The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) (2 page)

In fact, the “public courtroom” had precisely 32 seats outside the now-empty jury box — the hand-picked jury having been dismissed after delivering its unanimous “Guilty” verdicts as instructed by Judge Crustio, who had told them they had no choice but to enforce the
law — and most of those 32 seats were taken up today by police and prosecutors anxious to savor their day of triumph — two of them by assistant prosecutor Sturm Wolfson and Providence Police Sergeant Phil Robichaux.

The Constitution had been written to limit government power by dividing it not just among the legislative, executive, and judicial branches (which were not intended to cooperate, but rather to jealously limit each other — “gridlock” being the very idea), but also among the federal, state and local levels. The promise had been that the central, “federal” government would thus be kept always far from the affairs of the local people, concerning itself primarily with treaties, foreign trade, and so forth. Thus, if it was not exactly the job of state and local prosecutors like Sturm Wolfson — and even Rhode Island District Judge Fidelio Crustio — to defend Windsor Annesley against what was primarily a federal “War on Drugs,” it was certainly the intent of the Founders that such men would jealously guard the rights of such a local citizen against any unconstitutional federal trampling.

Instead, in the interests of “making prosecutions easier” and giving everybody a step up the career ladder, such distinctions had long since been thrown out the window. State, federal, and local authorities now gleefully cooperated in regional “multi-jurisdiction task forces” designed to track a “drug suspect,” seize all the assets he might otherwise use to hire a good attorney (long before he was even charged, let alone convicted of anything), sic the IRS on him (all “drug dealers” being presumed to evade the income tax, since any pretense that “drug income” reported to the IRS would remain confidential was now reduced to a knee-slapper), et cetera.

In fact, Sturm Wolfson hadn’t personally prosecuted the case — that honor, and with it the headlines and the pictures in the paper, had been reserved for the elected attorney general himself. But he was the one who had worked closely with Phil Robichaux to ensnare lesser members and even former members of the Church of Cthulhu on minor drug and other offenses, then threatening to jail them for
decades on trumped-up “conspiracy” or “trafficking” charges unless they “rolled over” and turned state’s evidence.

“Turning” those witnesses into police spies had proved so valuable that Wolfson and Robichaux had been rewarded with a pair of precious seats here in the courtroom to join in the triumphal celebration of the legal disemboweling of their collective prey, Windsor Annesley. Could a cherished political appointment as U.S. Attorney for the District of Rhode Island for Sturm Wolfson — and his own “Special Weapons and Tactics” squad for soon-to-be “Lieutenant” Phil Robichaux — lie far behind?

Thus were the 32 precious seats in the “public courtroom” doled out as trophies to the victors, whose triumph had of course been assured from the outset. With juries carefully stacked through the “
voir dire
” screening process (unlike the true Anglo-Saxon juries which for thousands of years had been randomly selected from the populace, thus guaranteeing the inclusion of a few members who would refuse to enforce any unpopular law — see the “Fugitive Slave Act”), convictions in drug cases now ran better than 98 percent.

Hundreds of members of the Church of Cthulhu might be demonstrating outside, as well as hundreds more sympathizers not actually belonging to the church but outraged at the sentence Judge Crustio was reportedly preparing to hand down in this celebrated “drug” case. But they would not have been allowed anywhere near this courtroom, even had they been willing to submit to the multiple indignities of being required to remove their shoes and belts, paraded through metal detectors and drug-sniffers both animal and chemical, and finally groped about the gonads by the courthouse’s specially trained blue-gloved metrosexuals.

Nor had the defense’s expensively obtained expert witnesses ever been allowed to enter Judge Crustio’s courtroom or be seen by the jury. As their time had been paid for, biochemists and psychiatric researchers with credentials as long as your arm, flown in to testify about the usefulness and non-addictive nature of psychoactive drugs, and how their promising research had been almost entirely stymied
by the irrational federal ban, now sat watching the proceedings over closed-circuit TV in an adjoining courtroom, as did a Native American shaman who would have testified that psychoactive plants like the peyote cactus — incorrectly named “hallucinogens,” a term better applied to hypnotics like scopolamine — formed a part of his people’s legitimate, though heavily restricted, religious practice.

The judge had refused to let any of them testify — had refused to let the defense present much of any defense, once they made clear they had no intention of claiming “Some Other Dude Done It.”

“Not germane,” Judge Crustio had ruled over and over again: “Irrelevant; not a defense permitted by law.”

As rare book dealer Matthew Hunter, who lectured from time to time on the literature of the entheogens at the university on the hill, had been the only person the last-mentioned Apache holy man had known in the city, he had gladly volunteered to serve as old Emilio’s host and guide during his visit here, which explained why he, too, had braved the metal detecting rigmarole and was now sitting in the adjoining courtroom, watching the sentencing on a large but low-quality closed-circuit television screen — the multi-million-dollar courthouse having not yet caught up to the technology available for watching major league baseball at the tavern across the street.

No, once the police and prosecutors were allowed for, the assigned seating in the supposedly “open-to-the-public” courtroom had otherwise left room only for the leading members of Windsor Annesley’s defense team, his mother and father and younger brother, and his red-eyed but stalwart young wife, who again today had left their children — too young to understand the proceedings — at home with the nanny.

Windsor Annesley’s full head of red hair — which had been described as “Kennedy-esque” by more than one infatuated young reporter of the female persuasion — looked somewhat unkempt today. But he did not hang his head before Judge Crustio. In fact, he stood ramrod-straight, head high, feet spread as far apart as his ankle-chains would allow.

More important, to those who understood the workings of the officially banned but ever-more-popular Church of Cthulhu, was the bearing of Windsor Annesley’s younger brother, Worthy Annesley, who sat between the prisoner’s wife and mother. Worthy Annesley also sat ramrod straight, a slightly smaller clone of his brother, his hair perhaps a bit more blond, but displaying the same ruggedly handsome, craggy chin and prominent nose. Worthy Annesley’s jaw was set in the same firm line of determination as his older brother’s, though at times it appeared a grim smile actually played across his lips.

One of Windsor Annesley’s most adamant rules had been that his younger brother was never to be involved in the acquisition, transport or distribution of the church’s twin sacraments, LSD and the peyote cactus. Both state and federal police and coerced informers had tried to gather him into their net, sending
agents provocateurs
in repeated attempts to lure the younger brother into situations where a large quantity of the sacrament and a firearm would be present in the same room — any drug sentence could be doubled and tripled if prosecutors could claim “firearms were used to facilitate the crime,” which could amount to as little as a .22-caliber pistol hidden in a nearby desk drawer — but never with any success.

Yet it was widely reported that the younger brother would now assume the reins of the banned but still virile church — and that it was not the media darling, the witty and amiable and diplomatic Windsor Annesley, but the younger brother, the
consigliore,
the till-now tightly leashed field general, whom the drug police most feared.

“Before I pass sentence, does the prisoner have anything to say?”

“I do, judge.”

The bench preferred to be addressed as “your honor,” but Crustio couldn’t very well object to being called “judge.”

“You may make your statement.”

“In the first place,” Windsor Annesley began, firmly, deliberately, “you’ve allowed my conviction and are about to sentence me for trafficking in plant sacraments — a charge which requires by statute that
the government show I bought and sold these substances for profit, which is part of the definition of ‘trafficking.’ Yet this court has failed to require the government to show there was ever any actual buying or selling for profit. You’ve simply instructed your stacked and hand-picked jury, from which you and the prosecutors conspired to remove anyone who would not swear in advance to enforce this law, that they should
assume
there was trafficking for profit, based simply on the volume involved.”

The four press reporters, admitted by lottery, scribbled madly in their notebooks, since the courts weirdly still prohibited the far more accurate use of microphones and recording devices.

“This court knows full well these plants are not ‘recreational drugs,’ but the religious sacraments of our church, that we distribute the sacraments free of charge to bona fide members, that I never have and never would sell these sacraments for profit — that any money that changes hands merely pays the documented costs of acquisition and transportation. My attorneys have presented signed affidavits and church account ledgers to this effect; they have been ignored.

“Furthermore, the court has allowed the prosecution to get away, again and again, with referring to these psychoactive sacraments as addictive narcotics, when they are neither addictive nor narcotics, from the Greek
narke,
numbness or stupor. My lawyers sought to present evidence to the jury — scientific evidence from nationally recognized chemists and medical authorities — to that effect. That testimony was not allowed.

“But what’s far more important is that this court long ago as a condition of office swore an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution, which contains a First Amendment forbidding the federal government from playing any role in the establishment of religion, and a Ninth Amendment forbidding the government from enacting any legislation whatsoever having to do with the possession or voluntary consumption of drugs, medicines, plants, or sacraments, since no such power is listed in Article One Section Ten, delimiting the powers of Congress.

“Yet this court is fully aware that the government grants tax exemptions and other favorable treatment to many other competing churches, which would otherwise operate at a severe competitive disadvantage because their sacraments are ineffective, they are mere placebos, they are worthless in accessing the Kingdom of God, while this same government relentlessly and in blatant violation of that Constitution systematically persecutes the Cthulhian Church, sentencing our couriers and stewards and leaders to prison for Draconian periods of time, all because we choose to pursue enlightenment and, yes, happiness — a founding right of all Americans — by choosing to use natural sacraments of which the government disapproves for no logical reason, since they are harmful neither to ourselves nor to anyone else when used as we use them, and since even if we
were
harming ourselves, that would still be our right.

“It is thus not merely an option of this court, but the sworn duty of this court, to negate, to refute and throw out and refuse to enforce those unauthorized, unconstitutional laws which place the worshippers of the Church of Cthulhu at a disadvantage, while also depriving us of our natural, human and Constitutional rights, since the state seeks not only to deprive us of any means of obtaining our sacraments of choice, but to actually lock us away in prison for no worse offense than trying to peacefully practice our religion of choice, and to prevent us from accessing our sacraments and thus practicing our religion
while
we are thus locked away, even though other prisoners are allowed to practice their religions, even in prison.

“You have declared war on our religion and its practitioners. You call it a ‘War on Drugs’ but we are not fooled; no war has ever been fought against a plant nor can it be, it is the people who use these plants to seek peace and revelation and guidance to a better life on whom you have declared your war, and so today I put this court on notice, I put these prosecutors on notice, I put the police who enforce these laws, all of them, on notice: We warned you a year ago that you faced a deadline to halt this persecution and these prosecutions, to leave us free in the peaceful enjoyment of our religion. We offered
you a full year, free of reprisals, in which to reconsider your course of action. You have ignored that deadline, which expires today. Very well.

“You have declared a war against us and our medical and religious freedom, thinking your war would be one-sided, that your victims would never fight back. But you have picked the wrong people on whom to make war. From today, you should expect no more mercy or quarter than you show to us. From this day, we are responding in the only way a free people
can
respond to such unrelieved and unrepentant attacks.…”

Judge Crustio had his gavel up in the air. Two instincts were obviously at war, the conflict playing across his face. On the one hand, it was traditional to let the accused have his say, though few of the losers could do better than mutter a few words about how sorry they were. And he’d also been advised, in this case, that it might further be wise to let the convicted party “hang himself with his own words.” But he was also unaccustomed to tolerating any disrespect, and he certainly had no intention of letting his courtroom be turned into a pulpit to preach revolution.

“… We have turned the other cheek for the last time,” Windsor Annesley continued. “Today, I respond to your declaration of war with a declaration of my own. You are at war with us? Then we are at war with you. A condition of war has existed, and will continue to exist, until you surrender without condition, or until every drug judge, including you, Judge Crustio, and every drug prosecutor, and every drug cop, is dead. So have I said it. So shall it be.”