Before a trial, and most especially during the trial, the Judge had its fingers on the public pulse. Since the CC was in constant contact with virtually every citizen of Luna (with a few exceptions, like the Outer Amish, my father, and me), this process wasn't intrusive. The average citizen had dozens of transactions with the CC every day. During one of them, the Judge might ask, "Suppose a man steals a loaf of bread..." or whatever might be at issue in the case. The citizen would listen, ask questions, then deliver an opinion on the matter. Was it fair? Did the proposed penalty conform with the intent of the lawmakers, and not just the letter of the law? Would following the letter of the law result in an injustice, or unwarranted leniency? Was the crime in fact worse than the lawmakers had envisioned when setting the penalties?

The answers were added into the complicated equation, constantly being revised, that determined the verdict, or in the case of the JPT, the "number." This equation was the "protocol" part of the JPT. In fifteen years the algorithms of justice had become supremely refined. They were approaching, though might never reach, that lovely word "fair." As in fair play. No concept of fairness would ever satisfy everyone, but if you satisfied most of the people most of the time, you were doing a lot better than the old system ever had.

In my own case, no hypothetical questions were necessary. The Judge simply asked, "What do you think of the Sparky case?" and the average citizen already knew about it. Thus a few thousand randomly chosen citizens were made to function as an unselected panel. They had put in their "jury duty," an onerous burden under the old system. It had wasted ten minutes of their time, a waste which the great majority enjoyed. And the final verdict for or against me would contain an element of trial by my peers.

So this is what Billy and Roxy were engaged in. A fight to influence public opinion. They typically weren't given much time to do it, so the fight was fast and furious.

I couldn't begin to report all that was said in the next twenty minutes; at times all twelve lawyers were shouting at once. And frankly, if the Judge had asked me to vote on the issue based on the behavior of the attorneys for both sides, I would have voted to disbar them all. It's hard to believe they swayed the opinion of anyone in the vast viewing audience.

But they put on a hell of a show. If you'd like to see it, videos are available at a reasonable price. Hell, buy two. I get a three percent royalty. If you aren't from Luna I'd recommend you buy one and take a look; this is likely to be in your future. You'd better get used to it.

"I think we've had enough of that," the Judge said, finally. "Mr. Flynn, would you like to call any witnesses?"

"Yes, I'd like to have Rose Wilkinson tell what she saw."

"On the day of the murder?" Hart asked.

"On that certain day, seventy years ago," Flynn said, unperturbed.

Rose was called to the table. She took a seat halfway between the opposing sides, which I'm sure Gideon Peppy would have found significant. I didn't recognize her, but that wasn't surprising. Most people change their appearance a bit every decade or so; usually nothing radical, but enough that if you aren't in contact for a long time it can add up to a new person.

"Ms. Wilkinson," said the Judge, "you have stated that you were employed as the assistant stage manager for a production of Romeo and Juliet seventy years ago."

"That's right. By Mr. Valentine. That is, by Mr. John—"

"Why don't you call them John and Kenneth?" the Judge suggested.

"Okay."

"Will you tell us what you saw, what you remember?"

"Yes. I was backstage with a reporter, Hildy Johnson. I don't remember what we were talking about. Probably John Valentine, because I hated him more than I've ever hated anyone before or since." I glanced at Roxy Hart, who was frowning. She wanted to leap to her feet and object, but she couldn't. The Judge was in control here, and presumed able to ignore prejudicial statements. "We heard a shot. Well, a loud noise that I later learned was a shot. We went out on the stage to investigate, and I saw Sparky... I'm sorry, Kenneth, standing there with a gun in his hand. And Mister... John was lying on his back. I remember smelling smoke, gun smoke I guess it was."

She went through her story fairly concisely. When she began to stray, the Judge gently prodded her back on track.

"It was the most horrible thing I ever saw," she said, tearing up a little even at this late date. I didn't feel so great myself. "Poor Sparky standing there... I don't think he knew what happened. He couldn't have been in his right mind... but that awful, awful man! Sparky could never say no to him. He humiliated his son in front of the entire cast, treated him like a servant or a naughty child... and I'm glad he's dead."

There was a hush in the courtroom when she finished. I discovered my fingernails were biting into my palms. I made an effort to relax; all of Luna was watching.

"I want to point out," Hart said, "that the question of Kenneth Valentine's sanity is not at issue here."

"Noted," said the Judge. "Are there more witnesses?"

"I'd like to call Hildy Johnson," Billy said.

Hildy was called. Hildy was called again. And yet a third time.

What have I done? I asked myself. And I answered, I've put my fate into the hands of a reporter.

"I'm issuing a subpoena for the appearance of Hildy Johnson," the Judge said. "In the meantime her statement is on the record and you have all read it. Her testimony will be taken at a later date, and if anything of relevance is developed an amended verdict will be issued. Now, is there any member of the public who has any pertinent facts bearing on this case? And let me remind you, I am the sole judge of relevancy, and anyone attempting to use this court as a forum for unrelated statements will be dealt with severely, as provided by law. This court is not a soapbox, nor a venue for the disaffected."

This was known as the "grandstanding law," and was passed when it became clear that this final phase of the JPT was easy meat for abuse by anyone with an ax to grind. People were standing up and delivering diatribes against this or that law, airing pet peeves, generally being pests. Now, if anyone had any new facts—and no one ever did—was the time to present them. Otherwise, statements as to my sterling character or lack of it might or might not be allowed, but precious little else.

The courtroom door burst open and in rushed Hildy Johnson, waving sheets of paper.

"I do, Your Honor!" she shouted.

The Judge took it in stride. The audience was a little more demonstrative, but quickly settled down as Hildy walked down the aisle and found a seat just to the left of Billy Flynn.

"May it please the court—" she began.

"You've got the wrong court," said the Judge. "I'm neither pleased nor displeased by anything. Let's dispense with all the formality. What do you have to show me?"

"I just found something interesting," she began again.

"Just a moment. Hildy, are you employed by a news-gathering organization?"

"Uh, I used to be, Judge. Currently I'm on extended sabbatical, but I send in stories when I find them."

"For competitive bidding, I assume."

"That's where the money is, Judge."

"Can I further assume that your recent dramatic entrance into the courtroom will enhance the value of any story to come out of this trial?"

"Couldn't hurt," Hildy conceded. There was laughter from the audience.

"Why do I get the feeling," the Judge said, "that I'm being sandbagged?"

"Well, Your—Judge, nobody said I couldn't make the news as well as report it."