Counsel for the Prosecution - Part Three of Witness, a six-part modern parable

The yellow legal pad shone like a beacon against the jumble of papers strewn across her desk. 

A steaming cup of coffee she’d hoped would help focus her thoughts sat next to an ashtray that smelt of lost weekends and defeated dreams. It was crowded with squashed cigarette butts—some smoked down to the chemical sting of their filter, others abandoned halfway in disgust or distraction. 

Anna rubbed her eyes and stretched in her seat as she tried to reboot her brain to make sense of the papers littering the tabletop like super-sized confetti.

It wasn’t her case she was working on, she was only assisting. But she felt involved, intrigued. It was one of the oddest cases she’d ever come across—even in the pages of all those textbooks she’d waded through at law school. The facts were unremarkable, but the people involved and the circumstances surrounding it would make it memorable. 

She couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Why so much pressure to convict and punish the sad, silent man who’d refused to take the stand, offer any kind of defense or even recognise the court? Of course, there was the hint of a terrorist plot, but she hadn’t found anything to support that amid the reams of papers.

Sure, he’d stirred up some unrest, but that was hardly remarkable in these days of disenfranchisement, disenchantment and the ever-widening gap between rich and poor, was it? Every Tom, Dick and Harriet was out there rabble-rousing these days—and a good few on the extreme who backed up their angry words with knuckle-dusters and knives had been overlooked by the authorities. So why pick on the bedraggled figure who had sat staring at his hands neatly folded in his cheap-suited lap at the initial court hearing? 

But who was she to question? A high profile case would look good on her resume, especially as a conviction looked like a certainty, albeit one she wasn’t really comfortable about.

Taking a sip from her coffee and lighting a fresh cigarette, Anna looked back down at the photocopied letter in a clear plastic folder. It was only background, circumstantial, unimportant to the case, but something about it kept drawing her back to it.

Dear Tom,

I’m writing to you because I know that you haven’t been swept up in the madness. You’re a rational man, not one to get caught up in the mania that’s infected those desperate to believe something more than the simple truth. 

I don’t suppose you’re happy to get this letter. I know I’m not going to win any popularity contests from now on. But I hope you’ll read on.

You must be wondering why I did what I did. I had no choice, or so I thought. Now, I hate what I’ve done, what I’ve become. But I couldn’t let things carry on like they were, hurtling at break-neck speed towards destruction. I had to do something to pull him back from the brink before his madness ate him alive, and perhaps salvage something of the dream of mending a broken world that had brought us all together in the beginning.

I believed in him from the start. I saw something that could lead us to something better, kinder. I became his right-hand man, his most passionate advocate. Even—I hoped—his friend.

But something changed. I’m not quite sure when I first saw it, that odd look in his eye. Something more than the spark that lit a fire in us—it was the glint of mania. It didn’t help that that she was always there, whispering nonsense in his ear about him being “The One”. Soon, he started believing his own words just as completely as the sheep around him.

I still loved him. I still do. But he scared me.

I had helped him weave a web of pretty half-truths and I could see it was heading for something nasty, loud, maybe dangerous, and definitely too much of a threat to be ignored. And he’d be the one to pay the price.

I thought I could save him from himself. That's why I went to the press, and then the police. I really thought they’d just pick him up and deliver him to calm-voiced, white-coated experts in quiet, pastel-painted corridors who would soothe him, exorcise his demons, help him see things as they really are. 

But I was wrong. They chewed me up and spat me out like an old piece of gum, making sure that I knew full well that it was me who sealed his fate. Now I’m hated, reviled, forever branded a traitor. Even you turned away when I tried to explain.

That’s why I’ll be lying on a cold slab by the time you read this.

I’m more sorry than anyone can ever know. I hope you can forgive me.

Don’t give up. We need people like you to make a difference. We just don’t need any more martyrs.

Jude

No matter how many times Anna read the letter, it got to her. Something kept pulling her back to the dead man’s words. A sense of affinity, despite herself.

An urgent bleep brought her back from her thoughts. A text from Theo, her boss, reminding her that he needed the papers on his desk by 8am tomorrow—in just six hours.

His words as he gave her the assignment echoed through her mind: “Let’s get this fruitcake sorted, so people like you and me can get on with things.” Like she was part of some secret cabala of privilege that couldn’t afford to let the boat rock too much.

Perhaps she was?

(This is Part Three of a modern parable in six parts. Click for Parts One and Two)  

Witness - Part Two

Alibi

STATEMENT

of

Peter Steinman, ID No.5D38064.

This statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief, and I make it in the knowledge that I may be prosecuted if it contains any false information.

            Name:  Peter Steinman                                                Date: 11 March 2016

On the evening of 10 March, I took a short cut through Grove Park on my way home from work at the central fish market. At the north-east end of the park, I saw a group of men sitting around a fire, listening to a tall man in a long coat. I had never seen them before, but stopped to listen to what he was saying out of curiosity. I couldn’t hear clearly so I got closer, and was invited by one of the men sitting on the ground to join them. 

I listened for a while, but wasn’t impressed by what I heard. As I started to get up to leave, a red-haired man came out of the trees surrounding the clearing and approached the tall man. After he greeted him, policemen entered the clearing and stopped anyone from leaving. The tall man was arrested.

I explained that I was just a bystander and showed the police officer who detained me my ID and work pass. He said I would have to come to the station to give a statement.

I was put in a police van along with nine or ten others, but the tall man was handcuffed and put into a police car. I didn’t see him again. No-one spoke in the van, but several exchanged worried looks.

At the police station, I repeated that I did not know the tall man, that I had nothing to do with the gathering and that I was just a passer-by. I explained what I had heard, but could not give any information about the name of the group or their apparent goals.

After signing this statement, and giving his full contact details, the witness was advised that he may be called upon to testify at any future trial and was allowed to return to his residence. He was released unconditionally at approximately 09.35 hours on 12 March 2016. 

Magda’s Journal: 29 March

Jimmy came to visit today. I didn’t have anything to offer him but he was fine with that. I could make up for it later, he said. He was messing about with something in the kitchen. No idea what. There’s no food in the house.

 He left a package on the table for me. I know what’s in it. How could I not? I’m trying to pretend it’s not there, but it keeps pulling me back with its promise of sweet emptiness and an end to the pain. I’ve bitten my lip raw trying to resist. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out – or if I even want to.

(This is Part Two of a modern parable in six parts. Click here for Part One.)

Witness: A modern parable in six parts - Part One

Magda’s Journal: 24 March

I woke up shivering as the first light of the day crept through the blinds. I’d fallen asleep in the armchair again, TV blaring out the same old, same old. The morning chill made my bare legs look like chicken flesh, so I pulled on my jeans and went looking for some socks. Then to the kitchen to make some tea. Black. I haven’t left the flat to get milk - or anything else - for days.

I can’t seem to get enough of the news these days. It’s nothing but doom and gloom but I can’t stop watching. Like an obsession, addiction even. Can’t bear the thought that I might miss something. Some special message, meant only for me, hidden in the reports.

I tell myself to snap out of it. Move on. But how can I? I’d built myself a new life, and now it’s been smashed to pieces.

So I sit here, all day, watching the flickering screen, hoping for a sign. Waiting patiently, loyally, for the call. When it comes, I’ll be ready.

The Evening Star – 25 March

'People’s Prophet' to stand trial on terrorism charges

A cult leader accused of masterminding a terrorist plot to bring down the Government is to stand trial. A preliminary hearing today ruled that the 37-year-old accused, who refused to give a name or address, was mentally competent to face the unspecified charges.

Throughout the ten-minute hearing, the self-proclaimed ‘People’s Prophet’ refused to acknowledge the court or enter a plea. He also waived his right to legal counsel.

Due to national security concerns, the trial will be held in camera, closed to the press and public.

  

Magda’s Journal: 26 March

I saw him on the news. He looked so small, so lost, alone, in a badly fitting suit that only someone with a grudge could have picked out.

They all thought he was invincible. I was the only one who knew the lost little boy behind all the fire, the passion. And I was the only one who could give him what he needed, so he could give them what they needed.

But now, he’s not talking to anyone and won’t see anyone. Or so they say. 

None of our friends are talking to me either. It’s like we never happened. They’ve all gone to ground, denying they ever knew him. 

I’m the only one left.

My phone is filled with texts from reporters. The same ones who dismissed us as deluded hippies before. They’re clambering over themselves and drooling at the thought of an exclusive. They’ll get nothing from me.

There’s one person I can talk to, even though it’s been more than a year since I swore I’d have nothing more to do with him. A year since I put myself through the wringer and came out the other end, clean. And for what?

Jimmy sent me a text as soon as the news broke. He was still my friend, he said. He was there for me if I needed anything, he said. We all know what ‘anything’ he was thinking about, don’t we?

Old habits die hard, especially when they carry the promise of blissful escape.

  

A Letter from Thomas

Dear Magda,

By the time you get this letter, I’ll be gone. I’ll post it before I board the ferry, but I won’t tell you where I’m going. It’s better you don’t know.

I hope you’ve managed to stay clean and healthy. I know it’s hard for you, with everything that’s happened. It’s hard for us all. I had to get away. Sorry I couldn’t stay.

You should leave too. Nothing good will come from waiting around for some kind of miracle to happen. You’ve got to start thinking about what’s best for you now. Forget him, and start putting Magda first, for once.

I know you won’t. You never would listen when I tried to reason with you about his so-called “mission”. You were always free of the doubts that haunted me, but I’m afraid that certainty will hurt you now.

We’ve had our differences, but I always cared for you. Now, I can’t bear the thought of you falling back into the life you had before. I have to try, at least one more time, to get you to see reason.

Please, think about it. He’s not worth it. You are.

With love,

Thomas

  

Magda’s Journal: 28 March

I left the flat yesterday. After seeing him on the news, I decided I had to see him, let him know I was still his.

I showered, put on clean clothes, even fixed my hair, and took the bus. Though my heart was pounding in my ears and my hands shaking the whole way, I knew it would be worth it just to see his face again, hear him speak - only for me.

But he made them turn me away. He wouldn’t even leave the cell. 

How could he be so cruel? 

After everything I’ve done for him? Giving up everything I knew to give him the comfort that only I could see he needed?

When I got back, the letter from Thomas was waiting for me. I knew what it would say, but I read it anyway. Blah, blah, blah. He thinks he’s so logical, so superior. He just doesn’t understand. His precious letter’s now just another piece of paper gathering teacup stains on the table. It doesn’t mean a thing.

I’ve been thinking more and more about Jimmy....

Athens Portraits: The Fall

She knew in an instant that she was going down. And going down hard. 

A foot snagged in the netting flung across a shopfront under renovation as she dashed along the over-furnished, over-populated pavement could have no other possible result. That much she knew – been there, done that, time and time again.

Inside her head it played out in tortuous slow motion allowing her time to observe every single detail of the scene. She was powerless to do anything to stop her inevitable slam into the grimy paving slabs dusted with dirt arrived at the bustling port from Syria, Afghanistan, and countless other war-torn and persecution-plagued lands.

Passing faces turned to watch the spectacle. People like her, rushing home at the end of another working day, tired, weary, eager to reach home and put their feet up. They watched, then they turned away. Somebody else’s problem, after all. 

The backpack holding her laptop shot off her right arm and flew skywards, promising its own spectacular touch-down.

And then, impact. Pain exploded like a firework in her left shin – the one already permanently battered and slightly misshapen from last year's unfortunate encounter with a train and that gap you’re supposed to mind. The smash of her right knee was a mere coda to the main event, but it hit at an angle that promised a deeper bruise in the days to come. A heavy “oomph” pushed itself out of her mouth as the breath was knocked out of her, and an ominous tinkling sound rang in her ears from her laptop skidding across the concrete.

Embarrassment overcame possible injury as she dragged herself to her feet trying to brush the dust off her work trousers.

An anonymous hand reached out and touched her softly on the shoulder in a gesture of sympathy and concern, before handing her the backpack. No words were spoken, just a heartfelt glance from deep chocolate brown eyes beneath a dark headscarf. A look that crossed oceans of misery and misunderstanding and spoke a simple, human question: “Are you OK?”

A nod, a shaky grimace and a hand on her heart in gratitude was all she could manage, stunned by the simple act of kindness from a stranger who had probably seen more inhumanity and danger that she’d ever dreamed in her wildest imaginings. She was lost for words.

With a shy smile, the woman in the headscarf bobbed her head and returned to the crowd which quickly swallowed her up and carried her away. 

Wage slaves continued putting one foot in front of the other, blindly, unseeing, eager to get home for their evening meal. None missed a beat or diverted from their path to check on their fallen colleague. The only note of kindness had come from a stranger, from an unknown country, who didn’t know where she’d be sleeping that night, or even if she’d be having an evening meal.

Get the violins out, you're in for a sob story

I never knew my mother. She didn't want me. Left me in a dumpster along with yesterday's leftovers and sticky takeaway cartons.

I was no more than two days old, still had the umblicial cord attached to my belly like some useless, filthy piece of old string Mama dearest had chewed through to sever the maternal bond. 

I don’t remember much from those first two days. I know it was dark (my eyes were closed), and scary, and unknown. Too weak to climb out, and with a hunger gnawing away at me, all I could do was cry. Who knows? Maybe the sound would reawaken some semblance of pity in the female who dumped me like a used paper napkin.

But my mother didn't hear me. No female did. A man did. A big, loud, clumsy fella whose chat and laughter died the minute his oafish ears caught the sound of my mewling when he came to dump his own garbage. The harsh joviality in his voice softened as I felt warm hands scoop me up and a strange cooing sound rain down on me as a work-roughened fingers stroked my head. Before I knew it, I heard doors slam and an engine start up. New smells, very different from the stench I’d been sitting in, invaded my nostrils. I didn’t know anything about anything, except for my fear. And my hunger.

I was put in a box lined with something soft and warm. I snuffled up against it, paddling it with my feet, but was rewarded with no sustenance. But at least it’s smelt safer somehow. I ignored my growling belly and curled up against the softness to sleep.

I awoke to new hands lifting me out of the box, touching me, making soft sounds and trying to push something in my mouth. I fought it, frightened of the invasion, but then a few drop of something warm and wet gave me hope. I grabbed the tiny piece of plastic and began suckling, greedily, frantically. Soon, I was full, and my belly was aching. I soiled myself and was lifted into warm water where my feet paddled to find the way my still closed eyes couldn’t.

But I didn’t need to see to know that, by some kind of random act, I had found my way home. Or rather, it had found me…

That was nearly three years ago. 
The humans are part of my life now, and if I’m honest I’m quite fond of them. Big Red still feeds me every morning (she’s the easiest to wake), and Dangly Man (the one who rescued me from my humble dumpster beginnings) is as soft and forgiving as a marshmallow, even when I knock things off shelves to get his attention.

I even allow them to sit or sleep in my place now and then, just so long as they know they are tolerated as guests who have to serve as pillows.

I mean, a cat’s gotta get its beauty sleep, hasn’t it? 
Especially one that’s had such a rough start in life as I have.

News From The Writer's Desk: Spring Edition

Spring is here, and there's new projects sprouting from my keyboard like fluffy chicks from eggshells.

The first takes the form of a kind of self-medicating pre-emptive psychotherapy, as I prepare for my No.1 (and only) son to leave home, leave the country he grew up in, and relocate to the country where I grew up to study music.

I'm trying to be cool about it. Trying very hard. And mostly succeeding. Or possibly not.

What I think is merely me trying to prepare my sprog for life in that-there London, far from the comfort and convenience pockets of Mum & Dad Towers might actually come across as frantic mother in meltdown as she prepares to relinquish control.

It all started with a conversation about jotting down some quick, easy, economical and healthy recipes in a notebook for him. Rapidly followed by the realisation that said notebook would soon be lost amid the debris of a 19-year-old's lair. So my thoughts turned digital. A blog, I thought. And why stop at food when there's so much more my little daring would have to deal with.

And so, Staying Alive: A Mum's Guide to Student Life was  born, featuring tips from me, other parents and some students who have survived their first year on food, money, study tips and how not to piss off your housemates. And of course, a section devoted to my mental rambling son the subject called "Inside A Mum's Mind". It even has its own Facebook page.

To be honest, on some counts I'm flailing about in the dark so I'm aiming to tap into the wisdom of the crowd, so if you have any tips to contribute, send me a note and we'll take it from there.
In other news, there's a couple of new anthologies out now featuring some of my short stories:

The first is the third in the CW Publishing trilogy of dark little tales to mark holidays. Following on from 'The Grim Keepers' (Hallowe'en) and 'Festive Frights' (Christmas), we now have 'Twisted Easter Tales' which includes my story 'Feastertide' which adds a distinctly Greek flavour to the collection. 

Easter may have come and gone for most of you (it's in just over a week here in Greece) but the stories in this anthology can stay fresh til next you or even bear consumption out of season. 

Order your print copy now from https://www.createspace.com/6138095 using discount code: FEQ8VPR7 or pick up a FREE electronic copy from Smashwords.com

The second anthology is not only a good read, it's also for a good cause: The British Heart Foundation. All proceeds from "Short Stories and Tall Tales" go to charity. And it gives you a double dose of AJ Millen with two separate offerings from my keyboard. 

All for a measly £6.22 from Amazon UK or $9.99 if you're State-side and ordering from Amazon USA

There's more to come, including the publication of a new Sci-Fi collaborative novel coming soon, so stay tuned.

Lessons learned riding the Athens Metro

Travelling on the Athens Underground every day has given me a new perspective on some things.

For a start, I have now worked out why people wear sunglasses indoors. And, believe it or not, it’s not just to look cool, enigmatic and interesting.

No - people wear their shades on the train so they can stare directly at other passengers without it being obvious how rude they’re being! Once you’ve got your trusty Raybans on (just make sure the lenses are nice and dark) you can really scrutinise everything about the people in the carriage with you – their untouched roots, badly applied lipstick, crooked toupees, what they’re reading, the faces they pull as they listen to their iPods. It’s great.

Public transport is a positive paradise for people-watchers. All humanity is there, and some things that belong in other categories too. The freaks, the wage slave veterans, the knackered new parents, the cheeky school kids, the young lad with the unmistakable look of one who got lucky last night, the hopeless gaze of his mate who didn’t…

Whether we’re waiting at the platform or actually riding the train, we all establish our own little exclusion zones, don’t we? Even when we’re packed in so tight that you need a crowbar to get off at your stop, we all maintain our private space. You might be so close to your nearest neighbour that you know – in intimate detail – what he had for dinner the night before (especially if it involved garlic), but those precious few millimetres are impenetrable.

And another thing - we all either lean or hang, don’t we? Personally, I’m a leaner. Always have been, always will be. Probably comes down to innate laziness, but I do like to think I am doing my fellow travelers a favour by not hanging from the overhead straps on a sweaty day in the Athens Underground (just think about it for a moment).

As I lean, I slip on my shades (looking very cool, enigmatic and interesting as I do so – at least in my mind) and check out my fellow passengers as we sway all together to the rhythm of the traffic. Some stare solidly ahead of them throughout the entire journey, like they’re afraid that civilisation would come to an end if they caught someone’s eye. Others constantly flit their gaze from one place to another, trying not to get caught staring at anyone in particular. Some simply seek refuge in a book, magazine or feigned sleep. And then there are a few – very few, mind you – who will occasionally look at you and even (gasp!) smile.

But beware! Letting down your defences sends out a signal to the itinerant loons that can be found on trains and buses all over the world. Like Jasper Carrott, I seem to be something of a homing beacon for the 'nutters on the bus' and, being a soft-hearted old boot, have become embroiled in more than my share of discussions about the colour of my aura, the imminent invasion of earth by giant earwigs, or the demons that live in the air-conditioning vents.

Kids are pretty safe. Pre-schoolers usually haven’t learned to be all inhibited and buttoned-down yet, they take you pretty much as they find you. All you have to do is pull a few silly faces to capture your audience and produce a fit of the giggles and the illusion that you are the most entertaining person on the face of the earth.

But when you arrive at your destination, the illusion is shattered as Mum gives you a filthy look (the type reserved for dirty old men who hang around school playgrounds) and whisks her little darling away to safety....