Trial by Combat

by H. F. Gibbard © 2003

Lord Finkelstein lashed his horse forward. Mud flew from its hooves as the charger dashed out of the forest, hurtling across a narrow swail. The Lord spurred his mount on to a gallop across the grassy plains.

Lady Diane Johnson clutched her hero's trenchcoated form tightly as they cantered. She shuddered as the steed's massive muscles moved beneath her. Though she had great faith in Abe Finkelstein, fear still gripped her heart.

Her friends had applauded her hiring the quiet, handsome champion. Finkelstein has the Power, they'd said. The Power to defeat the tassel-clad Dark Ones. Could it be true?

In a moment, the Courthouse came into view on the darkened horizon. Its gothic towers were shrouded in reddish-black clouds. Flashes of eerie lightning illuminated the skies above its forbidding facade.

"Courage, m'lady!" cried Finkelstein back to her, above the booming thunder, "Behold! The Halls of Justice!"

Lady Diane gazed in awe on the imposing structure. Did she dare yet have faith?

* * *

Suddenly, they were surrounded by a thundering mass of hoofbeats. Lady Diane peered out from behind her hero's cloak. A mob of great black horses was running astride them from either side. The dark riders of the Defense Bar!

The horsemen passed them and then halted, barring their way.

Finkelstein slowed to a trot, then brought his horse to a stop. The horse's heavy breath steamed into the dew-laden morning.

Before them stood half a dozen mounted men in flowing pinstripe, silent, dark. The warriors of the Ivy League.

Finkelstein hailed them.

"Vale, amici! Tributum aut bellam!" he cried, employing the Ancient Tongue.

Finkelstein was a master of the Ancient Tongue. The almost-forgotten language gave those who used it great powers in the Halls of Justice, for many were the terrible spells of its dark arcanum.

One of the riders slowly trotted forward. He had lost an eye, probably at his studies. The empty socket was covered with a monogrammed black leather patch.

The rider dismounted and stood before Finkelstein.

"Stand aside, Harris J. Irwin!" Finkelstein cried, "My client pleads a valid claim."

"Oh, a valid claim, is it?" Lord Irwin turned to his men and chuckled. They laughed with him.

Irwin extracted a Cross pen from his shirt pocket. It gleamed in the sun. Waving it before his face, he cried out the words of a horrible spell.

"RES JUDICATA!"

Instantly, as if by powerful magic, a great wall of fire erupted behind the Dark Horsemen, blocking the way to the Courthouse. Its flames roared with a sinister mirth.

"Is that the worst you can do?" sneered Finkelstein. He dismounted, lifted his Bic ballpoint, and spoke his own magic words.

"LACK OF PRIVITY."

Though he spoke in the common tongue, the words were efficacious. The flames died immediately.

Lord Irwin nodded slowly.

"That was impressive, counselor," he said, "but let's see how you handle Williamson!"

Lord Williamson, counsel for the State Attorney General's Office, stepped forward. He extended his government-issue Pilot Precise rolling ball pen and cried out confidently: "NULLUM TEMPUS OCCURIT REGI!"

The words flew like a shaft and struck Lord Finkelstein in the arm, throwing him to the ground.

Lady Diane screamed.

Finkelstein pulled himself up slowly. Blood flowed from his wound.

"Fear not, m'lady," he said, wrapping a monogrammed handkerchief around the wound, "'Twas a powerful spell. Though our case against that one defendant is wounded, yet shall we prevail in equity, notwithstanding all his claims of immunity."

Lord Louis Dangerfield now came to the fore. The shabby and rotund counselor extended his own weapon, an ancient, leaky fountain pen, and began waving it wildly about him, calling out spells in a loud voice.

"LACK OF JURISDICTION OVER THE SUBJECT MATTER!" he began, dancing about, "LACK OF JURISDICTION OVER THE PERSON! IMPROPER VENUE! INSUFFICIENCY OF PROCESS! INSUFFICIENCY OF SERVICE OF PROCESS! FAILURE TO STATE A CLAIM UPON WHICH RELIEF CAN BE GRANTED! FAILURE TO JOIN PROPER PARTIES! ESTOPPEL! LACHES! WAIVER! LACK OF DUE DILIGENCE! STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS! FAILURE TO EXHAUST ADMINISTRATIVE REMEDIES!"

The effect was less than intended. Lord Dangerfield had hoped to erect an impenetrable hedge of flaming thorns. He had succeeded, however, only in creating a patchy bulwark of smouldering bushes, some no bigger than a shrub.

Lord Williamson rolled his eyes. "'Shotgun' Louie strikes again," he muttered.

"Remove these obstacles!" cried Lord Finkelstein, "lest I invoke Rule Eleven!"

The assembled warriors gasped in unison. Rule Eleven struck a counselor in his most vulnerable spot: his pocketbook. Its sanctions, for those who wielded it, were devastating.

Lord Dangerfield sighed. He had no choice. "WITHDRAWN," he said. The smouldering underbrush disappeared.

And with that, the battle was over, almost as soon as it had began. Finkelstein had been too powerful, even for the Dark Ones. They would lick their wounds and save the rest of their ammunition for the summary judgment stage. The horsemen of the Defense Bar now stood aside as Lord Finkelstein led his mounted client through their midst. They glared at the woman on horseback, but made no effort to obstruct her progress up the craggy mount to the Courthouse.

"So does this mean we've won?" asked Diane, as the shadow of the dark towers fell upon them.

"Nay, m’lady," chuckled Lord Finkelstein, "Far from it. We have only survived our opponents'initial motions. We have many trials ahead of us. Including the jury trial itself, if they will not settle."

He pulled open the great brass doors of the Hall of Justice, bowing slightly and motioning her inside with one hand.

"Yet am I confident of your case," he said, smiling his quiet but dignified smile.

Diane thought of his words. Many trials ahead. Yet she knew now she could face them all, with her hero, bloodied but unbowed. The great Lord Finkelstein. Warrior at Law.

x x x




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