Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'We will prove the veracity of prosecution counsel by a simple test,' he announced. 'Fräulein N, would you please write the most popular colour that houses were painted when you were' – and here he turned to Hopkins and spat the words out – 'a house-painter!'

The room erupted into cheers and shouts as I wrote the answer in the back of the exercise book and returned it.

'Silence!' announced the magistrate. 'Herr H?'

'What?' he replied sulkily.

'Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court the colour that Fräulein N has written in my book?'

'Your Honour,' began Hopkins in an exasperated tone, 'what has this to do with the case in hand? I arrived here in good faith to arraign Fräulein N on a charge of a Class II Fiction Infraction and instead I find myself embroiled in some lunatic rubbish about house-painters. I do not believe this court represents justice—'

'You do not understand,' said the magistrate, rising to his feet and raising his short arms to illustrate the point

, 'the manner in which this court works. It is the responsibility of the prosecution counsel not only to bring a clear and concise case before the bench, but also to fully verse himself about the procedures that he must undertake to achieve that goal.'

The magistrate sat down amidst applause.

'Now,' he continued in a quieter voice, 'either you tell me what Fräulein N has written in this book or I will be forced to arrest you for wasting the court's time.'

Two guards had pushed their way through the throng and now stood behind Hopkins, ready to seize him. The magistrate waved the book and fixed the lawyer with a steely gaze.

'Well?' he enquired. 'What was the most popular colour?'

'Blue,' said Hopkins in a miserable voice.

'What's that you say?'

'Blue,' repeated Hopkins in a louder voice.

'Blue, he said!' bellowed the magistrate. The crowd was silent and pushed and shoved to get closer to the action. Slowly and with high drama the magistrate opened the book to reveal the word green written across the page. The crowd burst into an excited cry, several cheers went up and hats rained down upon our heads.

'Not blue, green,' said the magistrate, shaking his head sadly and signalling to the guards to take hold of Hopkins. 'You have brought shame upon your profession, Herr H. You are under arrest!'

'On what charge?' replied Hopkins arrogantly.

'I am not authorised to tell you,' said the magistrate triumphantly. 'Proceedings have been started and you will be informed in due course.'

'But this is preposterous!' shouted Hopkins as he was dragged away.

'No,' replied the magistrate, 'this is Kafka.'

When Hopkins had gone and the crowd had stopped chattering, the magistrate turned back to me and said:

'You are Thursday N, aged thirty-six, one hour and five minutes late and occupation house-painter?'

'Yes.'

'You are brought before this court on a charge of … what is the charge?'

There was silence.

'Where,' asked the magistrate, 'is the prosecution counsel?'

One of his clerks whispered in his ear as the crowd spontaneously burst into laughter.

'Indeed,' said the magistrate grimly. 'Most remiss of him. I am afraid, in the absence of prosecuting counsel, this court has no alternative but to grant a postponement.'

And so saying he pulled a large rubber stamp from his pocket and brought it down with a crash on some papers that Snell, quick as a flash, managed to place beneath it.