The Brethren
John Grisham
ONE
For the weekly docket the court jester jester wore his standard garb of well-used and deeply faded maroon pajamas and lavender terry-cloth shower shoes with no socks. He wasn’t the only inmate who went about his daily business in his pajamas, but no one else dared wear lavender shoes. His name was T Karl, and he’d once owned banks in Boston.
The pajamas and shoes weren’t nearly as troubling as the wig. It parted at the middle and rolled in layers downward, over his ears, with tight curls coiling off into three directions, and fell heavily onto his shoulders. It was a bright gray, almost white, and fashioned after the Old English magistrate’s wigs from centuries earlier. A friend on the outside had found it at a secondhand costume store in Manhattan, in the Village.
T Karl wore it to court with great pride, and, odd as it was, it had, with time, become part of the show. The other inmates kept their distance from T Karl anyway, wig or not.
He stood behind his flimsy folding table in the prison cafeteria, tapped a plastic mallet that served as a gavel, cleared his squeaky throat, and announced with great dignity: “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. The Inferior Federal Court of North Florida is now in session. Please rise.”
No one moved, or at least no one made an effort to stand. Thirty inmates lounged in various stages of repose in plastic cafeteria chairs, some looking at the court jester, some chatting away as if he didn’t exist.
T Karl continued: “Let all ye who search for justice draw nigh and get screwed.”
No laughs. It had been funny months earlier when T Karl first tried it. Now it was just another part of the show. He sat down carefully, making sure the rows of curls bouncing upon his shoulders were given ample chance to be seen, then he opened a thick red leather book which served as the official record for the court. He took
his work very seriously.
Three men entered the room from the kitchen. Two of them wore shoes. One was eating a saltine. The one with no shoes was also bare-legged up to his knees, so that below his robe his spindly legs could be seen. They were smooth and hairless and very brown from the sun. A large tattoo had been applied to his left calf. He was from California.
All three wore old church robes from the same choir, pale green with gold trim. They came from the same store as T Karl’s wig, and had been presented by him as gifts at Christmas. That was how he kept his job as the court’s official clerk.
There were a few hisses and jeers from the spectators as the judges ambled across the tile floor in full regalia, their robes flowing. They took their places behind a long folding table, near T Karl but not too near, and faced the weekly gathering. The short round one sat in the middle. Joe Roy Spicer was his name, and by default he acted as the Chief Justice of the tribunal. In his previous life, judge Spicer had been a justice of the Peace in Mississippi, duly elected by the people of his little county, and sent away when the feds caught him skimming bingo profits from a Shriners club.
“Please be seated;” he said. Not a soul was standing.
The judges adjusted their folding chairs and shook their robes until they fell properly around them. The assistant warden stood to the side, ignored by the inmates. A guard in uniform was with him. The Brethren met once a week with the prison’s approval. They heard cases, mediated disputes, settled little fights among the boys, and had generally proved to be a stabilizing factor amid the population.
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