You pull up to court in a bright red Maserati. You bought it last weekend, and you were quite proud of it until it got totaled about ten minutes ago. Now, it’s in pristine condition, though you’re not quite sure if it’s real. You’re not quite sure if you’re real anymore, either.
You know the crash happened. You felt the slam of the brakes, the skid of the wheels. You saw the hood crumple before your eyes, and you could have sworn you felt your skull crumple, too. The next moment, though, you were back on the road, the car unharmed and…driving itself? You let it take you where it pleased, feeling as though that business meeting wasn’t quite so important now that you had almost died. Almost? Already?
As you pondered, the car rolled to a slow stop in front of the courthouse. A man opened the door for you, greeting you formally.
“Mr. Church?”
Oh, that’s nice. He’s been expecting me. For what, I wonder?
“That’s me,” you reply. “Look, is this about the crash? I’m very sorry but I did nothing wrong. I was going the speed limit.”
The man clears his throat. “Well, um, you were going five miles above the speed limit. But this is a bit more of a… general hearing.”
You frown at him. You try to make eye contact, but as you look closer at him, you find that he’s a bit blurry. He looks like he’s come off of a 3-D movie screen: split into separate hues. “Come on. Everyone goes five miles above. That’s just the rules of the road. Honestly, I was probably going slower than many of the cars on that highway.”
The man doesn’t rebut this. He simply takes your arm and guides you towards the courthouse.
As you and he enter the courtroom, a small gallery and twelve jurors stand. Odd, you think. I don’t see a judge. Am I the judge? Are they standing for me? However, you are quickly guided towards a witness stand, as the man who greeted you moves towards the judge’s bench. From somewhere across the room, a voice booms, “Judge Rhadamanthus presiding.”
“Your Honor, I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly earlier. I wasn’t aware of your esteemable position,” you add, surprised, as it clicks for you that this man you met must be the judge.
“Oh, no, that’s quite alright. I like getting to know my defendants before I see them in court.”
You furrow your brow. “Defendants? I’m being tried? For what?”
“For living, sir,” the judge stares at you matter-of-factly, his friendly demeanor replaced with something colder and more neutral. “Now that you’re done with that, it’s time to see what’s to be done with you.”
You’ve been fairly agnostic about the afterlife since you learned the concept of death. Whatever happens, happens, you figured. Perhaps you would fade into non-existence. You did not, however, imagine purgatory as a courtroom.
“Crap,” is all you can manage to say.
“Mr. Church? Do you need a moment to…process?” Rhadamanthus asks.
“No.” There’s a room full of people watching you. Now is not the time to admit you’re freaking out. “I just… my Maserati didn’t survive the crash after all, did it?”
The judge raises his eyebrows, concern and surprise flashing in his eyes. “No, I’m sorry to say it didn’t. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to get on with the trial.”
“Don’t I need a lawyer if I’m going to be tried?” you ask.
“No, no, this court doesn’t work that way. I ask the questions, you answer them, and the jury decides. That’s all.”
“How do I know this jury is fair? Most juries are rigged anyways, I say. This one’s no different, especially if it’s a bunch of goody two-shoes from heaven, here to judge me.”
“Did I not say I would be asking the questions?” Rhadamanthus reminds you.
“Yeah! Enough with the questions, get to the testimony!” a juror interjects.
The judge continues, “You do raise a fair point, though. Rest assured, this jury ranges from our finest citizens of heaven to our most devilish souls out of hell. They know the full extent of human experience.”
You figure the interrupter from earlier is probably on the less moral side of the spectrum.
Rhadamanthus goes on, “Once they’ve heard your testimony, we’ll put you in a brief stasis while we go through deliberations. Now that we’ve got preliminary questions out of the way, why don’t you tell us about yourself, Mr. Church?”
“Well,” you start. You’ve begun fidgeting under the table, a habit you haven’t resorted to since eighth grade. “I think I lived quite a good life. I ran an honest business in stocks, and I donated to charity–” Your gaze turns to the typist in the corner of the room, who has been making loud clacking sounds as you testify. “I’m sorry, is that a crocodile?”
“That’s Ammit. He’s part crocodile, part lion, and part hippo. He used to eat unworthy souls, but he’s been rehabilitated as our stenographer,” the judge responds casually.
“Okay, well, um… oh, yes. I gave to charity, and… uh… I can’t really think of anything right now. Don’t I have a right to talk this over with counsel or something?”
Rhadamanthus waves his hand dismissively. “Why don’t we move on? Who did you care about in life, Mr. Church?”
“I had a family–a wife and two kids. I cared for them plenty. I brought food to the table, made sure all their needs were met.”
“It says in your file that you spent approximately 30 minutes with family a day. Do you think this is an appropriate amount of time?”
“Sure. I didn’t have much time to spare. Most of it was devoted to Wall Street.”
“And the rest?”
“To sleeping, and eating, and family, and…”
“You spent an average of an hour a day at bars and around town with coworkers.”
Now that you think of it, you didn’t get much time with family at all. “Look, I wasn’t perfect, but I certainly was no dictator.” This prompts a grumble and a glare from a juror in a fur hat, who mutters something under his breath in Russian.
You backpedal furiously. “I mentioned that I gave to charity, right? I supported human rights and equality and–”
“Mr. Church, how many women did you promote while you were a manager of your business?”
“Well–I–the men were just better at investing. More decisive. You know how indecisive women can get, right?” you chuckle. “No? Well, that’s alright. I… suppose I could have promoted a few more girls.”
“Women,” Rhadamanthus corrects.
“Yes, women.” You look to the female jurors, hopeful to see some warmth in their expressions, but they gaze back neutrally, perhaps a little hostile.
“See, I don’t understand what the problem is here,” you continue. “I was a normal person. If you put every single person like me in some empty plane–sort of a neutral zone–I’m sure you’d run out of room pretty quickly. So, if you had to put me up above or down below, which would you pick?”
“Thank you for your input, Mr. Church, but this system works just fine, so that’s not really a choice that needs making.”
“I understand,” you stammer. “All I’m trying to say is that I didn’t do anything terribly wrong or absolutely right.”
“Yes,” the judge agrees.
“I lived a perfectly normal life.”
The judge smiles politely at you and says, “That you did, Mr. Church.”
And then the world goes black.
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