Landmark Trial, part 1 of ?
by The Misogynist (aka Jake Baker)

Trisha Campbell sat teary eyed in the courtroom. The defense called
its last witness - Byron James. The man who had raped her, who had...
she couldn't bear to think of it. Her pretty brunette head sagged and
she started crying again. It was all so horrible.

Byron James took the stand grinning. Byron was called "Bear" by his
friends, and he looked like it: 6'4" of construction-worker muscle
wrapped around his body; his black hair was long and uncombed, and his
shaggy beard was equally unkempt.

The attorney for the government, Clyde Barker, was well dressed in a
cheap suit. The short weasel of a man skittered over to the stand and
began asking some very direct questions. Trisha was not fond of the
man, but she was the only lawyer she could afford. His questioning was
kind of lame; Trisha herself was a first year law student, and could
have done better.

"Do you know this woman?" asked the weasel, pointing, almost
accusingly, at Trisha. Trisha looked up, but the rapist grabbed her
eyes, and she squealed under her breath and swung her head down again.

"No." said the bear, slowly, deliberately, chewing his words, staring
directly at Trisha, "Nope, I never seen her in my life, god as my
witness!" He thought she looked like a rabbit, a brown-haired floppy-
eared rabbit; no, that wasn't right - she was a doe. A young, fragile
deer.

Bear watched the little girl across the courtroom shiver and try to
hide. He undressed her with his eyes; it was easy, he'd stripped her
naked before he had raped her. Now that had been fun; he couldn't
recall those few hours without grinning, just like he was grinning
now. His cock stirred in his pants.

"Are you sure?" asked the weasel, stalking over to the 20 year old
Canadian girl. He put his hand under her chin and raised it up. Trisha
blushed deeply, her wet eyes still downcast, hoping the judge would
find fault with Mr. Barker's exhibition of her. She wasn't on trial
here, he was!

"Yup, I'm sure." Said the bear, as if his mother had just asked him if
he had ever stolen from the cookie jar. She had been tight in her
cunt, he recalled with pleasure, rubbing himself under the bench, but
then again, most bitches were tight to him, him and his 3" wide cock.

The weasel walked again to the accused grizzly, "Now, consider this
carefully, remembering you're under oath: this girl, Trisha Campbell,
20 years old, was visiting New York with her choir group on March the
9nth; did you rape her?"

"Uh-uh."

"So you didn't..." the weasel flipped a few pages in his notes, "(and
I quote Ms. Campbell's testimony here) 'Beat her, make her strip off
her clothes like a striptease act and then proceed to..." (flip, flip,
flip) "Stick your penis in her vagina, and then her ass, and then her
mouth, not once but several times?"

The bear's cock throbbed under his pants. Yes, he had. Yes, by god, he
had taken the fucking cow like a real man and he had taught her how
stupid sluts like her should respect a real man like him.

"No sir, by god, not only have I never seen this woman, I never even
touched her or said good-day to her, and neither have I done any of
that other stuff."

The prosecution seemed a little at a loss, as if he had expected Mr.
Kudgel to confess under such bald questioning. He walked back to the
desk to take a sip of water, and the lovely brunette hissed at him,
"th-the tape. Show him the tape!"

The weasel spun on his heel instantaneously, as if he had never heard
his client speak. In his other hand he wielded an unlabeled VCR tape
as if it were a struggling carp. He crossed to the judge's stand in
two strides, and handed the tape to him. He was intercepted by an
acute aide, who snatched up the tape and had it bagged and labeled and
in the evidence pile before the weasel could blink twice.

Honorable Judge Cowen presided over this trial. He ran his courtroom
with nary a word, examining all sides impartially. He was, the
residents of New York, both criminal and law-abiding, admitted, one of
the best judges ever to sit on the stand. He was fifty years old, his
otherwise waxy head circled by a filigree of white hair, but his face
was still strong, as was the body underneath the flowing black judge's
robes. Now, his face was a scowl, a scowl aimed deeply at the weasel.

"What," he said, drumming his finder impatiently on his table, "was
that?"

"Um, sir, it's the uh it's the ah tape of the rape... alleged rape...
taken at the scene, allegedly by Mr. James."

The judge's face moved like a stone statue to face the victim, "Is
this true?" he asked slowly and deliberately, each word measured twice
and cut once.

The brunette's pretty head bobbed up and down, her light brown hair
flying up and then back down, "Y-yes sir. He, uh, he made a tape of...
it..." her voice died in silence. The judge had not seen her eyes.
Trisha liked the judge; he had never even smiled at her, but she had
been told by many people that he would see justice done in this
matter.

There was a long moment of silence. The lawyer for the defense, Guy
Winter, motioned with his well-manicured hand that he did not wish to
cross his client. The bear was returned, hands still chained behind
his back, to sit next to his lawyer. The bear stared deeply at him;
the well-dressed defense lawyer glanced at him once, and then blinked.
They both turned away, as if satisfied by the exchange.

The moment of silence became a minute of silence, and then five
minutes of silence. The judge, during these five minutes, folded his
arms across his chest and put his chin down. Except for the fact that
his eyes were open, and moving rhythmically from Trisha, victim, to
Guy, defense, to Byron, rapist, to Clyde, prosecution, one would have
assumed he had fallen asleep.

During this time, Trisha managed to control her crying, but turned her
chair away so that she could not accidentally see the man who had
violated her. Clyde shuffled papers for a while, seemingly with no
purpose, then paused, then shuffled them back again. Guy grinned like
a snake and felt his silk suit rustle against him. It made him feel
so... scaly. Byron stared at the back of the brunettes head, grinning,
happily reliving the first time he had fucked her shit-hole, and then
the second time, when he had made her beg for it, and the third, when
she was just screaming hysterically.

Finally, judge Cowen turned to his aide and, ignoring the rest of the
courtroom, said, "I will recess to my chambers now. Re-assemble the
court in one hour."

Everyone stood, Trisha trembling a little on her knees, holding the
table for support, as judge Cowen, who looked a little like an owl,
left the room. Then there was a mutter of conversation as each party
went off to its own private meeting room to discuss the events of the
last hour.