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TRUST THE LAW
By Andy Maslen
His too-tight shirt collar is starched with fear,
squeezing his throat in a strangler’s grip.
He runs a shaking finger around its inner rim,
skin sliding over sweat-slick skin.
Ten years ago, he started a business importing
mining plant from China. Now, out of nowhere,
his partners say he’s broken his word.
The opponent is Swiss, head-quartered in Geneva.
They’ve wangled it so the courtroom’s in a château.
Marble floor like blood-streaked snow; gilded mirrors
in which he sees himself reflected,
over and over and over and over and over again.
Each man diminished still further by all this opulence.
Offers to talk were flung back in his face like sharp-edged gravel.
So now he’s walking on fear-stiffened legs
to the witness stand in the court of arbitration.
‘Trust the law,’ his lawyer told him, right at the start.
And he’s trying, God knows, he’s trying to do just that.
But the pressure’s building inside him, and now the judges are waiting for him to speak.
Offers to talk were flung back in his face like sharp-edged gravel.
So now he’s walking on fear-stiffened legs
to the witness stand in the court of arbitration.
‘Trust the law,’ his lawyer told him, right at the start.
And he’s trying, God knows, he’s trying to do just that.
But the pressure’s building inside him, and now the judges
are waiting for him to speak.
He hears a voice. The voice is his. Complaining, arguing,
accusing, though he’s the one supposed to have done wrong.
Ranting now, he can’t stop. His lawyer shakes her head.
He sees her eyes meet those of his secretary,
who’s been with him from Day One. She’s crying.
What has he done? All that preparation.
All that role-playing. For nothing.
Like a grader’s motor sucking the last drop of diesel
from the tank, his peroration runs dry.
He traverses the travertine, fresh-polished shoes pinching his feet.
Slumps in his chair so heavily the gold-glinting legs creak in protest.
It’s over. It’s all over. Everything he’s worked for.
Everything he’s fought for. His lawyer lays
a manicured hand on his arm. Holds him in a steady gaze.
Her expression says it all. Trust the law.
The judges bend their heads in towards the centre.
They confer, they nod: one, two, three then the lead judge speaks:
‘Nous trouvons pour
le défendeur’.
The opposition gasp. Their lawyers frown, bite their lips,
then gather their papers. His turns, smiles, translates.
‘We’ve won.
That’s what he said’.
Unseen hands ease the jaws of a pair of bolt cutters
over the steel band around his chest and cut him free.
He can breathe again. His lawyer leans close. Smiles.
‘Trust the law.’
The judges bend their heads in towards the centre.
They confer, they nod: one, two, three then the lead judge speaks:
‘Nous trouvonspour
le défendeur’.
The opposition gasp. Their lawyers frown,
bite their lips,then gather their papers.
His turns, smiles, translates.
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