probably end up being persuaded by you, but still, I can’t testify. You’re asking me to give up everything I have left, my whole life. I’ve never had much before now. I’ve lived all over the earth like a wandering gypsy, I’ve killed men and women and children, I’ve had my brushes with Death himself, and now I’ve finally got the one thing that makes my life worth living. Prior to now, I just felt like I was a clump of cells, introduced into this world for no particular reason, hurtling towards the end of my life--and now, for the first time, I’ve found a reason. Why would I give it up now?”

“And what are you referring to, this thing that makes life worth living?”

“Well, I can’t tell you or I might lose it. It’s too secret and too personal. I’ve already lost it once. I won’t lose it again.”

The Senator nodded, and his gaze dropped to his clasped hands. He cleared his throat.

“I’m not trying to discredit you or your life, or use you,” he said, raising his eyes to Jack. “Your testimony has to come uncoerced--I will not force your hand to anything. At all. But,” continued the Senator, “I believe that you are better than what you think. True peace, true hope, true satisfaction does not come from self-preservation but rather from a life lived in willing service to others. Do I know, now that I have announced my candidacy for president, that I might be assassinated along the way? Of course. I thought about it, I understand that it is a real possibility. But, there is something greater than that fear, which is the will to rescue this country from the clutches of the monster that has somehow caught it so tightly. I want to live in service to this country and this people. These are the stakes, my friend. Would I rather live safely with my wife and children, keep my comfortable government seat, live out the rest of my years like I have lived the past ones? Of course. But, I cannot do that. I cannot stand down while everything that I believe in crumbles around me. And you, Jack, you can stand with me. I believe that you can, that you are much better and braver than you believe.”

“I’m glad you think that,” said Jack after a moment, “but the problem is, I don’t.”

25.  The Trial

“A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.”

― Mark Twain

On 333 Constitution Avenue, NW, sat the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. The case of Gilman vs. United States was scheduled to be heard before the Honorable Larry Hammond, a wizened, wiry old man whose face bore an uncanny resemblance to a prune.

The morning of the 12th, Mr. Gilman was transported to the courthouse in an armored, battery-powered vehicle borrowed by the prison from the Department of Defense. Arriving before dawn, they found a large crowd already waiting, and it took three hours before the police had cleared a quarter-mile radius to be able to bring in the prisoner safely to the courthouse.

Due to the nature of the case, there was to be no jury and no public attendance, by order of the Attorney General. As Mr. Gilman walked into the courtroom surrounded by a bevy of officers, he found it to be quite empty save for the clerk in the corner. He was directed to his seat and sat down without a word.

Thirty-five charges against him, seventeen of these capital crimes. Using a weapon of mass destruction resulting in death. Destruction of aircraft, motor vehicles, or related facilities resulting in death. Murder of a member of Congress, an important executive official, or a Supreme Court Justice. Death resulting from offenses involving transportation of explosives, destruction of government property, or destruction of property related to foreign or interstate commerce. Genocide. First degree murder. Treason. The list continued.

As Mr. Gilman sat there, he felt no emotion. It was as if he was only there in body; his spirit had long since decided to abandon him. He sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes fixed on the steel bands around his wrists. His hair had grown longer than normal, and a scruffy beard covered his upper neck and jaw.

Presently others began to file into the room; the Attorney General, who seated himself a few rows back, the prosecuting attorney, who began to organize his paperwork, and the only federal public defender who would agree to take the case, Martin Stone, representing Mr. Gilman. Mr. Stone was a short, fat, doggedly constitutional man who believed in due process no matter the case. Mr. Stone tended to take the impossible cases; his record was poor because he always picked the losing cases, favoring the obvious criminals, the despised deplorables, in a concerted attempt to provide due process to those who everyone else hated.

Mr. Stone greeted Mr. Gilman brusquely and sat down beside him while the jacket buttons struggled to contain his corpulence. His forehead was sweaty and red.

“This city is a nightmare,” said Mr. Stone, with an expletive. “Can’t move or breathe without someone asking questions.”

Mr. Gilman said nothing but kept his eyes on his hands.

The witnesses filed in, Snyder Reed leading the way, followed by Adela and a variety of other individuals. Mr. Gilman sensed their presence but did not look up. He sat there, more dead than alive, as the Honorable Larry M. Hammond entered, and Mr. Gilman felt Mr. Stone jerking on his elbow until he stood, and then Judge Hammond waved them all to sit, which they did.

“The United States District Court for the