nor make use of the grand and sweeping hand gestures to which many of his peers were inclined during closing arguments. He preferred to address the jury in a more intimate manner, as one might a neighbor across a backyard fence.
"Ladies and gentleman, you are here tasked with deciding whether Geoffrey Bartell murdered someone. In fact, with an indictment carrying a single charge: that of First Degree Murder, you are quite literally tasked with that one decision; and that one decision alone. Did Geoffrey Bartell murder Geoffrey Bartell?"
May paused and scanned the twelve faces, making eye contact with those that would engage. Ten of the twelve held his gaze without discomfort. Good odds he thought, allowing himself a measure of satisfaction. He stole a glance at Alton McBride but the DA's eyes were fixed on the table in front of him.
"Murder, as it is defined in our great country and, indeed, in every civilized nation on Earth since antiquity, requires by its very definition the taking of a life of another person - that is a person distinct from one's self. Suicide, by contrast, is defined as the taking of one's own life. We have to now ask ourselves whether the act of murder and the act of taking one's own life can stand together - legally, morally, or even logically. And I submit to you that they cannot. I submit for your consideration, gentle people of the jury, that the two are mutually exclusive."
May looked once again to the prosecution table. The DA stared straight ahead, his brow lightly furrowed, but wouldn't meet his gaze. So be it then.
"If the facts show that Geoffrey Bartell did indeed take a life, and I believe the prosecution has quite competently proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he did so, then I also believe it is incumbent upon you to find that no murder took place."
May straightened and took three steps so that he stood in the center of the jury box. He faced the twelve with a look of somber affection.
"Ladies and gentleman, I said earlier that you had but a single decision to make. Let me modify that now, as I believe this to be truly the only question which must be answered: did Geoffrey Bartell take a life? Because if the evidence shows that he did, then that same evidence also shows clearly that the life he took was his own."
James Scott May bowed his head.
"Thank you for your time and attention."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BY 8:30 AM the courthouse steps were already a zoo. James Scott May fought his way through a writhing mass of journalists, microphones bristling at him on every side as he made his way to the sanctuary of the police line. Once upon the summit, and behind the barricade of helmeted officers, he turned to survey the scene.
A carpet of news anchors covered the lower steps, delivering preamble to the camera in contrived poses of sober professionalism. Cameramen vied for position trying to line up their shots, jostling this way and that in pursuit of the perfect angle to the impending spectacle. Further below, covering the sidewalk and spilling into the street, protestors marched, some in support of the accused, others decrying him. To one side May saw a sign reading "Bartell is going to Hell", while not ten yards away another proclaimed "Make clones, not war".
James Scott May checked his watch. Thirty minutes and it would be over. He lifted his gaze out over the city and took a few cleansing breaths. Spring was making an early bid and the air was brisk but not cold. An achingly blue sky was laced with fading sprigs of coral pink. Its lower edge, where it met the city skyline, was being steadily infused with a growing grey smudge.
Returning his attention to the scene below him he tried to remember exactly when human travail had become good television. Then he shook his head sadly and turned toward the courthouse doors.
At 9:00 AM Judge Lemar's courtroom was electric with anticipation. The gallery was filled to capacity with reporters, leaving not a
"Ladies and gentleman, you are here tasked with deciding whether Geoffrey Bartell murdered someone. In fact, with an indictment carrying a single charge: that of First Degree Murder, you are quite literally tasked with that one decision; and that one decision alone. Did Geoffrey Bartell murder Geoffrey Bartell?"
May paused and scanned the twelve faces, making eye contact with those that would engage. Ten of the twelve held his gaze without discomfort. Good odds he thought, allowing himself a measure of satisfaction. He stole a glance at Alton McBride but the DA's eyes were fixed on the table in front of him.
"Murder, as it is defined in our great country and, indeed, in every civilized nation on Earth since antiquity, requires by its very definition the taking of a life of another person - that is a person distinct from one's self. Suicide, by contrast, is defined as the taking of one's own life. We have to now ask ourselves whether the act of murder and the act of taking one's own life can stand together - legally, morally, or even logically. And I submit to you that they cannot. I submit for your consideration, gentle people of the jury, that the two are mutually exclusive."
May looked once again to the prosecution table. The DA stared straight ahead, his brow lightly furrowed, but wouldn't meet his gaze. So be it then.
"If the facts show that Geoffrey Bartell did indeed take a life, and I believe the prosecution has quite competently proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he did so, then I also believe it is incumbent upon you to find that no murder took place."
May straightened and took three steps so that he stood in the center of the jury box. He faced the twelve with a look of somber affection.
"Ladies and gentleman, I said earlier that you had but a single decision to make. Let me modify that now, as I believe this to be truly the only question which must be answered: did Geoffrey Bartell take a life? Because if the evidence shows that he did, then that same evidence also shows clearly that the life he took was his own."
James Scott May bowed his head.
"Thank you for your time and attention."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BY 8:30 AM the courthouse steps were already a zoo. James Scott May fought his way through a writhing mass of journalists, microphones bristling at him on every side as he made his way to the sanctuary of the police line. Once upon the summit, and behind the barricade of helmeted officers, he turned to survey the scene.
A carpet of news anchors covered the lower steps, delivering preamble to the camera in contrived poses of sober professionalism. Cameramen vied for position trying to line up their shots, jostling this way and that in pursuit of the perfect angle to the impending spectacle. Further below, covering the sidewalk and spilling into the street, protestors marched, some in support of the accused, others decrying him. To one side May saw a sign reading "Bartell is going to Hell", while not ten yards away another proclaimed "Make clones, not war".
James Scott May checked his watch. Thirty minutes and it would be over. He lifted his gaze out over the city and took a few cleansing breaths. Spring was making an early bid and the air was brisk but not cold. An achingly blue sky was laced with fading sprigs of coral pink. Its lower edge, where it met the city skyline, was being steadily infused with a growing grey smudge.
Returning his attention to the scene below him he tried to remember exactly when human travail had become good television. Then he shook his head sadly and turned toward the courthouse doors.
At 9:00 AM Judge Lemar's courtroom was electric with anticipation. The gallery was filled to capacity with reporters, leaving not a
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