The Glass Harmonica by Russell Wangersky Page B

am the one whose rights were being abused, and are still abused on a regular basis.
    I thought the judge would have some sympathy for what was happening to me, because he looked as though he was just about my age—there on high and all fancy in his black robe, but able to understand the sorts of things people our age have to deal with, his face perched up above his robe like a shrivelled old angry apple, but I was wrong and he didn’t understand at all.
    He probably lives in a big house in the east end somewhere, with a huge garden where he can work way up in the back and never even hear the street noise, let alone have to deal with the likes of Wheeler. I imagine he never has to deal with neighbours at all, beyond a little chat if they meet putting the garbage out by the curb. And his neighbours are hardly likely to slink over to his fence and pitch their trash into his yard when he’s eating a fine dinner and listening to classical music.
    And I have a restraining order now, an order that says I can’t go near Chris Wheeler, but it certainly doesn’t mean he can’t come near me.
    I understand that justice isn’t perfect, and I understand that the police don’t care if someone climbs up over my fence or just throws their garbage into my yard from the laneway out back, and I understand that the police have better things to do than to come promptly when someone, some ordinary citizen like myself, makes a complaint about someone doing something as simple as vandalizing a flower garden.
    But I don’t break beer bottles or swear or shout people down, I don’t sneer and call anyone “old man” and tell them to “get away and stay on the other side of the street where you belong.” And I have certainly never called anyone a “fucking old busybody,” even though plenty of things like that have been said to me.
    I am much more reasonable than that because I understand the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, because I have read it completely. And I understand the Bible and turning the other cheek, and believe me, I have done that a good few times as well.
    But the instigators know that it was four people saying one thing and me saying something else, even if my word is good and theirs are worthless, and that the courts understand four against one better than they understand the truth sometimes.
    I have paid my taxes my entire life, and I have a copy of each of my tax returns to prove it, and they are stored upstairs, chronologically and in brown envelopes, should anyone doubt my word and want to come see them.
    I have paid my taxes completely and in a timely fashion, and I should remind you, with all due respect, that you both work for me just as much as you work for instigating Chris Wheeler, even if his lying words seem to mean more than my honest ones.
    I may have talked to him with the shovel in my hand, certainly I may have done that, but I don’t remember doing it. It certainly would have been a mistake in judgment to cross the street with a shovel, but they are young and strong, and an old man can be frightened too.
    Because they have tormented me for years, carefully and deliberately, and anyone can lose their temper once in a while.
    Everyone should have the ability to enjoy some quality of life in their home, a home they have bought and paid for with sweat and hard labour.
    Since the police seem unwilling to investigate, I can tell you that I have watched lying Chris Wheeler and his friends from my upstairs windows, and I have kept careful track of their movements, both in the night and the day. I have thorough records, thorough and diligent and timely and exact.
    My watch no longer keeps the best time, but every afternoon I listen to your National Research Council time signal, and I reset my watch even if it is only a few seconds out. Not much escapes me when I am on watch: I write down anything unusual and it stays with me for years—for example, I can