“If you want me I’ll be in the bar.”
All these years in the law business and that gag never got old.
“Can the defence and the prosecution approach the bench,” I sighed wearily, feeling like the black female Judge at the end of her tether I’d seen in every movie.
“Who are you prosecuting?”
“No,” the prosecutor said, sheepishly. “You.”
“And I take it that means you,” I turned to the defence attorney, already looking as lost as a star in the darkness, “are defending…”
“Right,” I really needed that drink. “And where is the defendant?”
“Absent your honour, but the defence would like to call this woman we met,” the lawyer’s cheeks were two roses. “She has a mouth like my client. She knows her life and her deeds.”
“What the devil?”
The confusion spread across the courtroom like wine spilled in a bathtub. With no one in the docks, the sketch artist busied herself by doodling cartoon images of countries she had no desire to ever go to.
If the woman braying for blood was clutching at straws, the prosecution calling upon a lonely painter as witness was the last one.
“I live in a box of paints,” he announced.
“What is the charge here?” I thundered.
“Transfusion, your honour.”
I threw question marks at them, wishing they could be daggers.
“You intoxicated without permission.”
“Objection, your honour! This is a straightforward case of love touching mutually consenting souls.”
“You put wine in the veins instead of blood!”
“Surely you see this was a holy act. By an unsung goddess, perhaps…”
I came down hard on the bench like I was brandishing the warhammer of Zillyhoo. No one brings god into my courtroom.
It was at the bar that I saw you, in the blue TV screen light. There was nothing to judge, no one to blame. Only a feeling that poured out of every part of me, replaced by something so much sweeter.
And it knocked me off my feet.
By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Joni Mitchell