I Am the Messenger

When the day arrives, I show up in my uniform and they make me wait outside the courtroom. When I go in to give the evidence, the chambers are spread out before me. The first person I see is the gunman. He's even uglier with the mask off. The only difference now is that he looks angrier. I guess a week or so in custody will do that to you. He's lost the pathetic, luckless expression on his face.

He wears a suit.

A cheap suit. It's all over him.

Once he sees me, I look immediately away because his eyes attempt to gun me down.

A bit late now, I think, but only because he's down there and I'm up here, in the safety of the witness-box.

The judge greets me.

"Well, I see you dressed up for the occasion, Mr. Kennedy."

I look down at myself. "Thank you."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I know."

"Well, don't get smart."

"No, sir."

I can see by now that the judge wishes he could put me on trial as well.

The lawyers ask me questions, and I answer them faithfully.

"So this is the man who held up the bank?" I'm asked.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"But tell me, Mr. Kennedy--how can you be so positive about that?"

"Because I'd know that ugly bastard anywhere. That, and he's exactly the same guy they put in handcuffs on the day."

The lawyer looks at me with disdain and explains himself. "Sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but we need to ask these questions in order to cover everything that needs to be covered, by the book."

I concede. "That's fair enough."

The judge chimes in now. "And as for ugly bastards--Mr. Kennedy, could you please refrain from casting such aspersions? You're not an oil painting yourself, you know."

"Thanks very much."

"You're welcome." He smiles

. "Now answer the questions."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Thank you."

When I'm finished, I walk past the gunman, who says, "Oi, Kennedy."

Ignore him, I tell myself, but I can't help it.