Final Page: 12 Angry Gobshites
In the latest instalment of my ‘Final Page’ series (see previous instalments here), I now present the last page of my courtroom drama ‘12 Angry Gobshites’. First published in 1964, reviews were unkind. The New York Times called it “…a novel of such ground-breaking awfulness, one has to ask if humankind shouldn’t now step aside and allow monkeys to come through as the dominant primates.”
The London Times followed a similar line, asking “…has humanity overstayed its welcome? Should we now join the dinosaurs in extinction? On the evidence of this novel, it is hard to justify our continued consumption of the earth’s resources. We are a failed species.”
Lofty criticism indeed. Enjoy!
12 ANGRY GOBSHITES
By
Flann O’Coonassa
Page 346 of 346
…sat herself down on one of them-there Whoopee Cushions,” said the jury foreman. “I nearly bust me a gut laughin, until the smell set in. Ain’t supposed to be no God-damned smell with a Whoopee Cushion. Grandma musta used the opportunity to squeeze a real one out. Can’t says I blame her. Probably woulda done the same in her shoes.”
Everybody shifted in their seats, unsettled by the anecdote.
“Can we please get back to the case?” demanded Henry. “A man’s life is at stake.”
“Fine, let’s have another vote,” said the foreman. “Not guilty?”
Eleven jurors raised their hands.
“Guilty?”
Only Henry raised his hand.The rest of the jurors gasped in annoyance.
“Well ain’t this here a dilly of a pickle?” said the foreman in his thick Russian accent.
“Weren’t the last six votes all 12 – 0?” asked the juror from Brooklyn. “I don’t understand why we didn’t stop after any of them.”
Henry stood and paced around the table.
“Just hear me out,” he said. “Supposin the kid did kill the old man.”
“Did he?” asked the foreman.
“I don’t know, I’m just supposin.”
“Hmm. Never thought of it like that.”
Henry wiped his brow.
“But the old lady,” said the bookish juror. “She says she had sex with the killer immediately after the killing, and that he was white, skinny, ginger and old.”
“So?” replied Henry.
“So the kid is is black, fat, bald and young,” replied the bookish juror.
“But that’s evidence,” said Henry. “Why, you can’t try a man on evidence. You’ve got to use your gut.”
“Are you saying the old lady might be mistaken?”
“Maybe the killer did her from behind, and she’s too ashamed to admit she never saw him.”
The bookish juror reclined in his seat, more than satisfied with the logic. Again, Henry wiped his brow.
“But what about the kid’s alibi?” asked the elderly Jewish juror.
“What about it?” countered Henry.
“Six thousand people watched him singing live at Madison Square Garden. Millions more on television.”
“Supposin it wasn’t him?”
“It looked like him. And his wife and children joined him on stage. Why would they do that if it wasn’t him?”
“Supposin they were high on crack?”
“Hmm.”
Amply convinced, the elderly Jewish juror fell silent.
“What’s all this supposin?” demanded the permanently hot-heated, blue-collar juror. “Are you sayin he killed the old man or not?”
“I don’t know,” replied Henry. “Isn’t it possible he killed him?”
“Ah, you’re talkin all screwy. The kid lost his hands in a freak orange peeling accident. How you figure he held a knife with no hands?” shouted the hot-head.
“Supposin he’s got bionic hands, for attachin to his stumps?”
The hot-head blue-collar juror had to accept that bionic hands were not something he’d considered. Henry took a sip of water.
“I reckon it’s time for another vote,” said the foreman. “Not guilty?”
Nobody raised a hand.
“Guilty?”
Twelve hands raised in unison. Their duty done, the jury returned the verdict to the judge who handed a death sentence to the kid. Without goodbyes, Henry and his fellow jurors went their separate ways on the court steps that summer eve. The kid was hung later that month. Only when the real killer struck twelve more times was the case re-opened, and the kid posthumously pardoned. Henry never stopped campaigning to have the pardon overturned, until his death at the jaws of a neighbour’s Rottweiler many decades later.
THE END
Hola Flan!
Is an escellent story, I think, proving again the flaws of trial by jury instead of by three bishops. And you can ignore what the papers are say about your book. They are all bed-wetting liberal scum. That is God’s judgement, not mine.
Besos
Manuel
I think the three bishop system had its flaws too Manuel, although granted, not as many as the disastrous four bishop system. How many murderers walked free because of a deadlocked 2 – 2 draw? 1,487. That’s how many.
Hola Flan!
Si, but you forget that the law was change in 1502 so that in the event of a draw it go to trial by fire.
Besos
Manuel
Sir, I bow to your unrivalled knowledge of papacy-approved fascism. There is much we can learn from you.
I find the potential of this to actually occur, as being unlikely. I think from a literary point of view it somewhat weakens the story.
So the kid was convicted fair and square, he was punished and never again committed a crime………the system works!
Well that’s where you’re wrong Seanoginho. The novel is largely based on a true story. Granted, that true story was told to me by a pathological liar. But why would he lie (pathology aside)?
Exactly VinnyK. It’s a democratic and fair judicial system. And if a few innocents happen to get executed along the way, who are you or I to say that’s wrong?
Furthermore, who’s to say these innocents wouldn’t have gone on to commit far more heinous crimes than the ones they already didn’t do? You could call it pre-emptive justice, in that regard.
I sleep easier tonight safe in the knowledge that the pre-emptive justice system works, thanks Flann.
The kid had shifty eyes Flann and a beard, hunched shoulders, a limp, he was non-turrets edgy with a Clint squint. But it was the beard, mostly the beard which screamed guilty to Henry. All bearded men and most women, except nuns and bearded blessed virgins, are guilty. Ask any airport security guy.
I don’t think a beard should automatically spell guilt in a court setting. A better system would be to inter the suspect, force-shave them, beat them around the head and face with some manner of baton, and then put them back in the dock for further questioning. We’re not animals, for God’s sake.
No problem ‘The Fan’. Pre-emptive justice is what worked so effectively in Iraq, so naturally you can apply the same sound principles on a smaller scale.