Edelweiss for Emily

“Kill that little bitch!” an older gentleman screamed with unhinged fury. “Slaughter that evil little whore! Make her pay for what she has done! Make her pay!”

His deranged cries melded into the flurry of other shouts and roars from hundreds of others congregated with signs, whose depictions were rife with insults and derogatory slogans undignified of a civilized people, yet worshipped with cultish zeal by the horde. And as with all mobs, its avidity was infectious, spreading through each participate until their individual virtues of logic and reason had been subsumed by the vicious lusts of the body politic.

And all the while, within the eye of this monsoon of yells and ire, was an inconspicuous brick building. It was old, slightly rundown, and four stories high. It possessed no noteworthy attributes other than what it served. It was the home of a forum, a bastion of the rule of law, a symbol of civilization and justice, all aspects which distinguished humanity from all other living things. It represented the species’ abandonment of its animalistic nature for institutions and mechanics designed to uphold order, and thus quell the savage impulses of our ancestors.

            But as the screams and banging of the tribal masses were hurled at it, the building’s worn foundations began to tremble. Shaking could even be felt at the top floor where a seven-year-old girl sat. She was petite, with long, smooth, brown hair and slight lips. She possessed wide green eyes and a nose, while tiny, was well proportioned to the rest of her face. She was clad in a white dress decorated with animated characters from a popular children’s show, as well as shiny, miniature, black shoes. Her name was Emily; and though she appeared like any other little girl, she was the reason for the mob’s existence—the target of its animosity.

            She stood on the flimsy wooden chair, her legs crossed, fingers interlocked, as she swayed uneasily back and forth. Emily heard footsteps approaching down the dimly lit corridor and frantically turned to see who was there. Her apprehension immediately subsided when she made out the figure of Winston Disraeli, her father’s friend and attorney.

 He was in his late thirties, tall and gangly, with narrow shoulders. He had a thin face, which sported narrow, circular glasses. Winston always appeared to be disheveled and tonight was no exception. He was wearing a weathered, wrinkly, black suit, with a sportscoat that seemed like it was several sizes too big, along with a shoddy black tie and a blue dress shirt. His hair was dark and of medium length, curly and unkempt.

Winston sat down on the chair beside Emily. He lifted his old, haggard, brown briefcase on his lap and opened in. He reached in and pulled out a spectacular white flower. Winston handed it to Emily, who gleefully took it.

“It’s an edelweiss.” Winston said. “My sister grows them in her garden. Your dad told me they’re your favorite.”

Emily gazed at Winston and smiled before sniffing the flower.

“Thank you.” She coyly remarked.

They sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the ominous brown door in front of them. Winston looked over at Emily and noticed several tears rolling down her cheeks.

He softly placed his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, Emily.”

She sniffed while wiping away her tears.

“I don’t understand,” she uttered in a broken voice, “why does everyone hate me? What did I do to make everyone hate me?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

She turned to face Winston.

“Then why do they hate me?”

He paused for a moment, contemplating how best to explain this to the young girl.

“Emily, have you ever heard of reincarnation?”

She shook her head.

“A long time ago some people believed in this thing called reincarnation. They believed that when people died, their souls would pass on to new bodies and they would live new lives, while having no memory of their old lives. So, though your body dies, your spirit continues on living a new life as a different person. Well, several years before you were born, scientists discovered that this is what happens. That when we die, our souls or our energy, transfer over to a new life, so that we are born into a new body. Not only that, it was discovered that there was a way to track our souls and learn about our past lives.”

Emily continued gazing up at Winston, her eyes unmoving. Winston closed his brief case and placed it by his feet before continuing.

“But you see, Emily, sometimes our past lives belonged to people who were not very good. This is common for many, as lots of us have lived multiple past lives. But unfortunately, Emily, a past life you lived was of a very, very, very bad man.”

Emily looked away from him and at the floor.

“So, I’m a bad person?”

Winston placed his hand on her back.

“No, Emily, you’re not a bad person. You’re a wonderful human being. The problem is you share the soul of someone who was a bad person. But that bad person isn’t you. It was someone else, someone from a different time who did things that you have no recollection of and that I firmly believe you can’t be held responsible for. And that’s why I’m here tonight, to explain that you’re not that person—that you’re a good person.”

Emily remained with her head facing the floor.

“I promise it will all be okay.” Winston reassured her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The door swung open. An old, short, plump, woman with glasses and thinning hair came halfway into the room.

“He will see you now.”

Winston picked up his briefcase with one hand and took Emily’s with the other. She tightly clenched his and they slowly made their way through the door, past the secretary’s desk and into a dark office. It had a massive oak desk, with a big wood and leather chair behind it. Two more smaller chairs were located along the other side of the desk, along with one in the far corner of the room, adjacent to the door.

Winston motioned to the corner chair. Emily complied and trotted over to it, then perched herself upon it. She sat silently, nervously twirling the white flower’s stem in her hands. An older gentleman then entered from a small, obscure, door beside a large book case. His hair was gray and receding. He possessed thick glasses and wore a long black robe. He stumbled over to the large chair and was about to sit down until he saw Winston.

“Where the hell is he?” Judge Marcus Mill demanded.

“I have no idea. We were just waiting out in the hall. I never saw him.”

The judge peered over at Emily, squinting.

“Aw, so this is the girl in question,” he said.

“Yes, your honor.” Winston answered. “That is her.”

Just then, the office door violently swung open and a man charged in.  He was in his early forties, tall, with dark eyes and a thin face. He was dressed in an ornate charcoal suit, a white dress shirt, and a dazzling red tie, along with a gold watch and offensively expensive black shoes, so well-polished that they shined, despite the room’s dull luminesce. His brown hair was slicked back, decorated with various shades of gray, some strands he purposefully dyed as he believed the frost would reward him with higher credibility. His posture was immaculate, emanating a strong presence—an arrogant allure made all the more prevalent by his derisive charisma.  Jeff O’Rourke placed his briefcase on the desk and straightened his tie. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said in a contemptuously apologetic tune.

“Mr. O’Rourke,” Judge Mill, pronounced, “I have a full docket. I don’t have time to wait around. Next time, be here on time or don’t bother showing up. Understood?”

Though clearly slighted, Jeff responded in the affirmative. The Judge took a seat.

 “Alright, let’s get started,” he said, as he opened a vanilla folder and began reading. “I hereby open this closed-door session of this tribunal for the Citizen’s Republic of California, Monterey Division, case number 1692, on the date of February 19, 2075.”

The judge gazed up at the men and leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his belly, fingers interlocked.

“Mr. O’Rourke. You are the prosecutor bringing this case, so you may begin.”

Mr. O’Rourke took several steps forward, cleared his throat, and began.

“Your honor, I’m here today not for my own benefit or that of any other interest other than that of justice. For a society to function, for its people to continue to have faith in its institutions and procedures, it is important that we insure all people are held accountable for their actions. This is true for anyone, no matter who they are, how wealthy they are, what they do for a living, etc. When someone commits a heinous act, that person must receive his just desserts.  But for this to be true, punishment can’t just be reserved for actions committed in this life, but past actions as well. Now, some may argue that it’s unfair to impute the bad deeds of one onto another. However, crimes of the past can’t just go unanswerable, especially when we know who the culprits are.”

Jeff turned and aggressively pointed to Emily.

“She may seem like a sweet, innocent, little girl,” he said in a tone of tranquil ferocity, “but inside her lingers the soul of one the most evil men to have ever walked this earth. A monster whose crimes tarnish our species’ history, spitting directly in the face of morality and humanity. For, sitting there, on that bench, is none other than the devil himself, the butcher of so many, the slaughterer of millions through war and genocide— Adolf Hitler.”

The room went silent. The judge twiddled his thumbs, contemplating the attorney’s words for a bit, before turning to Winston.

“Mr. Disraeli, your response.”

Winston stepped forward. He turned to Jeff, took note of the obnoxious smirk which oozed from his lips, and began.

“Your honor, there have been many moments throughout mankind’s history where people were judged and punished based on actions which they had taken no part in, which occurred generations, often centuries, before they even existed. Blood libel, ancestral sin, intersectionality, these were all ascriptions of collective guilt onto specific groups or segments of society without regard to the nature, circumstance or character of an individual. In essence, because of circumstances beyond their control, certain persons were imprinted with a sort of original sin, like a large, conspicuous birthmark. They were blemished with certain attributes and characteristics based on notions of group identity, regardless of the often obscure and subjective nature of such groups. Thus, numerous innocent people were tarnished by former deeds which some believed, rightly or wrongfully, were perpetrated by their ancestors.

            Disraeli paused for a moment, then continued.

            “Today, the days of holding those answerable for ancestral sins are long behind us, mostly because we now know that many lived a variety of different lives throughout our souls’ existence. Yet, the ugly pervasion that we must assign guilt to someone in order to atone for some forgone incidents, to rectify some earlier depravity in order to scapegoat, ease resentments, or offer comfort via displays of one’s moral superiority, continue to pollute the human psyche.

Your honor, I’m not here today to defend Adolf Hitler. Far from it. But the child you see sitting there is not Adolf Hitler. Does she share the same soul? Yes. But she is not him. Emily and Hitler have lived completely different lives during completely different eras. Their personalities and upbringings are nothing alike. Moreover, Emily has no memory of these incidents. For her, World War II and the Holocaust are just as much historical occurrences as they are for everyone else living today. The idea that we can pass judgment on someone based on prior lives, which they have zero recollection of or connection to, is preposterous and unmerited. I therefore ask the tribunal to dismiss this action against my client.”

            O’Rourke snickered.

            “You can’t be serious?” he scoffed, with a sardonic smile. “You’re really trying to equate things like the blood libel and original sin to this instance? Look, let’s get something straight here. That little girl is not on trial because she’s a descendant of Hitler or his henchmen. She’s on trial because she literally is Hitler. The soul of that wicked man manifests throughout the entire essence of her being. How can that not be any clearer?”

            “So, you believe we should judge people based on lives they don’t remember?” Winston fired back.

            “Yes. I mean, it’s the same soul after all. And there is precedent for it. We’ve been holding these trials since we first learned about reincarnation and how to track souls. We tried and punished Angelia Wong when we discovered she possessed the soul of Nathan Bedford Forrest. We did the same with Judy Stein when we concluded that she was the reincarnation of our current defendant’s right-hand man, Joseph Goebbels.”

            Jeff O’Rourke, infused with certainty that he’d deflected his rival’s lackluster argument, haughtily turned to him. But the feeling quickly dissipated, when he made out a subtle, confident smile on his opponent’s face.

            “But you’ve made exceptions, haven’t you?”

            Jeff mockingly raised an eyebrow.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “I’m talking about soul amalgamation. Does the name Trent Baker ring a bell?

            A look of rage permeated the prosecutor’s face.

            “Those were completely different circumstance and you know it!”

            “What the hell is he talking about, Mr. O’Rourke,” the Judge demanded.

            Jeff signed with annoyance.

            “Trent Baker was a man who several years ago we discovered possessed the soul of the serial killer Ted Bundy. We were going to bring a case against him, but there were other facts which came to light.”

            Jeff paused.

            “Like what?” the judge asked, impatiently.

            “That he was the product of soul amalgamation. You see, souls are a strange thing. Even though we can track them, there is still much we don’t understand about them. One thing souls sometimes do is merge, meaning that two or more souls of deceased persons will merge, becoming a single soul and occupying a single individual.  In the case of Trent Baker, it came to our attention that his soul was an amalgamation between Ted Bundy and Martin Luther King, Jr. Because of these unusual circumstances, we decided not to prosecute. Dr. King was a great man and a hero, after all.”

            The judge meticulously rubbed his chin before responding.

            “But yet, Mr. Baker was still technically the reincarnation of Ted Bundy, was he not?”

            “Yes, your honor. There is no doubt about that. But he was also the reincarnation of Dr. King as well. To be honest, I have no idea what this has to do with this proceeding. Only one soul dwells within this girl and it’s Hitler’s.”

            “The point I’m trying to make,” Winston retorted, “is that you let someone off the hook despite the fact he shared the soul with a mass murderer. It may not have been his only soul, but it was part of it. Thus, the question becomes how does one weigh the evil deeds of Ted Bundy with the good deeds of Dr. King? What if Ted Bundy’s soul had merged with someone of an undistinguished past who lived a morally average life? What would you have done then? Would Ted Bundy’s deeds have completely usurped the other soul’s and thus would you have sought punishment?”

            Jeff began to comment, but his opponent interrupted.

            “And let’s not forget, the souls of Bundy and King lived other lives as well. One of Bundy’s past lives, for instance, was of St. Francis, while it’s been recently uncovered that King was one of the reincarnations of Atilla the Hun.”

            “One of the reincarnations?” a puzzled Judge Mill remarked.

            “Yes, your honor.” Winston responded. “Which brings me to my next point. The issue of soul splinter. Would you care to explain that, Mr. O’ Rourke?”

            Jeff shot his rival a brief, poisonous glance, then gave his explanation.

            “Soul splinter is another aspect of what can happen to a soul post-mortem. For reasons unknown, sometimes a soul can split into two or multiple souls, occupying more than one individual.”

            “Which brings me to the next point,” Winston added. “Several years ago, it was uncovered that Abraham Lincoln’s soul had split following his assassination. There are three current inhabitants of his soul. The first is a man named Robert Lindgren, the current chancellor of the city-state of Scottsdale. The second is Royce Franks, an electrician from Tahoe. The third is…”

            Winston paused for a moment before revealing.

            “The third is Barney Neel.”

            The judge’s eyes widened.

            “You mean,” Judge Mill said, “that Barney Neel, the man who drugged and raped a dozen women, was…”

            Winston turned to Jeff, who uttered a painfully unambiguous, “Yes.”

            “Which is why,” Winston continued, “he was given the light sentence of one year’s jail time, plus probation and community service.”

            The judge’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the prosecutor.  

            “Is this true, Mr. O’Rourke? Though I was not involved in this case, I’m surprised to hear he got such a cushy deal.”

            “You honor,” Jeff responded in a tone of reposeful uneasiness, “my office has always been dedicated to upholding the highest senses of justice and fairness. But we felt that such a harsh sentence was unwarranted due to the fact that this man was a reincarnation of the one the greatest people to have ever lived; of a man who ended slavery on this continent and kept the former United States together during such turbulent times.”

            The judge stared at Jeff for a while, his expression ominously unreadable. He then looked at Winston.

“Any further comments regarding this matter?

            “No, your honor.”

            “What about you, Mr. O’Rourke.”

            “Same.”

            Judge Marcus Mill rose from his chair, grabbing the vanilla folder as he did.

            “Gentlemen, I have much to think about. I thank you both for your time.”

            The judge turned towards the side door and exited.

            Without glancing at Jeff, Winston swung around towards his client. She was still huddled in the corner, visibly shaken by the ordeal. As he approached her, the two locked eyes, as Winston shot her a quick smile. She beamed back, hesitantly, but with an unmistakable warmness. She took his hand while her other clutched the flower, and they exited the room.

            Later that night, Winston sat at the bar of his favorite local joint, sipping a beer as he tried to unwind from the tense ordeal. He thought he had done well, but his mind couldn’t help wondering about the fate of Emily. Even if she was found innocent, it wouldn’t be the end of it. The mobs would still clamor for her blood, all for something she couldn’t even understand—for something which he couldn’t even understand

            Winston placed the glass to his lips, when he felt a hand gently rest on his shoulder.

            “I’ll have what he’s having,” said the familiar voice.

            The man sat beside him and without looking at Winston, Jeff said, “Good job, today. Honestly, I’m quite impressed. It appears the Sandra Day O’ Connor College of Law produces more talented attorneys than I thought.”

            Winston, ignoring the backhanded praise, took a quick drink.

            “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment coming from a Harvard man.”

            O’ Rourke chuckled.

           

            “Well, I guess no one’s ever as truly smart as they think they are, least of all us Ivy Leaguers.” He said, with an air of pompous humility.

            The bartender handed Jeff a glass and the two drank together in silence for what felt like ages. Finally, Winston turned to Jeff.

            “Look, I have to ask. Between you and me, lawyer to lawyer, why are doing this? You’ve seen that little girl. How can you possibly want to bring such charges against her? And don’t give me this bullshit about how you’re ‘committed to the interest of justice’. We both know that’s not true.”

            Jeff took a drink, contemplating for a moment how to respond.

            “Winston, look our society today. I mean, really look it. We’re living at the pinnacle of human achievement. Yet, we’re more unhappy and discontent than ever. We have everything we ever need, yet something is missing. And let me tell you, I know what that is—it’s purpose. People today lack a sense of purpose, something to standup and fight for. People need that. In fact, they crave it like an irresistible narcotic.”

            He took another drink then swung his head to face Winston.

            “As for me, I have purpose. I know what I want in life. What I want is to be something. To be a person whom the masses can look up to and who can provide with the sense of purpose that they’re searching for. And to do that, I need to rally them around something—some kind of cause that can feed their appetite for righteousness; that can provide them with a sense that their lives have meaning, that we’re not just pointless specks who are briefly and aimlessly passing through a fruitless existence. So I give them a cause, and they reward me for showing them the way.”

            “So, this is all about personal ambition for you?” Winston accused. “You further your career by pointing out those who are sinners and saints for no other reason than to further your own career?”

            “You make it sound so devious,” Jeff said, “but think about it, I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m fulfilling the masses’ need for a cause while helping myself in the process, and, by achieving higher office, I can help them further. I guess I’m killing three birds with one stone.”

            “The way you speak though, it sounds almost religious.”

            “Of course it’s religious, Winston. A man’s heart needs to be filled by something, and if not spiritual, then it needs to be something else. Otherwise, what are we living for? What are we working towards?”

            The two lawyers sat silently for a moment before Jeff began again.

            “I know it’s not ideal, Winston, but think of it this way. In ancient times, certain individuals were sacrificed in order to appease the gods and ensure that civilization continued to exist and prosper. That’s all I’m doing here. I’m sacrificing a few to ensure that the people have something worth fighting for; worth living for.”

            Jeff finished his drink and stood up. He started to walk away, before turning back to Winston.

            “You really did do a good today. I mean that.”

            With that, Jeff departed the bar leaving Winston sitting there drinking, alone.

© Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton