Things have been getting hotter and hotter between you and the prosecuting attorney this entire trial. Everyone can feel it. The judge. The millionaire you’re defending for murdering his mistress. Even the bailiff has spent the entire trial nodding knowingly in your direction.
“I object,” the prosecution says during your cross-direct.
“Aw yeah,” says the judge, sucking in air like he’s done every time you two have gotten combative.
Members of the jury have been moving their chairs closer together. You’ve noticed some of them enjoying some roving hands. There are rumors of hook ups going on during the sequester.
“Your honor, if the prosecution would allow me–”
“Don’t tell me, tell her,” the judge says. “Go talk to her. Let her know how you feel.”
It’s unorthdox, but you walk over to the prosecution table and you look the assistant district attorney in the eye.
“If you’d let me–”
“Say her name!” your client yells.
Everyone in the chamber murmurs in agreement.
“Janet,” you say. “If you’d just let me finish, you’d see what my intentions are for this line of questioning.”
“I’d like to know your intentions now,” she whispers.
You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom.
“My intentions,” you say. “Are to reveal the truth. To lay it out flat, rip off all the layers hiding it until it’s bare. Naked and bare and defenseless.”
“Then what?” Janet pants.
“Then I will explore the truth, tease out all it’s hidden mysteries and revelatory realms, until I’ve discovered every hidden nook, until there’s nothing left.”
She’s out of her seat.
“Enter the motion,” she says.
“Your honor,” you shout, your eyes not wavering from hers. “The defense would like to enter the motion to make love.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says, clapping his gavel.
The prosecution lunges across the table and you lay her down on the wood and you take her, there in a court of law, the blindfolded lady of justice statue the only one not watching, savoring your every thrust like the entire justice system rests on whether the two of you consummate before the judge calls for a break for lunch. Objections sustained and objections overruled, the energy of your back-and-forth creates a kinetic mass of writhing flesh, the fight for a man’s guilt or innocence passionately and wordlessly fought. Until finally, exhaustedly, you raise your panting head from her neck and say to the judge:
“Your honor, the defense rests.”
Everyone in the chamber applauds. You pull on your clothes. The trial resumes and you lose. You’re a terrible lawyer.
Happy Motion To Make Love Day!
