Dead Voices, page 21
He took the suit off and settled on a compromise. He’d wear something in between his casual jeans and his formal suit. He’d wear the attire he often wore as a teacher, his middle-of-road attire, his fence-sitting attire, what was a uniform of his inner self and poked fun at his outer-self. Dark grey khakis, a polo shirt, and a black leather vest.
But no, he had to think twice about the black leather vest. It would undoubtedly make light of the hearing. The judges could be offended by his lack of respect. One couldn’t thumb his nose at his own judges and then expect a fair appraisal. It would be like biting one’s own tail.
One look at his black leather vest and the judges might throw the book at him. He put the vest back in the closet and settled for his black leather jacket instead.
When Mark looked in the mirror, he felt right. This was as close to the real him as he could get. A cross between the rebel and the slave, fearless and yet fearful, un-compromising and yet compromising. A walking talking contradiction.
The summons instructed him to appear at a certain address in the same block as the old City Hall, which after amalgamation was now being used for various civic functions. After he parked his car outside, he went to the Information desk in the central lobby. The guy behind the desk was in a black security uniform, looking like an SS officer, and eating his lunch, a huge Subway sandwich with a can of diet pop. The guy was middle-aged, with thin dark hair slicked back and a coarse fleshy face, reminding Mark of a mobster hit-man from the movies, a guy who could whack him off easily without any compunction.
Mark showed him his summons, with the address on it.
The security guy read it carefully while chewing his food, then looked Mark up from top to bottom and laughed.
“You know what you’re in for?”
Mark didn’t know how to answer such an ambiguous question. And he didn’t like the way the guy laughed.
“No,” he said. “The summons doesn’t say. It’s rather inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive, huh,” the guy said, arching his brows. “I wouldn’t be so flippant if I were you. Nor so snotty. It could work against you.”
Mark gave the guy closer scrutiny. He didn’t give the appearance of being well-educated at all. And he was just a security guy. What was the world coming to?
“How do you mean?” Mark asked him, hoping to get some answers.
“That’s none of your business.”
The curt answer made Mark get serious. “What happens now?”
“You’ll have to go to the panaudicon across the courtyard, specifically to the pre-hearing screening room and get instruction.”
“What sort of instruction?”
“Pre-hearing instruction.”
“Listen here,” Mark said, beginning to lose his patience. “What’s this all about anyway? What have I done wrong?”
“How do I know? I just direct you to the proper areas. I don’t know what you’ve done wrong. Only you know that.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Yeah, they all say that,” the guy said, smiling and showing his food in such a disgusting manner that Mark had to turn his eyes away.
“Can I at least know who the judges are?” Mark asked him.
“How do I know who the judges are?”
“What do you know?” Mark said, losing his cool.
“I know one thing,” he said with a sneer. “I know you’re in deep shit, brother. Anyone who’s summoned to the panaudicon has a lot to hear and be accounted for. And the pre-hearing will establish which judges will be on the panel.”
The guy was getting nasty. The nerve. Mark gave him his death stare.
The guy smirked. “Be aware,” he said, “that there are surveillance cameras all over the place. Not to mention microphones. Every step you take, every word you utter, every thought you have, will be heard and recorded. Is that clear?”
Mark nodded.
“You have to go across the courtyard to the circular building and find the pre-hearing Room. Now, get out of my face.”
As he walked across the courtyard, Mark felt he had started on the wrong foot already with the security guy. He had to settle down and get his bearings. He was still in the dark about the charges and the judges.
The circular building had a sign over the front entrance indicating it was the Panaudicon, which he could surmise had something to do with hearing in general. It certainly didn’t look like a hall of justice. As soon as he got inside he saw it was simply a circular hallway with offices on both sides, looking sterile and officious, with bare walls and thick sound-proof windows. It gave him the willies. The doors had numbers and no windows. He saw no flags, no provincial or federal insignia, nothing that would designate it as a government building. Of course, the summons said that the hearing would be held in camera, so it didn’t have to be in a government building. And he hadn’t been told about a pre-hearing. Did they have a platoon of judges ready to be chosen?
He could feel himself starting to sweat already. His armpits were getting soaked. Rivulets of sweat were accumulating under his polo shirt. He took off his leather jacket.
The pre-hearing Room was ten yards from the entrance. It was partly ajar, as if waiting for him. Although he couldn’t see the surveillance cameras or microphones, they must’ve been tracking his every move.
The room had sound-proof windows looking out into an inner courtyard of a well-groomed lawn. It was entirely bare except for two desks, each with a chair and a wireless headset and mic.
After standing a few minutes, he sat down on one of the chairs. The more he waited in excruciating uncertainty, the more he sweated. His heart was pounding. If anyone took his blood-pressure, he wouldn’t want to know. There was nothing to be done, however, but wait for his number to be called.
Finally he heard footsteps out in the hallway coming closer. They sounded slow and heavy, the footsteps of a man with creaky shoes. Mark got up.
It was the security guy. Mark’s heart beat even faster.
“Sit down,” the guy said, as if barking a command.
Instead of his security uniform, however, he was in a well-tailored suit and tie, with sleek brown dress shoes that looked so soft and porous he didn’t need any socks. There was nothing casual about him now, however. He gave the appearance of being formal and aloof, not one to be trifled with. Mark decided to play along. If he made a joke right now, it might go against him — even though the whole thing seemed so ridiculous he could hardly stand it.
The guy sat down at the desk facing his, put on the headset which had only one ear covering, and adjusted the mic over his mouth. He had clipboard with some paper on it and a pen in his hand.
“I’m the hearing clerk,” he said in a formal tone. “You will answer my questions to the best of your ability in the most succinct manner possible so as not to waste time. Be it understood that your answers will determine who is best to judge your case. Later we will inform you of the correct protocol to be used in your case. Please put on your headset.”
Mark did as instructed. The mic coming round to his mouth was very annoying. If his every word was going to be recorded, the pressure was already doing its job.
“Are you Case Number 2315?” the guy said, looking at his clipboard.
Mark had to take out his summons. Indeed, it was the right number.
The guy cleared his throat and looked at his clipboard again, as if he were in for a mouthful.
“There are four charges against Case 2315, afterwards to be designated as you.”
The guy must’ve been joking. Mark couldn’t believe his ears. The charges were so preposterous he didn’t know how to answer. Not that they didn’t have an element of truth in them, but that they were also lies, calumny, false witness against him.
Mark opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He was in such a state of incredulity he couldn’t utter a word.
“Silence means consent to the charges,” the clerk said.
Mark shook his head vehemently, his face convulsing like a volcano that wanted to erupt and was blocked at its mouth.
“Speak up, then!” the clerk barked out like a border guard. “How do you answer to the charges? Time is of the essence. I have other people to hear. Speak up.”
His own nature had betrayed him once again. In whatever situation, when it was time to speak, he couldn’t speak. When it was time to be brave, he wasn’t brave. When it was time to take decisive action, he couldn’t act. It was as if, caught in the gears of a self-fulfilling prophecy, he was always being grinded into grist.
Mark sat back, knowing he had been defeated again. He was breathing heavily, his face tight and flushed, his vocal chords incapacitated. In desperation he stared at the hearing Clerk.
“If you can’t speak,” the guy said, “change the settings on your headset mic.”
Not knowing what the clerk was talking about, Mark took off his headset and regarded the mic. He noticed a switch that had three settings. The Off setting was in the middle. The Audio-out setting, which had the green light on, was to the right. The Audio-in was to the left. By the process of elimination, the clerk had to mean to switch it to Audio-in.
When Mark switched it to Audio-in, he saw the red light come on. Which couldn’t mean anything good, he was sure. Nevertheless, he put the headset back on and faced the clerk.
“Now your thoughts are being recorded,” the clerk said. “How do you answer to the charges?”
Mark couldn’t believe his ears. Had modern technology advanced this far? Or had he missed something, as if he had been asleep like Ichabod Crane? He wasn’t sure. But this was no time to question the methods or the type of technology. He was under pressure to answer to the charges, whatever the circumstances.
At least he didn’t have to speak out physically, which he was never good at anyway. Being with words in silence was a different matter. He was much more comfortable using the words silently, as he did every day of the year. As he was forming his thoughts, arranging the words in their proper order like soldiers in the phalanx, he could hear his own thoughts in his ear phone. Amazing. The clerk must’ve been hearing the same thing. It was without a doubt an incredible feat of technology, the likes of which he would never have imagined but which, at the same time, didn’t overly surprise him since they were in a Panaudicon.
In the end, he was quite pleased with his response to the charges. He had expressed himself as well as possible under the circumstances. But he still didn’t know who was pressing the charges. Could he please be informed?
Either the clerk didn’t hear the question or disregarded it.
“List a few people who have been most influential in your life and whom you greatly admire still,” the clerk said. “And explain why.”
Mark thought of some of the great authors who had been his role-models in the past and who now could be used in his defence. After all, they had been instrumental in the creation of his own sense of self. He had often referred to them as his godparents, as a matter of fact. Not only had he been influenced by their words in their work but by the way they had put their words into practice in their lives. In putting their words on the page they had made themselves witnesses to the truth — or, at least, to their version of the truth — and he had only followed their example. If he could call anyone to his defence, they would be apt witnesses, to be sure. And by the integrity of their lives they could be considered as authority figures as well.
He had the distinct feeling, however, that he was caught up in some sort of ridiculous game that had him in its clutches. All he had to do was walk away — and yet he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn’t walk away.
Afterwards the clerk went over the protocol of the hearing. He told him he had to answer all the questions as quickly and concisely as possible. His judges on the panel would be three of the people he had mentioned. The judges, and only the judges, would determine the outcome of the hearing. Did Mark agree with such a process?
“I thought I was calling my defence witnesses, not my judges,” Mark said, in a state of indignation.
The clerk shook his head. “You have to defend yourself, my man. In the circumstances you’ve put yourself in, there’s no one else who can vouch for you, is there?”
Mark could only nod. It was too true. Now things were a little clearer.
The clerk told him the hearing itself would be conducted in the hearing room down the hallway. He was to address each judge as Your Honour. There would be no need of a court reporter, of course, since everything was being recorded for posterity. Did he have any objections or questions?
Mark shook his head, though his mind was racing ahead.
Afterward he walked down the hallway to the hearing room. It was much larger than the pre-hearing room, with a long table in front standing up over a platform for the panel of judges. The rest of the room was bare, except for a chair facing the table, with the same wireless headset and mic. On one side of the room were windows overlooking an inner courtyard. The other walls were bare. The natural light was enough to make everything sharp and clear.
And yet at the back of his mind was this gnawing doubt about what was actually happening, as if some inner voice were trying to tell him it was all a joke — and all he had to do was laugh and the whole thing would burst like a bubble. And yet the very room and the situation itself forbade laughing, as if laughing itself was verboten.
Presently three people, none wearing robes, entered the room from a doorway in the front wall. The first was a woman in her mid-thirties who had the severe look of a French radical, with her black beret and cape over a simple dark dress. She had thick glasses, full lips, and thick straggly hair cut short. The second was an older gentleman in a three-piece suit who gave the appearance of a parson with his thin white hair beneath a bald pate and fine almost translucent skin. The last was a middle-aged guy in corduroy pants and a lumber jacket who was short and slim, with a shock of unruly hair and thin no-nonsense features, looking like a harsh and imperious critic.
All three sat down on the bench, put on their headsets, and faced him.
The older gent in the middle made the introductions. He had a British accent, Oxbridge by the sound of it. In spite of the grave charges and what the hearing clerk had said, they would try to keep things as informal as possible. He was to be addressed as Altie, for example, the woman on his right as Simone, and the guy on his left as Ludi. He, Altie, as the most senior, would start the proceedings.
“Sit down,” Altie instructed.
Mark wasn’t surprised at who his judges were. He could recognize them by their look alone. Of all the more modern models of intellectual and moral fibre, these three were of the highest order. They had all, in their own way, distinguished themselves not only in their writing work but in their personal lives.
“The hearing will now come to order,” Altie said.
Mark was so tense he sat like a pole with his headset on. Altie asked him to state his name and occupation. Mark found it difficult to get the words out.
“Let me impress upon you, Mark,” Altie said with a paternal grin, “that you are not obliged to think or say anything concerning the charges against you, but whatever you do think or say will be held in evidence against you. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“How do you plead to the charges?”
Mark had to give it some thought, now that he was actually facing his judges. He had at first thought he’d be judged by his peers, but this was a different story. Not only had he looked up to these godparents as his role models, but he had practically revered them in his younger years. And they had impeccable credentials. They had acquitted themselves according to the highest standards in their work and had been their own severest critics in their personal lives. How could he possibly defend himself against such a panel? It would be in his best interests to plead guilty, perhaps, and have done with it. And treat it as a life-lesson.
The longer he delayed in answering, however, the more adjusted he became to the situation. His judges didn’t appear as intimidating in person as they were in their words on the page — or by their photographs, for that matter. Here in the hearing room they were human beings, after all, no matter how severe and aloof they had seemed. And human beings were all subject to self-doubt, uncertainty, and fear of some sort, he well knew.
Ludi, the Austrian logical positivist, for example, was known to have violent mood swings, from imperious and arrogant certainty to abject fear and helplessness. Simone, the French radical, had fashioned her life on emptying herself of all vanity to the point of self-destruction. And Altie, the British parson, had a reputation for being a rather docile and gentle of soul underneath his academic credentials. Maybe they weren’t as daunting as they appeared. Everyone had their short-comings, after all. Of that there was no doubt. Maybe he stood a chance against them if he was completely honest with himself.
There was only one way to find out.
Mark spoke with a forthrightness that surprised him.
“Guilty and not guilty,” he said.
The judges were taken aback. They looked at each other, shaking their heads, as if dealing with an impudent child.
“You cannot plead both,” Ludi said in his thick accent. “You must choose one or the other.”
“Who says?”
“The law and truth of logic says.”
“Is the law logical?” Mark said, invigorated by having spoken out. “And if the law were, in fact, logical, isn’t all logic self-referential? And doesn’t that mean it’s relative, with no outside reference point? Doesn’t it all depend on the language game one is playing?”
“You are not here to ask questions,” Ludi said, his face so tight it was ready to crack. “You are here to answer to our questions and to the charges against you. We ask you again: Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
Mark told Ludi he wasn’t playing his language game. He would play his own game. The things he had to be silent about, he wouldn’t be silent about. If he was to defend himself against the charges and with the present panel of judges, then he had to play his own language game. And in that game one thing could not exist without its opposite. Being guilty could not exist without being not-guilty. The true couldn’t be without the false. The physical couldn’t be without the metaphysical. So he had to be in the middle somewhere, didn’t he? And who had the right to set themselves up as the ultimate judge and authority of what was what?
