October did, in fact, both clarify exactly that and edited the chapter to make it clearer, yes.
Pound the Table | An X-Men Self-Insert
- Thread starter October Daye
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Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
October did, in fact, both clarify exactly that and edited the chapter to make it clearer, yes.
barenhart
Gender-sensitive. Female. Trans.
- Location
- Seattle, WA (Alki)
October did, in fact, both clarify exactly that and edited the chapter to make it clearer, yes.
oops, i never looked at the date and the story entry has been sitting in a new tab to read for... at least a day? -sheep- i spaced and treated it like it just dropped or i would not have echoed by explaining again. sorry!
-goes back to read the current story-
I agree it's not really stated what the states <-> power classes correspondence is supposed to mean, but I'd think it makes more sense the other way: the standard for culpability with powers wouldn't be lower than with ordinary implements people are expected to understand, but might be higher.
Ninja'd with real information! Okay! Wow, that's weird? It completely ignores the normal standard for the crime, so anything that actually required purposeful doesn't if a mutant does it?
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- Location
- Right Where I Am
No, the other way around. Normally negligence or recklessness might be enough, but if a mutant or mutate power was used, then you need to prove knowing because powers can be surprising enough that it could easily have been some crazy situation that nobody could have expected.
It can be surprising to see a legal standard about mutants cropping up in a Marvel universe that gives them the benefit of the doubt rather than screwing them over, but that is happily the case here.
Godwinson
"Well, I've got nothing."
That's because the net result of this is that prosecutors won't bother with lesser charges, they'll go with the charges that would normally have that burden of proof. Mutants will always be charged with murder, not manslaughter, for example. Then those anomalous statistics get used by bigots while steadfastly ignoring the conditions that created them, same as they do in real life, in order to justify horrid laws.
- Location
- Right Where I Am
True, it's not much of a silver lining.
That's what I thought before the clarification, but it doesn't seem supportable after it:
- Location
- Right Where I Am
You're misreading one of us because October Daye and I were saying the same thing.
A given crime committed by a random person off the street might normally only need negligence proven, but the involvement of a mutant power would raise the standard so that the knowingly standard would need to be proven.
I remember The Fantastic Four had proven a good chunk of human population are "outside the genetic norm"? This means the Sentinel would target even normal people...and kill them.
Can you list which comic and issue this took place in? I'm currently involved in a superhero roleplaying game set in a combined universe which features elements of the Marvel universe (as well as the DC universe, some animes and some other roleplay settings) and I'd love to bring this to the attention of our GM.
It works both ways — sure, if this is something that only needs negligence, prosecution would still need to prove "knowingly," but if this crime needs "purposeful" but the defendant is mutant — hop, now you only need "knowingly"! And if they had a whiff of magic potential and have gone to a mage to make sure it's safe (and the mage subsequently taught them to light cigarettes with a touch) — now they're Master and prosecution only needs to prove negligence!
- Pronouns
- he/him
It looks more like Spidey has teamed up with his Amazing Friends
Trunko
Dissatisfied writer
- Location
- Milan, Italy
Can I join? I was part of an X-Men/Marvel RP until recently, but the game dissolved, and I'd love to join another one.
Anyway, this is a snippet from Fantastic Four #336, of the original comic saga.
This is the first time The Fantastic Four faced the Registration Act, BEFORE Richard suddenly became...his 'Civil War' self.
And they're going for a walk.
A very enthusiastic walk.
Noa is gonna give Mr. Fantastic the Bright Slap when he does that.
For someone who's the smartest, he was the codifier for "Reed Richards Is Useless" trope.
Ganurath
Literal Enthusiast
- Location
- A Valid Location
- Pronouns
- He/Him
With Pietro's tendency to pop in, it seems a statistical inevitability.
Fun chapter. Cool to see Noa adopt my second-favourite Marvel Snap card.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Oh, she's a ways from there at the moment. Lorna is currently twelve.
And she hasn't quite shot up like a weed. So she's actually Noa's height, roughly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Pound the Table
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saturday, October 27, 1990
"So… this is home!" I kissed the mezuzah, pushed in the door, and held it open for Lorna, letting the middle schooler in before I closed and locked the door behind her. "Or, well, it will be," I added a bit awkwardly. "I-if you want, I mean."
"I, yeah." My green-haired (natural, too!) goddaughter saw me taking off my shoes and thankfully did the same, then set her backpack down next to the side table that held my purse and briefcase. "I, I'm sorry, this is all just super new and…"
Lorna trailed off. I couldn't blame her, really. I was as unsure about all this as she was. And even though we chatted pretty much the whole way through the hour and ten minutes of train and subway rides down from Westchester, that didn't do anything to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation.
Lorna was essentially an orphan. And I'd planned on being a childless spinster, only to suddenly become the legal guardian to a preteen overnight. Of course neither of us knew how to handle this. But we'd just have to find our way through things, a bit at a time.
It had taken a couple of weeks to track down Lorna's birth certificate, her Social Security card, and her mother and stepfather's death certificates. Then I asked Erik to dictate and sign off on an affidavit explaining why and how a man who'd apparently died twenty years ago had just signed a legal document dated a month prior.
Instead, he called up the embassy in DC, sat on the phone for twenty minutes, and a few moments later I had a death certificate for Max Eisenhardt. Dated thirteen days ago.
Fucking spooks, I swear to god…
Regardless, getting all the documentation done revealed something interesting to me. Or unlucky, maybe, because I was late.
Lorna had just turned twelve. Her birthday was October 24th. Today was the 27th.
I'd, uh, barely missed her birthday. And I felt really bad about that.
Which was why I was trying to turn 'getting your bedroom and personal space all set up' into a sufficient twelfth birthday present for Lorna. And feeling like I'd fail. God, was this how my mom felt?… note to self, never let her know I thought that.
"S-so!" I began. "The powder room is over here, and the hall closet is right next to it," I said, pointing it out. "Coats go in there, and the vacuum, cleaning supplies, and step-stool are in there too."
"Step-stool?" Lorna asked with a giggle.
"Hey, never underestimate the usefulness of a step-stool," I told her, waggling a joking finger in her direction in faux admonition. "They're great for cleaning! I even have a couple waterproof, shower-safe ones. Great for adjusting the shower head."
"Ooookay?" Lorna half-said, half-asked. I just smiled and shook my head, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Ah, kids. I forgot how little thought they tended to give stuff like this. Had I been that oblivious when I was her age?
"Anyway, dining room is over there," I said, pointing it out as we walked past. "Kitchen is here, have you learned how to cook at all?"
"N-no," Lorna said, looking through the doorway almost shyly as we walked past it. "Jean says it's too dangerous for me to use the stove yet."
"Oh, well ignore that," I said with a lackadaisical wave. "I was learning to cook when I was ten, and trust me? It's a useful skill to have. Did you want to learn?" I asked her.
"Y-yeah," she said, voice soft. "Do you, uh, know how to bake?"
"Oh, honey."
I swept into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a well-worn spiral notebook. I flipped it open to a random page and pointed out the tops of the pages to Lorna, then flipped through them slowly. Her eyes slowly went wider, and wider, and wider.
"I'm not a great baker, I admit, but I'm not bad at it." The spiral closed and I put it away, but Lorna's eyes followed it the whole time, and I had a feeling it wouldn't be sleeping in that drawer for too much longer. "Anyways, come on over here!"
I led the way out of the kitchen and to the living room. The TV was off, the remote sitting on the coffee table alongside… oh, I'd forgotten to bring my mug to the kitchen, hadn't I?
"Living room's here," I said. "Nothing special, really. I love that sofa with the chaise on the end, and the love seat is great, but I think I need to reupholster the armchair?"
Lorna went over to the armchair and flounced down on it, giving a light 'oomph' when she landed.
"Ugh, it's all lumpy!"
"Yeah…" I sighed. "I don't really use it that much anymore, so I just left it that way? Anyway!"
Facing the TV, I pointed to the right. "My bedroom and bathroom are that way. I know you're about my size right now, but please don't go borrowing from my closet."
"Why not?" Lorna asked, eyes alight with mischief.
In response, I reached back and grabbed my tail with one hand. Then I turned around, had the fingers of the other hand follow it down… until I tugged lightly at the tail hole near the base.
"O-oh," Lorna stuttered out. When I turned back to face her, there was a hint of red on her face, and I couldn't help but giggle a little at it.
"If you really need something nicer, I do have some skirts and dresses without? Just make sure to check first, alright?"
"S-sure, thanks Ms. Schaefer," Lorna mumbled.
I frowned, not liking what I heard. A couple quick steps brought me right in front of Lorna, who flinched slightly and started to back away until I put a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey, none of that," I said, and offered her a soft smile. "Just 'Noa' is fine, alright?"
"O-okay," Lorna stuttered. "Mhmm."
I gave her one more smile, then let my hand slide off her shoulder as I walked past her.
"Alright, last but not least!" I heard Lorna following me, so I proceeded off to the left of the living room. "Over here is the second bedroom and bathroom!" I turned to Lorna and couldn't keep my smile from dimming, feeling a bit nervous. "I've, ah, been using it as a home office setup, but I've found that I really don't use it much of late? I think I've used it, uh, five times in the last year and a half, actually. But um, take a look."
I stepped to the side and let Lorna take a look.
The second bedroom was a fairly decent size, twelve feet by fourteen, with a pair of closets on the wall adjoining the living room. The wall opposite the door had large windows, with both curtains and blackout shades, and the room was otherwise illuminated by a ceiling fan with built-in light fixture. The entire room was a relatively drab, blue-grey color, the walls were bare (barring a photo of the Manhattan skyline), and it held very little furniture. Just a desk, a pair of lamps, an office chair, a pair of large filing cabinets, and a little side table.
"I still haven't figured out what to do with the furniture in here, if I'm being honest," I told Lorna. "You can keep the desk and chair if you like; the desk was cheap, but the chair is very comfy. But, um."
I took a few paces into the room, and spread my arms wide.
"This one'll be your bedroom here! And after this, I was thinking we'd go get some furniture, look at paint samples, and you can pick out what you want for it? Any colors you want, whatever style you prefer." I caught myself twining a lock of hair around my finger in anxiety, and finally turned to look at Lorna. "So, um. I know it's a bit late, but… happy birthday?"
Lorna didn't reply immediately, and I found myself growing anxious. She stepped into the room and scanned it. She went over to the closets and opened them up, showing the empty space inside. Her hands went to the curtains and she pulled them shut, then slid them open.
"… I kinda like teal?" Lorna was quiet. "Ororo kept buying me things that were all bright green to match my hair, and I don't really like that. Can, can I do blue and teal?" She turned to look at me, eyes bright and hopeful.
"Of course you can," I said, suddenly feeling relief. "Oh, do you want to do anything with the bathroom?" I asked, walking just across the hall into the bathroom and turning on the light. "It is gonna be primarily yours, so I'd say that's up to you too, if you want it?"
I expected an answer, and was a bit worried when it didn't come.
"Lorna?" I asked, poking my head out into the hall.
"Hey, Noa?" She asked, still in the hall, looking slightly further into the little junction off the living room. "What's in here?"
… huh?
"What's in where?" I stepped out of the bathroom, walked over to where Lorna was standing, and… paused.
There was the second hall closet, yes. But there was… another door. I reached out, opened the door, and looked inside.
It was a windowless room. I flicked on the light fixture… and stared.
Boxes. Five small to medium cardboard boxes, stacked in the center of the room. They had words on the side of them: three said "books", another said "bedding", and the last one was illegible.
The room was spotless.
"… oh my god," I said, realization dawning. "I forgot. How the hell did I forget?"
"What?" Lorna asked, concern coloring her tone. I couldn't help but giggle a little.
"My condo isn't two bed, two-and-a-half bath," I said, realizing. "I completely forgot! It's two bed and den, two and a half bath! It's been seven years, and I just never used the den, and I, oh my god!"
"But, how do you forget you have a whole room?" Lorna asked, incredulous.
"Lorna, honey." I waved down at myself. "I am not even five feet tall. This place is so much room for me, and I don't even use it all anyway!"
"O-oh," she said, blinking. "Um, wouldn't this room be dusty though? If you never use it?"
I frowned.
"It should be," I admitted. "But… ooh, Pietro, you little rascal!" I snapped my fingers. "Oh I am never going to live this down, am I?"
"Um, Noa?" Lorna asked. "W-who's Pietro?"
I turned to look at Lorna and answer, then paused. Shit, I hadn't thought about how to mention this yet, but… ugh. Screw it.
"Pietro is… well, did you see the news last week?" I began. "About those new people joining the Avengers?"
"Yeah, but what does that…" Lorna trailed off, and I saw the exact moment understanding dawned on her young face. "You know Quicksilver?"
"Mhmm," I hummed, smiling.
"A-and the Scarlet Witch, too!?"
"Wanda not as well," I admitted. "Her powers…" I grimaced. "Just being near her gives me a headache. Not her fault, but still."
"Oh. My. God!" Lorna was bouncing up and down, until she was only bouncing up, and staying there. "A-and you know them personally? Can I meet them!?"
"Once they're free, of course!" I exclaimed, all smiles. "After all, they're going to want to meet their little sister, hm?"
Lorna's everything cut off with a strangled squeal, and she looked at me from where she was floating, bug-eyed and slack-jawed. She floated so aimlessly that she eventually turned all the way upside down, her hair hanging towards the floor in rather comedic fashion.
"Hello, earth to Lorna," I said, snapping my fingers. She dropped a foot or two in midair before catching herself. "We still need to go shopping. At least this solves the question of where I'm going to move the desk and cabinets," I murmured to myself as Lorna pulled herself together. "Ooh, do you think you'll want a dresser, or will the closets be enough?"
"D-dresser!" Lorna gasped out, righting herself in midair as she combed out her hair with her fingers. "I, sorry I just, I have siblings?" I nodded. "And they're Avengers!?"
"Mhmm," I hummed. "So, want to get moving? If we're lucky, we might find a good mattress on clearance at Macy's? That's where I got mine!"
"C-can I get a full size?" Lorna asked, following after me, but still floating off the ground thanks to her powers. "I only have a twin at school, and it's all saggy."
"Hmm… how about a queen?" I countered.
"Yes!!!"
Monday, November 5, 1990
"All rise!"
At the Clerk of Court's beckoning, we in the courtroom rose as one, and got our first glimpses of the five justice panel presiding over this case. With the absolute chaos of the Arrival, several retired jurists had been called back up to serve, and there were some temporary appointments from the Court of Appeals who were pulling double duty, given the docket on the highest court in the state was smaller than the intermediate appellate level's caseload.
I could only count my lucky stars that, due to the chaos, the Acting Presiding Justice – that was to say, this court's equivalent to the Chief Justice, was Justice Smith. If there was anybody on this court that would be sympathetic to my arguments, it would be him.
"Oyez, oyez, oyez! The Honorable, the Justices of the New York Supreme Court Appellate Division, First Department. All persons having business before this Court are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now in session."
"Thank you, Jeffrey," Justice Smith said as he sat down. "You may be seated."
All of us sat down, and the acting Presiding Justice took a sip from his water before continuing to speak.
"We only have one case on the docket this morning, but I would remind our media presence to please behave themselves," the Justice said, giving them a side-eye from where they sat in the press box, off along the left wall of the courtroom. "We will hear oral arguments today in case CRA 89-214782, S.J. Allerdyce v. People of the State of New York. Counsel for the petitioner, Ms. Noa Schaefer, shall speak first." He turned, looking to my seat at the petitioner's table. "Counsel?"
That was my cue. I looked to my left at Sam Lieberman, attending more as moral support (and due to LL&L still being one of the parties to the case) than anything, and stood up. I had a few sheets of paper for notes, ready to place on the podium and slide to the other side once I was done with them, but with any luck I wouldn't need them.
"Your Honor, and may it please the court," I began as we all began on appeal: with the classic greeting. "This case comes before the Appellate Division after a gross miscarriage of justice: the willful ignorance of the Constitution, prosecutorial misconduct, judicial misconduct, collusion between the prosecution and judiciary for political gain, excruciatingly deliberate jury tampering, the list simply continues to go on and it boggles the mind that even one of these occurred independent of any other."
Maintaining the cadence of my words was the hard part, and was the greatest difficulty I faced on appeal. It was habitual for me to speed up, to get a head of steam rolling, to force out as many words as possible before the inevitable interruption came from the bench, and I would be forced to cut my train of thought short, pointedly remember where I was, and then answer the question as clearly and concisely as possible.
That was why it was a bit of a blessing that Sam was here, because he tapped out a beat in slow, steady four-four time, the sole of his shoe impacting his chair in a rock-steady rhythm. Years ago, I'd been annoyed and angered by this, and felt like he'd been implying that I couldn't handle this myself.
With wisdom gained through experience, I knew now that it was a simple way to support your comrade on the stand, even when you sat in the role of note-taker. And I appreciated him all the more for it.
Ah. Before I continue, it would behoove me to do a brief explanation of what exactly was happening here. Trial court was a consistent back-and-forth: one party makes their case while the other fights to trip them up and prove them wrong, and then they traded places and went again. Not so in appellate court.
By the time you stood up in court to argue a case on appeal, all the arguing was already done. You had already made your points, the other side had already made theirs, and somewhere between a third and half of appellate judges were already set by the time your court date even arrived. Half of regular appellate cases was hoping that you did or didn't get those judges on your panel, depending on whether that judge was sympathetic to your case.
The other half was preparing for oral argument.
Oral arguments tended to last one hour. You had half an hour, the other side had half an hour, and you had that time to make your case. An important point of distinction was that your case was limited to what was brought up at trial. You could not introduce brand new evidence on appeal – and before somebody tries to point out an exception, may I remind them that that was, in fact, what the word exception was for.
Anyway. Issues of fact were already done and dusted by the time you got to the appeal. The appellate level was for problems: errors in the judge's ruling, errors in one of the party's cases that managed to slip through when it shouldn't have, problems that everybody should have noticed but didn't, misinterpretations of the law, contentious interpretations of the law… that was a very short, inexhaustive list of the reasons that a case could be on appeal.
St. John's case was very much an exception. It was less a case of "what were the errors", and more a case of which problems we weren't able to argue.
"The very first decision that we had issues with was the failure to remove the case to family court," I continued, tapping one finger in time to Sam's beat. "While such a decision would normally fall under abuse of discretion, and therefore be subject to a standard of review with substantial deference to now-retired Judge Andrews' decision on the matter, the unique circumstances surrounding—"
"You mean that he was a mutant?"
And there it was, I thought. My first interruption. Most of the time, the interruptions were unwelcome – they derailed your argument worse than any objection at trial level for the simple fact that you could not ignore them. You had to at least pretend to engage with the question before continuing.
So I did.
"Yes and no, your Honor," I said, looking to one of the justices that I didn't recognize – likely seated during the special elections post-Arrival. "There were three major circumstances surrounding this trial: firstly, yes. My client is, like myself, a mutant."
Best to nip that one in the bud right here and now.
"Second," I continued before any of the five could think to interrupt, "the trial happened just as we were building up to the city government election season. And third, the presiding judge and the prosecuting attorney had undertaken multiple clandestine meetings in the time between investigation and arraignment, which the Bugle revealed three weeks post-trial."
"You're suggesting, then, that the entire trial was invalidated from minute one?" And then sometimes, you would get questions like this one.
Sometimes, the justices would throw you a line.
"Yes, Justice Smith," I answered with a smile.
My tail flicked behind me, and I felt quietly glad that I had a way to bleed off my usual emotiveness without being seen… so long as I was somewhat cautious, of course. Too vigorous a motion could break my glamour, and I would very much appreciate not having another glamour failure in a courtroom.
"As mentioned in multiple amicus briefs, that Judge Andrews outright admitted to the propriety of a mistrial while simultaneously refusing to grant one pushed past the bounds of discretion, and straight into being contrary to law. A quick perusal of the transcript can identify no less than seven different times where a mistrial absolutely would have been proper, along with another five or six times where an unbiased, ethical judge would have seen discretion as the better part of valor. And that is only the tip of the iceberg with regards to Andrews' apparently deliberate derision towards the law of the land."
There was no question forthcoming, which was a slight relief. I took the opportunity to take a breath and a sip of water from the provided glass to wet my lips and give me a moment to think.
"One of the more common recurring decisions Judge Andrews made during the course of the trial was a clearly demonstrated and deliberate refusal to abide by the decisions of higher courts." I shifted a piece of paper sideways, making sure I had the relevant cases directly in front of me. "During the jury selection process, Andrews refused to enforce Supreme Court precedent established in Batson. When Young asked questions that spoke solely to demographics—"
"While I understand your raising Batson in response to the DA's jury questions insofar as being a mutant was in concern, I fail to see the issue with regards to his other question."
I looked to the justice that spoke. Older than the rest of the assembled jurists. Patchy white hair. Serious wrinkles. Bags under his eyes that could carry my entire week of groceries.
One of the Good Old Boys (registered trademark), then.
"With all due respect, your Honor," I said, injecting as much sarcasm as I could into my voice. "If you've lived in this city for as long as you seem to have, and you don't know about the Stonewall Incident and the resultant, national solidarity between mutants and the gay community, then all I can say is that a subscription to the Daily Bugle will only cost you five dollars."
Small, uncomfortable chuckles rang out from those in attendance, and the justice reddened. I very carefully kept my face calm, because a smirk here would lose me more than just this one justice. I didn't need them all, and this man was bound to be a lost cause anyways.
"Counsel—"
"Has a point," Justice Smith intervened, and this time I didn't bother trying to suppress my victorious smile. "While the ruling in Batson clearly didn't mention either homosexuals or mutants by name, it should be common sense that applying how one treats minority groups insofar as jury selection is concerned should also apply to every other minority group. But while we are on the topic of improper rulings, I find myself curious."
The justice leaned forward, closer into the microphone in front of him. I could clearly make out the frown on his face, though I got the feeling it was more general, as opposed to specifically directed my way.
"You allege that Judge Andrews improperly cabined the ruling in Doom v. Richards, curtailing much of your witness's testimony on the relevant matter. Approximately how much of her testimony did this affect?"
"Almost a full third of my witness's planned direct examination, your Honor," I answered. "While I understand Judge Andrews' reticence insofar as letting the party opponent hearsay exception stretch so broadly, the fact remains that this was not a matter to be left at his discretion. It was a matter of law, and the decision from our state's highest court was abundantly clear on the matter, to the point that one of our amicus briefs shares the same author as that case's majority opinion."
Things continued in this vein for quite some time. Despite the majority of the issues being largely factual contentions, and answerable simply by pointing out a particular bit of case law or, even better, black letter law, the Justices were incredibly granular. It felt to me like they wanted every "i" dotted, and every "t" crossed, just to make exceedingly certain that there was absolutely zero wiggle room left for somebody to try and slip through.
But eventually, all things must come to an end. For now.
The red light came on, warning me that I had five minutes left.
"At this moment, I request to preserve the balance of my time for rebuttal," I said, finding a lull in the discussion.
"Very well," Justice Smith said with a genial wave. "You may be seated. Counsel for the respondent, Assistant District Attorney Christopher Mackey." Justice Smith waved him up. "Counsel?"
A pale, sweating man stood up from respondent's table, and made his way over to the podium.
ADA Christopher Mackey had been Lou Young's right hand man, his lieutenant, his go-to for when he wanted something done, and he wanted it done his way. Not the right way, oh no. His way. The only way Young and Mackey got away with the thuggish behavior they'd grown accustomed to was by riding the coattails of Young's earlier success against the crime families of Manhattan, somewhere around twenty years ago. Both of them had been much younger men at the time, full of piss and vinegar, and the City itself had been different, too.
But now?
Now, he was a relic of a bygone era, an old fossil from the days of normality, unused to the more fantastic, the more spectacular, the more uncanny.
What was left, for such a man?
"Mr. Presiding Justice, and may it please the Court—"
"Counsel," Justice Smith interrupted, holding up a hand. "I have read every brief submitted in this case forward and back. Every pleading, every response, every amicus brief. I had my aide to chambers track down video recordings of the entire trial. I reached out to people who were in the courtroom itself. And I know that my fellow Justices seated here today did the same. You were there from minute one. You were Young's second seat, and Lord knows but I recognize your signature on many of the motions that crossed Judge Andrews' desk. As a result, the five of us decided that we would ask you one question, first and foremost."
"S-sir?" Mackey stammered slightly, one hand going to his neck in order to loosen his collar, I assume, but that became an aborted adjustment of his tie mere moments later.
"ADA Mackey. Please give this court one good reason why we shouldn't end this argument and recommend your immediate disbarment."
My jaw dropped. Next to me, Sam's jaw dropped. Somebody in the press box dropped their pen.
That… was not what I expected.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Thursday, November 8, 1990
The time between an appellate argument and receiving your decision had a funny way of varying. In the case of the one everybody's heard of, the U.S. Supreme Court, your decision was generally months away at the earliest.
In the case of the New York State Supreme Court, Appellate Division, First Department? Eh, you usually only had to wait a couple of weeks, tops. With the caveat that if your case wasn't specifically breaking new ground, you would get a pithy two-sentence explanation that boiled down to "Petitioner's/Respondent's case prevailed, here's your remedy or lack thereof, now go away".
The phone call I received from the Clerk of Court last night was… none of those things.
Given how cut and dry our case was, I'd expected a response of 'Petitioner's argument prevails', followed by the expected remedy of a reversed judgment and vacated sentence. It was the kind of thing that would get released via publication, with very little fuss beyond a mention to the court reporters.
Instead, there was a press conference scheduled. It was held on the steps of the courthouse. The same one where St. John received his unjust sentence. The same one where Magneto swooped down from on high to save him.
The same one where Captain America himself told the people of Manhattan just how badly everyone had fucked up.
I stood stage-right of the podium, another step above where the rest of us gathered stood, because otherwise I wouldn't have been visible. Sam Lieberman stood to my right, a truly vicious smirk on his face as he surveyed the gathered reporters.
"You know why they're doin' it this way, don't you?" His tone was conspiratorial, smug satisfaction coloring every word.
"Of course I do," I said, giving a haughty sniff for the masses as I flicked my hair back. We had the perfect autumn morning lighting to make my hair look gorgeous for the cameras, and I wasn't about to miss the opportunity to showboat a little. "It's all about the narrative."
"Rogers made 'em look like fools," Sam said around his grin. "Cute. This'll help, but nobody's gonna forget that."
"Regardless, no need to spit in the gift horse's mouth, Sam." I flicked my tail and let it waver to and fro, a bit annoyed at myself for not choosing to wear something that would let me wrap it around my waist or leg without anyone noticing. Winter was on its way, and things were getting cold. But no.
A little discomfort now was well worth putting forth the most professional appearance I could.
Sam cast a glance at his left wrist, and I peered over his shoulder to check the time on his watch. 8:59am, and counting. Normally things had a tendency to start late, in order to give stragglers time to arrive.
If the sound of Justice Smith walking over from the left side of the podium to take his place behind it was any indication, that would not be the case today.
A tap on the microphone to check for feedback, a nod to the teleprompter, and he was ready to start.
"To the people of New York City," he began, "good morning. For those who are unaware, I am George Bundy Smith. I have the pleasure of serving as a Justice, or appeals judge, for the New York State Supreme Court. Specifically, I currently sit as the Presiding Justice of the First Department. To put it simply, I am the man in charge."
Justice Smith cast a glance out over the crowd, with particular focus to where the usual suspects of right-wing tabloids tended to congregate. He was practically daring them to say that he, a black man, should not be 'in charge', as it were. And even with as progressive as Manhattan trended compared to the rest of the country… yeah, no, I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if somebody had tried.
Thankfully for all of our sanities, though, there was no interruption. And so, Justice Smith continued on with the rest of his statement, which meant I could get out of the cold sooner rather than later.
"This Monday, the First Department heard the long-overdue appeal in a case that it should never have had to hear: S.J. Allerdyce v. People of the State of New York. It would be simpler for me to list on what grounds this case did not come to us for appeal, but I shall instead read this quote from our own Captain Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America."
Justice Smith reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out an index card, and made a grand show of reading off of it.
"I quote: 'it is with the deepest sorrow that I say that today, I am ashamed to be a New Yorker'."
The previous murmurs our crowd had gotten went dead silent. It was a powerful, sobering reminder of just how much soft power Captain Rogers wielded that just an echo of his presence, even wielded by another, was enough to cow several hundred people.
"Now I don't know about you?" Justice Smith continued speaking after a good fifteen seconds of silence. Just long enough for the message to sink in. "But I refuse to let that be how this matter ends. Ordinarily, the First Department's ruling in this case would simply be a succinct two sentences, printed and published, ignorable by all save those who cared to follow it. Instead, I hereby invite all present to come forward, as the Court announces its verdict."
My hands tightened around the handle of my briefcase. Even with a good idea of what was to come, I still felt the characteristic butterflies that accompanied a ruling. Sam's hand fell heavy on my shoulder, a rock-steady anchor for my focus.
"In most cases wherein the issues raised require separate standards of reviews, the Court would offer each of them their own respective standard, offering deference where appropriate, and stricter scrutiny where warranted. This entire case, however, was such an utter disgrace to good jurisprudence that this court undertook the entire review de novo. That is to say, we took all of Phillip Andrews' rulings from the bench, threw them in the trash, and started over. With fresh eyes, the impropriety from all governmental parties was plain to see, and while no amount of apologies or restitution can make whole what was lost, we can at least make a start."
From the pocket of his coat, Justice Smith retrieved a gavel. He held it aloft in one hand, ensuring the entirety of the crowd had the opportunity to see it.
"The First Department hereby finds in favor of the Petitioner, S.J. Allerdyce," he declared. "Petitioner's conviction has been overturned, and his sentence has been vacated. As of this moment, Mr. Allerdyce is as he should always have been: a free man."
Justice Smith began to bring the gavel down on the podium – and then stopped.
"Furthermore!" His voice boomed, finally causing the first bit of feedback from the microphone. I couldn't help the wince, both at the volume of his speech, but also at the excruciating sound. "This Court orders that a new trial be held, to give the Office of the District Attorney a chance to show the People of this fine City that it can, in fact, make the right decision. So ordered!"
The gavel came down. Justice Smith offered the crowd a nod, and stepped off to the left.
District Attorney Max Collins, the successor to Lou Young, took his place at the podium.
"Counsel for Mr. Allerdyce has already confirmed to me that they can produce him whenever necessary for such a retrial," DA Collins said, voice flat and toneless as compared to Justice Smith's. Without the microphones, it wouldn't have carried. "As of this moment, the trial has been scheduled for Monday, November 19. It shall be televised by exactly one party, and we will distribute more information closer to the date.
"Neither the press nor the public at large shall be allowed in the courtroom," he stressed. "This young man's life has already been made difficult enough by the disastrous choices of my predecessor. And if I hear that anybody attempts to give this young man or his family any grief, police in all five boroughs are ready and waiting to bring down the hammer."
DA Collins took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled. I saw a subtle shift in his posture, something I wouldn't have noticed had I not been paying such close attention. And it was something I recognized well.
"To young Mr. Allerdyce, wherever you are." Once the man began speaking, it became even more obvious. He had his hat in his hand, metaphorically speaking. "Please accept the deepest apologies of the Manhattan DA's office. For as little as it is worth."
With that, he stepped away from the podium, and whoever was running tech for the press conference cut the mic.
When nobody else took the podium, the press realized things had ended and began to do what the press does: gossip, disperse, gossip more, check their notes, gossip, pack their things, gossip, and leave. Oh, and gossip. I think I forgot that somewhere.
Sam and I took our opportunity to leave the limelight ourselves. But instead of walking down to the street, I instead slung my briefcase's strap over my shoulder and let Sam lead us up the steps and among the columns of the courthouse.
I couldn't keep from shivering and wrapped my arms around myself, a small cloud of mist visible as I exhaled. Sam chuckled and pulled a hand from his pocket, pointing towards the closest door which we could use to escape the fall chill.
"Well, that's that," Sam said, that same smug satisfaction still positively dripping from his every word. "New trial for whichever ADA they send to fall on his sword, prostrate himself before the judge, and get a strip torn from the office's collective hide."
"Mhmm!" I hummed, rubbing my hands over my arms to help get the blood flowing back in, legs pressed tightly together. Fuck, I should've just worn leggings with some classier boots, why did I have to try and look dressy? I couldn't even feel my toes; hell, I couldn't even feel half of my poor tail!
A moment later, Sam's hands on my shoulders guided me to one of the benches, and his heavy outer coat draped over my lower half.
"T-thanks," I said, stammering a little from the shiver.
"Not gonna let you freeze on my watch, Rivka would have my hide," he murmured.
I giggled a bit; my mother's name was so similar to his wife's that I couldn't help the initial mental image of my mother hopping on a plane from St. Louis just to admonish my former boss and current friend. Sam had only encountered one of my parents, and that was in the role of a visiting rabbi, not his then-employee's father.
"So," Sam said, once I'd had a couple of minutes to warm back up. "Where'd your guy stash the kid, anyway?"
"He's not 'my guy'," I corrected.
"Fine, fine," Sam raised his hands in mock surrender. "Point still stands. Where'd he stash the kid?"
"Trust me when I say you're not gonna believe this," I said, offering a conspiratorial grin.
"Try me," Sam challenged back.
So I told him.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam finally pulled himself together enough to calm down his laughter. And then to celebrate, we went to get a much deserved breakfast.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saturday, October 27, 1990
"So… this is home!" I kissed the mezuzah, pushed in the door, and held it open for Lorna, letting the middle schooler in before I closed and locked the door behind her. "Or, well, it will be," I added a bit awkwardly. "I-if you want, I mean."
"I, yeah." My green-haired (natural, too!) goddaughter saw me taking off my shoes and thankfully did the same, then set her backpack down next to the side table that held my purse and briefcase. "I, I'm sorry, this is all just super new and…"
Lorna trailed off. I couldn't blame her, really. I was as unsure about all this as she was. And even though we chatted pretty much the whole way through the hour and ten minutes of train and subway rides down from Westchester, that didn't do anything to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation.
Lorna was essentially an orphan. And I'd planned on being a childless spinster, only to suddenly become the legal guardian to a preteen overnight. Of course neither of us knew how to handle this. But we'd just have to find our way through things, a bit at a time.
It had taken a couple of weeks to track down Lorna's birth certificate, her Social Security card, and her mother and stepfather's death certificates. Then I asked Erik to dictate and sign off on an affidavit explaining why and how a man who'd apparently died twenty years ago had just signed a legal document dated a month prior.
Instead, he called up the embassy in DC, sat on the phone for twenty minutes, and a few moments later I had a death certificate for Max Eisenhardt. Dated thirteen days ago.
Fucking spooks, I swear to god…
Regardless, getting all the documentation done revealed something interesting to me. Or unlucky, maybe, because I was late.
Lorna had just turned twelve. Her birthday was October 24th. Today was the 27th.
I'd, uh, barely missed her birthday. And I felt really bad about that.
Which was why I was trying to turn 'getting your bedroom and personal space all set up' into a sufficient twelfth birthday present for Lorna. And feeling like I'd fail. God, was this how my mom felt?… note to self, never let her know I thought that.
"S-so!" I began. "The powder room is over here, and the hall closet is right next to it," I said, pointing it out. "Coats go in there, and the vacuum, cleaning supplies, and step-stool are in there too."
"Step-stool?" Lorna asked with a giggle.
"Hey, never underestimate the usefulness of a step-stool," I told her, waggling a joking finger in her direction in faux admonition. "They're great for cleaning! I even have a couple waterproof, shower-safe ones. Great for adjusting the shower head."
"Ooookay?" Lorna half-said, half-asked. I just smiled and shook my head, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Ah, kids. I forgot how little thought they tended to give stuff like this. Had I been that oblivious when I was her age?
"Anyway, dining room is over there," I said, pointing it out as we walked past. "Kitchen is here, have you learned how to cook at all?"
"N-no," Lorna said, looking through the doorway almost shyly as we walked past it. "Jean says it's too dangerous for me to use the stove yet."
"Oh, well ignore that," I said with a lackadaisical wave. "I was learning to cook when I was ten, and trust me? It's a useful skill to have. Did you want to learn?" I asked her.
"Y-yeah," she said, voice soft. "Do you, uh, know how to bake?"
"Oh, honey."
I swept into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a well-worn spiral notebook. I flipped it open to a random page and pointed out the tops of the pages to Lorna, then flipped through them slowly. Her eyes slowly went wider, and wider, and wider.
"I'm not a great baker, I admit, but I'm not bad at it." The spiral closed and I put it away, but Lorna's eyes followed it the whole time, and I had a feeling it wouldn't be sleeping in that drawer for too much longer. "Anyways, come on over here!"
I led the way out of the kitchen and to the living room. The TV was off, the remote sitting on the coffee table alongside… oh, I'd forgotten to bring my mug to the kitchen, hadn't I?
"Living room's here," I said. "Nothing special, really. I love that sofa with the chaise on the end, and the love seat is great, but I think I need to reupholster the armchair?"
Lorna went over to the armchair and flounced down on it, giving a light 'oomph' when she landed.
"Ugh, it's all lumpy!"
"Yeah…" I sighed. "I don't really use it that much anymore, so I just left it that way? Anyway!"
Facing the TV, I pointed to the right. "My bedroom and bathroom are that way. I know you're about my size right now, but please don't go borrowing from my closet."
"Why not?" Lorna asked, eyes alight with mischief.
In response, I reached back and grabbed my tail with one hand. Then I turned around, had the fingers of the other hand follow it down… until I tugged lightly at the tail hole near the base.
"O-oh," Lorna stuttered out. When I turned back to face her, there was a hint of red on her face, and I couldn't help but giggle a little at it.
"If you really need something nicer, I do have some skirts and dresses without? Just make sure to check first, alright?"
"S-sure, thanks Ms. Schaefer," Lorna mumbled.
I frowned, not liking what I heard. A couple quick steps brought me right in front of Lorna, who flinched slightly and started to back away until I put a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey, none of that," I said, and offered her a soft smile. "Just 'Noa' is fine, alright?"
"O-okay," Lorna stuttered. "Mhmm."
I gave her one more smile, then let my hand slide off her shoulder as I walked past her.
"Alright, last but not least!" I heard Lorna following me, so I proceeded off to the left of the living room. "Over here is the second bedroom and bathroom!" I turned to Lorna and couldn't keep my smile from dimming, feeling a bit nervous. "I've, ah, been using it as a home office setup, but I've found that I really don't use it much of late? I think I've used it, uh, five times in the last year and a half, actually. But um, take a look."
I stepped to the side and let Lorna take a look.
The second bedroom was a fairly decent size, twelve feet by fourteen, with a pair of closets on the wall adjoining the living room. The wall opposite the door had large windows, with both curtains and blackout shades, and the room was otherwise illuminated by a ceiling fan with built-in light fixture. The entire room was a relatively drab, blue-grey color, the walls were bare (barring a photo of the Manhattan skyline), and it held very little furniture. Just a desk, a pair of lamps, an office chair, a pair of large filing cabinets, and a little side table.
"I still haven't figured out what to do with the furniture in here, if I'm being honest," I told Lorna. "You can keep the desk and chair if you like; the desk was cheap, but the chair is very comfy. But, um."
I took a few paces into the room, and spread my arms wide.
"This one'll be your bedroom here! And after this, I was thinking we'd go get some furniture, look at paint samples, and you can pick out what you want for it? Any colors you want, whatever style you prefer." I caught myself twining a lock of hair around my finger in anxiety, and finally turned to look at Lorna. "So, um. I know it's a bit late, but… happy birthday?"
Lorna didn't reply immediately, and I found myself growing anxious. She stepped into the room and scanned it. She went over to the closets and opened them up, showing the empty space inside. Her hands went to the curtains and she pulled them shut, then slid them open.
"… I kinda like teal?" Lorna was quiet. "Ororo kept buying me things that were all bright green to match my hair, and I don't really like that. Can, can I do blue and teal?" She turned to look at me, eyes bright and hopeful.
"Of course you can," I said, suddenly feeling relief. "Oh, do you want to do anything with the bathroom?" I asked, walking just across the hall into the bathroom and turning on the light. "It is gonna be primarily yours, so I'd say that's up to you too, if you want it?"
I expected an answer, and was a bit worried when it didn't come.
"Lorna?" I asked, poking my head out into the hall.
"Hey, Noa?" She asked, still in the hall, looking slightly further into the little junction off the living room. "What's in here?"
… huh?
"What's in where?" I stepped out of the bathroom, walked over to where Lorna was standing, and… paused.
There was the second hall closet, yes. But there was… another door. I reached out, opened the door, and looked inside.
It was a windowless room. I flicked on the light fixture… and stared.
Boxes. Five small to medium cardboard boxes, stacked in the center of the room. They had words on the side of them: three said "books", another said "bedding", and the last one was illegible.
The room was spotless.
"… oh my god," I said, realization dawning. "I forgot. How the hell did I forget?"
"What?" Lorna asked, concern coloring her tone. I couldn't help but giggle a little.
"My condo isn't two bed, two-and-a-half bath," I said, realizing. "I completely forgot! It's two bed and den, two and a half bath! It's been seven years, and I just never used the den, and I, oh my god!"
"But, how do you forget you have a whole room?" Lorna asked, incredulous.
"Lorna, honey." I waved down at myself. "I am not even five feet tall. This place is so much room for me, and I don't even use it all anyway!"
"O-oh," she said, blinking. "Um, wouldn't this room be dusty though? If you never use it?"
I frowned.
"It should be," I admitted. "But… ooh, Pietro, you little rascal!" I snapped my fingers. "Oh I am never going to live this down, am I?"
"Um, Noa?" Lorna asked. "W-who's Pietro?"
I turned to look at Lorna and answer, then paused. Shit, I hadn't thought about how to mention this yet, but… ugh. Screw it.
"Pietro is… well, did you see the news last week?" I began. "About those new people joining the Avengers?"
"Yeah, but what does that…" Lorna trailed off, and I saw the exact moment understanding dawned on her young face. "You know Quicksilver?"
"Mhmm," I hummed, smiling.
"A-and the Scarlet Witch, too!?"
"Wanda not as well," I admitted. "Her powers…" I grimaced. "Just being near her gives me a headache. Not her fault, but still."
"Oh. My. God!" Lorna was bouncing up and down, until she was only bouncing up, and staying there. "A-and you know them personally? Can I meet them!?"
"Once they're free, of course!" I exclaimed, all smiles. "After all, they're going to want to meet their little sister, hm?"
Lorna's everything cut off with a strangled squeal, and she looked at me from where she was floating, bug-eyed and slack-jawed. She floated so aimlessly that she eventually turned all the way upside down, her hair hanging towards the floor in rather comedic fashion.
"Hello, earth to Lorna," I said, snapping my fingers. She dropped a foot or two in midair before catching herself. "We still need to go shopping. At least this solves the question of where I'm going to move the desk and cabinets," I murmured to myself as Lorna pulled herself together. "Ooh, do you think you'll want a dresser, or will the closets be enough?"
"D-dresser!" Lorna gasped out, righting herself in midair as she combed out her hair with her fingers. "I, sorry I just, I have siblings?" I nodded. "And they're Avengers!?"
"Mhmm," I hummed. "So, want to get moving? If we're lucky, we might find a good mattress on clearance at Macy's? That's where I got mine!"
"C-can I get a full size?" Lorna asked, following after me, but still floating off the ground thanks to her powers. "I only have a twin at school, and it's all saggy."
"Hmm… how about a queen?" I countered.
"Yes!!!"
Monday, November 5, 1990
"All rise!"
At the Clerk of Court's beckoning, we in the courtroom rose as one, and got our first glimpses of the five justice panel presiding over this case. With the absolute chaos of the Arrival, several retired jurists had been called back up to serve, and there were some temporary appointments from the Court of Appeals who were pulling double duty, given the docket on the highest court in the state was smaller than the intermediate appellate level's caseload.
I could only count my lucky stars that, due to the chaos, the Acting Presiding Justice – that was to say, this court's equivalent to the Chief Justice, was Justice Smith. If there was anybody on this court that would be sympathetic to my arguments, it would be him.
"Oyez, oyez, oyez! The Honorable, the Justices of the New York Supreme Court Appellate Division, First Department. All persons having business before this Court are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now in session."
"Thank you, Jeffrey," Justice Smith said as he sat down. "You may be seated."
All of us sat down, and the acting Presiding Justice took a sip from his water before continuing to speak.
"We only have one case on the docket this morning, but I would remind our media presence to please behave themselves," the Justice said, giving them a side-eye from where they sat in the press box, off along the left wall of the courtroom. "We will hear oral arguments today in case CRA 89-214782, S.J. Allerdyce v. People of the State of New York. Counsel for the petitioner, Ms. Noa Schaefer, shall speak first." He turned, looking to my seat at the petitioner's table. "Counsel?"
That was my cue. I looked to my left at Sam Lieberman, attending more as moral support (and due to LL&L still being one of the parties to the case) than anything, and stood up. I had a few sheets of paper for notes, ready to place on the podium and slide to the other side once I was done with them, but with any luck I wouldn't need them.
"Your Honor, and may it please the court," I began as we all began on appeal: with the classic greeting. "This case comes before the Appellate Division after a gross miscarriage of justice: the willful ignorance of the Constitution, prosecutorial misconduct, judicial misconduct, collusion between the prosecution and judiciary for political gain, excruciatingly deliberate jury tampering, the list simply continues to go on and it boggles the mind that even one of these occurred independent of any other."
Maintaining the cadence of my words was the hard part, and was the greatest difficulty I faced on appeal. It was habitual for me to speed up, to get a head of steam rolling, to force out as many words as possible before the inevitable interruption came from the bench, and I would be forced to cut my train of thought short, pointedly remember where I was, and then answer the question as clearly and concisely as possible.
That was why it was a bit of a blessing that Sam was here, because he tapped out a beat in slow, steady four-four time, the sole of his shoe impacting his chair in a rock-steady rhythm. Years ago, I'd been annoyed and angered by this, and felt like he'd been implying that I couldn't handle this myself.
With wisdom gained through experience, I knew now that it was a simple way to support your comrade on the stand, even when you sat in the role of note-taker. And I appreciated him all the more for it.
Ah. Before I continue, it would behoove me to do a brief explanation of what exactly was happening here. Trial court was a consistent back-and-forth: one party makes their case while the other fights to trip them up and prove them wrong, and then they traded places and went again. Not so in appellate court.
By the time you stood up in court to argue a case on appeal, all the arguing was already done. You had already made your points, the other side had already made theirs, and somewhere between a third and half of appellate judges were already set by the time your court date even arrived. Half of regular appellate cases was hoping that you did or didn't get those judges on your panel, depending on whether that judge was sympathetic to your case.
The other half was preparing for oral argument.
Oral arguments tended to last one hour. You had half an hour, the other side had half an hour, and you had that time to make your case. An important point of distinction was that your case was limited to what was brought up at trial. You could not introduce brand new evidence on appeal – and before somebody tries to point out an exception, may I remind them that that was, in fact, what the word exception was for.
Anyway. Issues of fact were already done and dusted by the time you got to the appeal. The appellate level was for problems: errors in the judge's ruling, errors in one of the party's cases that managed to slip through when it shouldn't have, problems that everybody should have noticed but didn't, misinterpretations of the law, contentious interpretations of the law… that was a very short, inexhaustive list of the reasons that a case could be on appeal.
St. John's case was very much an exception. It was less a case of "what were the errors", and more a case of which problems we weren't able to argue.
"The very first decision that we had issues with was the failure to remove the case to family court," I continued, tapping one finger in time to Sam's beat. "While such a decision would normally fall under abuse of discretion, and therefore be subject to a standard of review with substantial deference to now-retired Judge Andrews' decision on the matter, the unique circumstances surrounding—"
"You mean that he was a mutant?"
And there it was, I thought. My first interruption. Most of the time, the interruptions were unwelcome – they derailed your argument worse than any objection at trial level for the simple fact that you could not ignore them. You had to at least pretend to engage with the question before continuing.
So I did.
"Yes and no, your Honor," I said, looking to one of the justices that I didn't recognize – likely seated during the special elections post-Arrival. "There were three major circumstances surrounding this trial: firstly, yes. My client is, like myself, a mutant."
Best to nip that one in the bud right here and now.
"Second," I continued before any of the five could think to interrupt, "the trial happened just as we were building up to the city government election season. And third, the presiding judge and the prosecuting attorney had undertaken multiple clandestine meetings in the time between investigation and arraignment, which the Bugle revealed three weeks post-trial."
"You're suggesting, then, that the entire trial was invalidated from minute one?" And then sometimes, you would get questions like this one.
Sometimes, the justices would throw you a line.
"Yes, Justice Smith," I answered with a smile.
My tail flicked behind me, and I felt quietly glad that I had a way to bleed off my usual emotiveness without being seen… so long as I was somewhat cautious, of course. Too vigorous a motion could break my glamour, and I would very much appreciate not having another glamour failure in a courtroom.
"As mentioned in multiple amicus briefs, that Judge Andrews outright admitted to the propriety of a mistrial while simultaneously refusing to grant one pushed past the bounds of discretion, and straight into being contrary to law. A quick perusal of the transcript can identify no less than seven different times where a mistrial absolutely would have been proper, along with another five or six times where an unbiased, ethical judge would have seen discretion as the better part of valor. And that is only the tip of the iceberg with regards to Andrews' apparently deliberate derision towards the law of the land."
There was no question forthcoming, which was a slight relief. I took the opportunity to take a breath and a sip of water from the provided glass to wet my lips and give me a moment to think.
"One of the more common recurring decisions Judge Andrews made during the course of the trial was a clearly demonstrated and deliberate refusal to abide by the decisions of higher courts." I shifted a piece of paper sideways, making sure I had the relevant cases directly in front of me. "During the jury selection process, Andrews refused to enforce Supreme Court precedent established in Batson. When Young asked questions that spoke solely to demographics—"
"While I understand your raising Batson in response to the DA's jury questions insofar as being a mutant was in concern, I fail to see the issue with regards to his other question."
I looked to the justice that spoke. Older than the rest of the assembled jurists. Patchy white hair. Serious wrinkles. Bags under his eyes that could carry my entire week of groceries.
One of the Good Old Boys (registered trademark), then.
"With all due respect, your Honor," I said, injecting as much sarcasm as I could into my voice. "If you've lived in this city for as long as you seem to have, and you don't know about the Stonewall Incident and the resultant, national solidarity between mutants and the gay community, then all I can say is that a subscription to the Daily Bugle will only cost you five dollars."
Small, uncomfortable chuckles rang out from those in attendance, and the justice reddened. I very carefully kept my face calm, because a smirk here would lose me more than just this one justice. I didn't need them all, and this man was bound to be a lost cause anyways.
"Counsel—"
"Has a point," Justice Smith intervened, and this time I didn't bother trying to suppress my victorious smile. "While the ruling in Batson clearly didn't mention either homosexuals or mutants by name, it should be common sense that applying how one treats minority groups insofar as jury selection is concerned should also apply to every other minority group. But while we are on the topic of improper rulings, I find myself curious."
The justice leaned forward, closer into the microphone in front of him. I could clearly make out the frown on his face, though I got the feeling it was more general, as opposed to specifically directed my way.
"You allege that Judge Andrews improperly cabined the ruling in Doom v. Richards, curtailing much of your witness's testimony on the relevant matter. Approximately how much of her testimony did this affect?"
"Almost a full third of my witness's planned direct examination, your Honor," I answered. "While I understand Judge Andrews' reticence insofar as letting the party opponent hearsay exception stretch so broadly, the fact remains that this was not a matter to be left at his discretion. It was a matter of law, and the decision from our state's highest court was abundantly clear on the matter, to the point that one of our amicus briefs shares the same author as that case's majority opinion."
Things continued in this vein for quite some time. Despite the majority of the issues being largely factual contentions, and answerable simply by pointing out a particular bit of case law or, even better, black letter law, the Justices were incredibly granular. It felt to me like they wanted every "i" dotted, and every "t" crossed, just to make exceedingly certain that there was absolutely zero wiggle room left for somebody to try and slip through.
But eventually, all things must come to an end. For now.
The red light came on, warning me that I had five minutes left.
"At this moment, I request to preserve the balance of my time for rebuttal," I said, finding a lull in the discussion.
"Very well," Justice Smith said with a genial wave. "You may be seated. Counsel for the respondent, Assistant District Attorney Christopher Mackey." Justice Smith waved him up. "Counsel?"
A pale, sweating man stood up from respondent's table, and made his way over to the podium.
ADA Christopher Mackey had been Lou Young's right hand man, his lieutenant, his go-to for when he wanted something done, and he wanted it done his way. Not the right way, oh no. His way. The only way Young and Mackey got away with the thuggish behavior they'd grown accustomed to was by riding the coattails of Young's earlier success against the crime families of Manhattan, somewhere around twenty years ago. Both of them had been much younger men at the time, full of piss and vinegar, and the City itself had been different, too.
But now?
Now, he was a relic of a bygone era, an old fossil from the days of normality, unused to the more fantastic, the more spectacular, the more uncanny.
What was left, for such a man?
"Mr. Presiding Justice, and may it please the Court—"
"Counsel," Justice Smith interrupted, holding up a hand. "I have read every brief submitted in this case forward and back. Every pleading, every response, every amicus brief. I had my aide to chambers track down video recordings of the entire trial. I reached out to people who were in the courtroom itself. And I know that my fellow Justices seated here today did the same. You were there from minute one. You were Young's second seat, and Lord knows but I recognize your signature on many of the motions that crossed Judge Andrews' desk. As a result, the five of us decided that we would ask you one question, first and foremost."
"S-sir?" Mackey stammered slightly, one hand going to his neck in order to loosen his collar, I assume, but that became an aborted adjustment of his tie mere moments later.
"ADA Mackey. Please give this court one good reason why we shouldn't end this argument and recommend your immediate disbarment."
My jaw dropped. Next to me, Sam's jaw dropped. Somebody in the press box dropped their pen.
That… was not what I expected.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Thursday, November 8, 1990
The time between an appellate argument and receiving your decision had a funny way of varying. In the case of the one everybody's heard of, the U.S. Supreme Court, your decision was generally months away at the earliest.
In the case of the New York State Supreme Court, Appellate Division, First Department? Eh, you usually only had to wait a couple of weeks, tops. With the caveat that if your case wasn't specifically breaking new ground, you would get a pithy two-sentence explanation that boiled down to "Petitioner's/Respondent's case prevailed, here's your remedy or lack thereof, now go away".
The phone call I received from the Clerk of Court last night was… none of those things.
Given how cut and dry our case was, I'd expected a response of 'Petitioner's argument prevails', followed by the expected remedy of a reversed judgment and vacated sentence. It was the kind of thing that would get released via publication, with very little fuss beyond a mention to the court reporters.
Instead, there was a press conference scheduled. It was held on the steps of the courthouse. The same one where St. John received his unjust sentence. The same one where Magneto swooped down from on high to save him.
The same one where Captain America himself told the people of Manhattan just how badly everyone had fucked up.
I stood stage-right of the podium, another step above where the rest of us gathered stood, because otherwise I wouldn't have been visible. Sam Lieberman stood to my right, a truly vicious smirk on his face as he surveyed the gathered reporters.
"You know why they're doin' it this way, don't you?" His tone was conspiratorial, smug satisfaction coloring every word.
"Of course I do," I said, giving a haughty sniff for the masses as I flicked my hair back. We had the perfect autumn morning lighting to make my hair look gorgeous for the cameras, and I wasn't about to miss the opportunity to showboat a little. "It's all about the narrative."
"Rogers made 'em look like fools," Sam said around his grin. "Cute. This'll help, but nobody's gonna forget that."
"Regardless, no need to spit in the gift horse's mouth, Sam." I flicked my tail and let it waver to and fro, a bit annoyed at myself for not choosing to wear something that would let me wrap it around my waist or leg without anyone noticing. Winter was on its way, and things were getting cold. But no.
A little discomfort now was well worth putting forth the most professional appearance I could.
Sam cast a glance at his left wrist, and I peered over his shoulder to check the time on his watch. 8:59am, and counting. Normally things had a tendency to start late, in order to give stragglers time to arrive.
If the sound of Justice Smith walking over from the left side of the podium to take his place behind it was any indication, that would not be the case today.
A tap on the microphone to check for feedback, a nod to the teleprompter, and he was ready to start.
"To the people of New York City," he began, "good morning. For those who are unaware, I am George Bundy Smith. I have the pleasure of serving as a Justice, or appeals judge, for the New York State Supreme Court. Specifically, I currently sit as the Presiding Justice of the First Department. To put it simply, I am the man in charge."
Justice Smith cast a glance out over the crowd, with particular focus to where the usual suspects of right-wing tabloids tended to congregate. He was practically daring them to say that he, a black man, should not be 'in charge', as it were. And even with as progressive as Manhattan trended compared to the rest of the country… yeah, no, I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if somebody had tried.
Thankfully for all of our sanities, though, there was no interruption. And so, Justice Smith continued on with the rest of his statement, which meant I could get out of the cold sooner rather than later.
"This Monday, the First Department heard the long-overdue appeal in a case that it should never have had to hear: S.J. Allerdyce v. People of the State of New York. It would be simpler for me to list on what grounds this case did not come to us for appeal, but I shall instead read this quote from our own Captain Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America."
Justice Smith reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out an index card, and made a grand show of reading off of it.
"I quote: 'it is with the deepest sorrow that I say that today, I am ashamed to be a New Yorker'."
The previous murmurs our crowd had gotten went dead silent. It was a powerful, sobering reminder of just how much soft power Captain Rogers wielded that just an echo of his presence, even wielded by another, was enough to cow several hundred people.
"Now I don't know about you?" Justice Smith continued speaking after a good fifteen seconds of silence. Just long enough for the message to sink in. "But I refuse to let that be how this matter ends. Ordinarily, the First Department's ruling in this case would simply be a succinct two sentences, printed and published, ignorable by all save those who cared to follow it. Instead, I hereby invite all present to come forward, as the Court announces its verdict."
My hands tightened around the handle of my briefcase. Even with a good idea of what was to come, I still felt the characteristic butterflies that accompanied a ruling. Sam's hand fell heavy on my shoulder, a rock-steady anchor for my focus.
"In most cases wherein the issues raised require separate standards of reviews, the Court would offer each of them their own respective standard, offering deference where appropriate, and stricter scrutiny where warranted. This entire case, however, was such an utter disgrace to good jurisprudence that this court undertook the entire review de novo. That is to say, we took all of Phillip Andrews' rulings from the bench, threw them in the trash, and started over. With fresh eyes, the impropriety from all governmental parties was plain to see, and while no amount of apologies or restitution can make whole what was lost, we can at least make a start."
From the pocket of his coat, Justice Smith retrieved a gavel. He held it aloft in one hand, ensuring the entirety of the crowd had the opportunity to see it.
"The First Department hereby finds in favor of the Petitioner, S.J. Allerdyce," he declared. "Petitioner's conviction has been overturned, and his sentence has been vacated. As of this moment, Mr. Allerdyce is as he should always have been: a free man."
Justice Smith began to bring the gavel down on the podium – and then stopped.
"Furthermore!" His voice boomed, finally causing the first bit of feedback from the microphone. I couldn't help the wince, both at the volume of his speech, but also at the excruciating sound. "This Court orders that a new trial be held, to give the Office of the District Attorney a chance to show the People of this fine City that it can, in fact, make the right decision. So ordered!"
The gavel came down. Justice Smith offered the crowd a nod, and stepped off to the left.
District Attorney Max Collins, the successor to Lou Young, took his place at the podium.
"Counsel for Mr. Allerdyce has already confirmed to me that they can produce him whenever necessary for such a retrial," DA Collins said, voice flat and toneless as compared to Justice Smith's. Without the microphones, it wouldn't have carried. "As of this moment, the trial has been scheduled for Monday, November 19. It shall be televised by exactly one party, and we will distribute more information closer to the date.
"Neither the press nor the public at large shall be allowed in the courtroom," he stressed. "This young man's life has already been made difficult enough by the disastrous choices of my predecessor. And if I hear that anybody attempts to give this young man or his family any grief, police in all five boroughs are ready and waiting to bring down the hammer."
DA Collins took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled. I saw a subtle shift in his posture, something I wouldn't have noticed had I not been paying such close attention. And it was something I recognized well.
"To young Mr. Allerdyce, wherever you are." Once the man began speaking, it became even more obvious. He had his hat in his hand, metaphorically speaking. "Please accept the deepest apologies of the Manhattan DA's office. For as little as it is worth."
With that, he stepped away from the podium, and whoever was running tech for the press conference cut the mic.
When nobody else took the podium, the press realized things had ended and began to do what the press does: gossip, disperse, gossip more, check their notes, gossip, pack their things, gossip, and leave. Oh, and gossip. I think I forgot that somewhere.
Sam and I took our opportunity to leave the limelight ourselves. But instead of walking down to the street, I instead slung my briefcase's strap over my shoulder and let Sam lead us up the steps and among the columns of the courthouse.
I couldn't keep from shivering and wrapped my arms around myself, a small cloud of mist visible as I exhaled. Sam chuckled and pulled a hand from his pocket, pointing towards the closest door which we could use to escape the fall chill.
"Well, that's that," Sam said, that same smug satisfaction still positively dripping from his every word. "New trial for whichever ADA they send to fall on his sword, prostrate himself before the judge, and get a strip torn from the office's collective hide."
"Mhmm!" I hummed, rubbing my hands over my arms to help get the blood flowing back in, legs pressed tightly together. Fuck, I should've just worn leggings with some classier boots, why did I have to try and look dressy? I couldn't even feel my toes; hell, I couldn't even feel half of my poor tail!
A moment later, Sam's hands on my shoulders guided me to one of the benches, and his heavy outer coat draped over my lower half.
"T-thanks," I said, stammering a little from the shiver.
"Not gonna let you freeze on my watch, Rivka would have my hide," he murmured.
I giggled a bit; my mother's name was so similar to his wife's that I couldn't help the initial mental image of my mother hopping on a plane from St. Louis just to admonish my former boss and current friend. Sam had only encountered one of my parents, and that was in the role of a visiting rabbi, not his then-employee's father.
"So," Sam said, once I'd had a couple of minutes to warm back up. "Where'd your guy stash the kid, anyway?"
"He's not 'my guy'," I corrected.
"Fine, fine," Sam raised his hands in mock surrender. "Point still stands. Where'd he stash the kid?"
"Trust me when I say you're not gonna believe this," I said, offering a conspiratorial grin.
"Try me," Sam challenged back.
So I told him.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam finally pulled himself together enough to calm down his laughter. And then to celebrate, we went to get a much deserved breakfast.
Writing Noa and Lorna in the same scene is just... oh my god, it's such a damn treat. It's like all my name days have come at once! (ha, FF14 reference)
Okay, but really. It awakens that Yenta sleeping inside, and just... it feels good. I don't have the words to explain it.
Anyways. This chapter brought to you by the announcement that there is more art incoming, probably in 3-6 weeks, so fingers crossed on that one!~
Okay, but really. It awakens that Yenta sleeping inside, and just... it feels good. I don't have the words to explain it.
Anyways. This chapter brought to you by the announcement that there is more art incoming, probably in 3-6 weeks, so fingers crossed on that one!~
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- Location
- California
That's one hell of a Judicial Hammer drop.
fictionfan
Please sir, may I have some Meows?
- Location
- Tempe, AZ
Well that's a loaded question. Is there any right way to answer that when things get to the point you are asked it?
Tithed_Verse
Vainglorious
- Location
- Iowa
- Pronouns
- They/Them
@October Daye I don't understand why there's a retrial? It seems like more work and risk for him than just declaring the trial null and void and him innocent?
Y'know. If they're trying to disbar you for being queer.
Well, that depends on who's asking it and why. Sometimes the correct answer is "Basic moral decency, and also fuck you."
Y'know. If they're trying to disbar you for being queer.
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- Location
- Argentina
Wow she is short.
Like really short.
That or the girl is really tall for her age.
GeekGod_of_Speed
He Who Enjoys The Big Words
Was there ever a fuckup this bad in an actual court case?
- Location
- Goose Land
"I was Mind Controlled and am currently both seeking medical aid as well as having all of my cases within the given time frame reviewed?"
But then you have to actually have been mind controlled in such a manner as to be provable in at least the public court of opinion sooooo
It's a combination of things I believe.
First it's a statement of "This entire thing was so wrong and illegal that we're not even going to leave it on the table as even vaguely valid, and are going to redo it properly", which combined with their prior statement of "We find in favor of the Petitioner" I believe translates to "We're going to do this such that this case can be used in legal reference to explicitly help prevent further victims of such awfulness from being hurt again."
Second, while I am super uninformed on the topic, I believe this will either set up to provide some sort of compensation for all the trouble he's been through, either directly through the trial itself (I don't think that's how it works in criminal cases though) or by laying the groundwork for a future civil case (which would honestly be settled outside of court because I cannot imagine anyone would want to stand on the opposite side here).
My big question trial wise though is whether or not criminal charges are going to be pursued against those jackhats who tried jumping SJ.