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Almost
over. Ha.
Old
man ‘Spider' Ryan leered a malignant smile. He nodded, tapping a gold-headed
blackthorn cane on the floor in a gesture of excitement. It was the DA,
O'Brian himself, who had told the County Prosecutor that he was personally
taking the case, with only a slight push from the ‘Spider.'
“It
goes well,” he said to his chauffeur. “Very well indeed. The property will
soon be back where it belongs.” He cackled a mocking laugh at Henri's open
hate. “‘Tis true, poor Benny might have to stay a while in a prison. No
matter, me boy-o, indeed.”
Ryan
had delivered this particular piece of property out of tighter places than the
Federal Penitentiary.
“Bah,
Henri. A few weeks there would be good for the boy-o. Make him a touch more
malleable. Sure, and any normal fifteen year old lad would be overjoyed to
exchange bars and bad food and predators for the luxury of a place like the
Project's fancy-house. They would indeed. But then, the boy-man is not exactly
normal, is he?, else the dear people would not be wanting him. Would they
now?”
A
shudder hit his heart. Ryan swallowed a small pill and touched the ebony
crucifix in a bid for help from that quarter. Then he caressed the Owl totem
Leda Melancowski had made for him. In it was a drop of blood taken from a
sacrificed infant. One of many Ivanovitch put in her.
Ryan
caught himself making signs against witchcraft. He saw Henri watching and
scowled.
“Devil
take the whole rotten lot of you,” he muttered, snarling at the tawny eyes of
a now grinning Henri. “Black boy, I tell you, that reward was as good as in me
Swiss bank account.”
Ryan
winked at the judge. Wilson hastily averted his face.
In
his closing arguments against the defendant, District Attorney Josiah O'Brian
spun with all the grace and finesse of an actor in a failed script. Face
outraged, arm pointing, his finger extended like an accusatory weapon at a lone
teenage boy slumped at the defendant's table. Eyes filled with promise of
retribution, Anna stared at O'Brian.
Baring
his teeth, O'Brian announced, “That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that
young man before you, is one Benjamin Wya Grey.” He
is evil. Warped. “He cannot conduct his life in the same manner as you or
I. It is beyond him, for he lives to break the law, to do harm to his fellow
man.”
The
arm lowered slowly. The courtroom was silent but for the accused's mother's
broken rasp of protest.
O'Brian
shot Anna a withering glance and stepped to the defendant's table. He towered
over the boy.
“He
is guilty, beyond even a shadow of a doubt. Rotten to the core, ladies and
gentlemen.”
O'Brian
recounted Benny's sins.
“He
is a chronic runaway. A known thief.” A
drug pusher, an enslaver of innocent young girls.
My poor Angel. “He was, and may well yet be, deeply involved with the
nefarious experiments done by certain misguided persons in a group known to us
only as the Project.” O'Brian leaned on the table, hands smooth, his eyes
flat with hate and locked into Benny's. “He has helped kidnap citizens of
this nation, forced them into a life of shame and degradation to further his
depraved and corrupt goals.”
“That's
a lie.”
Benny
leaped to his feet. Mouth gaping in bitter shame of the controls, of the
training collar he had worn, Benny froze. It left him sweating drops of ice.
Benny slumped back in his chair.
“And
was himself a prostitute there.”
His
wife's shapely form crossed O'Brian's mind's eye and the DA clenched his
hands into fists of rage. Thousands paid to an obscure doctor as hush money to
keep silent about Angel's abortion.
Taking
a deep breath, O'Brian allowed himself to leer at Benny. Turning to the jury
box he straightened his tie. The cold face became a saddened and touching mask.
“I
implore you, do not let this . . . animal
-” He bit off the word with a savagery, then caught himself. “Do not allow
Benny Wya Grey to continue his life of crime. Give us a cry of guilty.” His
fist shot forward and up. “Remand this case to a higher court if you will, but
help us take this . . . person off the streets before he can strike again.”
As
one, the jury looked at Benny. The papers had been full of the Project,
accusations of slavery, buying and selling human beings, hints of breeding them.
And this kid. Then nothing.
“Were
it up to me,” O'Brian said, his voice filled with pain and sorrow, “For
his crimes against the State - against humanity,
ladies and gentlemen, I would ask for the death penalty.” Gasps of shock
filled the court. “It is the only humane thing to do. When a dog runs down
Main Street, bloody foam dripping from his mouth, you do not attempt to treat
the disease. All that is left is that one final, merciful shot.”
He
paused, allowed his words to sink in. To Benny, he said in a low hiss, “You
raped my wife. She'd never willingly lay with a rednigger.”
Anna
jerked forward and balled a fist. With a low, muttered laugh of contempt, he
showed Anna a flash of teeth.
“If
you allow him to walk,” O'Brian captured each jurist with his eyes, “then
you will be guilty of setting free one of the most iniquitous and vile criminal
minds America has ever produced. Benjamin Wya Grey is a danger to every man,
woman, and child you know. He is guilty. Guilty,”
O'Brian shouted.
“Guilty,”
he whispered. “Of this I have no doubt.”
Several
in the jury nodded. Face triumphant, O'Brian stared at Benny, then at Anna.
“At
the tender age of fifteen, he is rotten. His mother was tried and found guilty
of the wanton murder of her beloved father-in-law, one Ivor Greylov. His
stepfather, Carl Ivanovitch, is a known male prostitute. A pimp who spent most
of his life behind bars. Ivanovitch is a biker. A Road Warrior,” O'Brian
said, his lips curling. “Lawless and murderous, a man on the verge of
insanity.
“Between
these two, they have produced a son who is a depraved and sadistic ghoul that
feeds on our children.
“Rotten
through and through, ladies and gentlemen.” He swung around to face them,
hands held in supplication.
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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