Molon Labe! by Boston T. Party, Kenneth W. Royce Page B

They take up nine feet of bookshelf space! The CFR administrative regulations, which can apply criminally to any one of us here today takes up twenty-one feet of space! I doubt that even Mr. Krempler himself knows every one of the hundreds of thousands of laws contained in thirty feet of books. If he does not, then how can he expect you or Bill Russell to?"
    The jurors are now looking at Assistant US Attorney Jack Krempler, who has suddenly become somewhat of a codefendant in the trial.
    "Who on earth could possibly live long enough to read and memorize thirty feet of laws? But that is what the Government would demand from us , otherwise, we're 'ignorant' of the law and 'have no excuse' and should go to prison!"
    The general mood is solemn as this point sinks in.
    Krempler's carotid arteries are clearly pulsating from across the room. What was an open-and-shut case J.K. is turning into an indictment of federal gun laws. How he hates this woman. He hates her springy step, her insouciance, her parody of the law, her lovely musical voice. He hates the fact that she has his own initials, and uses them. And he really hates that goddamned Laura Ashley dress she had the nerve to wear in court this morning, taunting everyone — especially that old goat Fleming — with her femininity. Why can't the little bitch wear a power suit like other women attorneys?
    Krempler tries to snap out of it, sensing that he is glowering. He considers objecting to Kramer's line of defense, but decides that it would likely come across to the jury as yelping.
    The tide of Juliette's closing argument continues to swell. "Henry David Thoreau had something to say on this point in his classic work titled On Civil Disobedience :"
Must the citizen even for a moment, or in the least degree, resign his conscience to the legislator? Why has every man a conscience then? I think that we should be men first, and subjects afterward.
    "Does that sound relevant to these proceedings? It certainly does to me." Juliette pauses to gauge the jurors' mood. They are still with her. Good. Time to bring it all home.
    Smoothly, she continues, "Think of it another way: If Bill Russell's muzzle brake had fewer holes or smaller holes, it might not have reduced the flash at all. It would still be the muzzle brake as advertised and all of us here — especially Bill Russell — would be at home or work. So, what we're really talking about is an amount of metal less in weight and less in value than . . . a couple of pennies."
    From her palm, Juliette drops two pennies onto the table. They bounce on the walnut veneer Formica, surprisingly loud. One penny dies quickly but the other is made of more thespian stuff. Sensing the significance of its performance it bounces hard and sharp into a fast roll, veering to the left at the very last possible moment — as if humanly piloted — missing the table edge by an angstrom's whisker. Having achieved the court's rapt attention it then requires about a week and a half to cease languidly rolling around in infinitesimally decreasing counterclockwise circles, finally collapsing into the prolonged death diapason of a tiny manhole cover. Even by slow-acting poison, Hamlet expired more quickly.
    Juliette has the presence of mind not to move or speak until the penny has finished its brilliant cameo. By suspending the matter of US v. Russell for nearly half a minute — and for just two hundredths of a dollar — she has made her point. It is one of those clever courtroom tricks impossible to foresee —much less preempt — and inadvisable to interrupt once in motion.
    Krempler is beside himself, a mute retaining wall of fury.
    In a solemn, quiet voice, Juliette resumes the stage. "Two cents. Most of us lose more than that in the sofa every time we sit down."
    Krempler angrily whispers to his assistant, " This is the kind of crap she's really good at. Just look at that jury. They're mesmerized."
    "Two lousy cents," Juliette continues. "That's what