The examiner is cross
The judge is at a loss
The jury is laughing
The bailiff cracks a smile
Saint Stephan is still on trial
“Are you Welsh Losser?”
“I most certainly am.”
“Please state your occupation and current place of residence to the court,” says the prosecutor.
“I’m a PR professional, executive level. I also have several works of fiction AND non-fiction published under my name.”
“YOUR name or the name of your shorter, somewhat worse looking, less confident and immeasurably more stupid brother?” interrupts the defense.
“These are one in the same.”
Turbulence and confusion descend over the court. Whispers spread throughout the seating section.
Some jeering and indignant finger-pointing can also be observed.
“And your residence?”
“Kyiv at present… and for the foreseeable future…“
“But WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?” shouts the defense attorney, half raised from his seat like a baseball coach yelling obscenities at the umpire.
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained: The defense will refrain from further interruptions and outcries. You’ll have your chance to question the witness, counselor.”
Losser clears his throat and then removes a starched white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, dabbing it gently over his small mouth to no apparent purpose.
“I’m originally from Ohio but call Seattle and the Greater Northwest my home and place of upbringing. The same of course can be said of my much-maligned sibling, whom this court and indeed the fair city of Kyiv also know as Welsh Losser.”
More hubbub; hushed exclamations emerge from the back of the hall accompanied by the occasional scowl, an exchange of laughing eyes.
“And were you drawn to Kyiv by the personal success and career accomplishments of your closest kin? That is to say, having heard of Welsh’s meteoric rise from humble lapdog to high-ranking corporate somebody and ultimately the darling of East European Internet, were you not motivated, even inspired to join him in person and spirit, share in the accolades, support his further advancement in the true meaning of brotherly love?”
“No. I came here because I felt that he was likely to make a further ass of himself if left to his own devices.”
An uproar of muffled laughter ensues but only briefly, promptly subsiding into a tense silence of unseemly expectation that serves only to embolden the witness, who to all appearances is keenly aware of the significance of the moment at hand and determined to exploit it in pursuance of his impenetrable personal purposes.
“If it pleases this court,” continues the witness, heading off, indeed hijacking the initiative from a now flatfooted prosecutor by directly appealing to the jury and general public in attendance…
… “I should like to relate an episode from my – or more precisely – our personal family history in the hope of illuminating the character of the man whom I will henceforward refer to as ‘The Other Welsh Losser,’ as distinct from the simple appellation ‘Welsh Losser,’ which I hereby claim as my own.”
“Your Honor!” heaves the prosecutor, breathless and tragically isolated on the open courtroom floor, alternately clenching his fists at his side and then straightening his tie.
“Overruled,” laughs the defense.
“Let’s hear what he has,” says the judge, ordinary curiosity apparently trumping his usual adherence to judicial procedure.
“Our father, if it please this court, was a seaman, and as such was wont to spend great lengths of time away from home in execution of his professional duties. In the light of such inalterable circumstances and owing to my natural advantages over ‘The Other Welsh Losser’ – namely my aforementioned better looks, greater intelligence and superior physicality – I soon found myself compelled to fill the paternal void created by the absence of our common parent.
“‘The Other Welsh’, if it please this court…”
“It pleases the court,” quips the defense, smirking with arms folded at the prosecutor.
“‘The Other Welsh Losser’, it should be noted, was and to the best of my knowledge remains inclined to a congenital indolence which he ultimately grew to disguise in avoidance of well-deserved censure and reproach with a paradoxically vigorous and seemingly inexhaustible talent for deception. To put it more plainly, Your Honor and Good People of this Court, my brother has long preferred to fabricate, disseminate and defend the most outrageous distortions of the truth – particularly as it pertains to his imagined professional and personal accomplishments.”
“Your Honor, the witness is engaged in conjecture on the verge of character assassination.”
“He’s his brother, after all, Your Honor.”
“Overruled! The witness may continue.”
Losser wipes his mouth with his handkerchief again, removes then replaces his eyeglasses and then returns to addressing himself to the jury and general public.
“On one occasion, upon learning that my sibling – and to all intents and purposes, my ward and charge – had taken up a feckless and irresponsible attitude toward his studies, purportedly in pursuance of a career as an attorney, I felt myself constrained to confront the matter hands on with the faint but nevertheless sincere hope of redirecting him toward the path of honest industry and sensible ambition.”
“Your Honor!” interrupts the prosecutor, still standing helplessly in between the now seemingly great space that separates the witness stand from the jury, “the witness is engaged in willful digression.”
“Your Honor, the prosecution can hardly censure its own witness.”
“The witness may proceed.”
“To my distress,” Losser continues, as if oblivious to the court proceedings that surround him, “it came to light that ‘The Other Welsh Losser’, with whom I share relation in name alone, had not only abandoned any semblance of serious academic endeavor but since been engaged as a mobile purveyor of chilled dairy desserts…”
The seating section erupts in raucous laughter as council for the defense goes into a clownish rendition of an ice cream man, lifting his knees and extending his arms to imitate someone peddling cones along some suburban American street.
“Order in the court,” shouts the judge, himself helpless to restrain a smirk.
“Your Honor, I move to have this man held in contempt of court.”
“What man?”
“Welsh Losser.”
“Which one?”
More laughter, raucous shouting and hissing whispers ensue from the court’s seating section.
Filed by 42M, working double shift, January 28 2016