Free Molon Labe! by Boston T. Party, Kenneth W. Royce

those agonizing seconds as a defendant waited to hear the first consonant from the jury foreman's lips.
    Bill Russell's future depends on that consonant. An "n" and he is vindicated and free. A hard "g" and he is a convicted felon, forbidden to ever vote, hold a professional license, or own a gun.
    Focal points. They are the rudder of life. Russell had several such focal points and they flashed through his mind as the résumé of his existence. His hand-to-hand duel in a Vietnam jungle when his bayonet pierced the VC's chest barely in time. His nervous marriage proposal to Connie when he wasn't at all sure that she'd accept. At the emergency room holding his sobbing wife, waiting for the trauma surgeon to emerge with a pronouncement of life or death over their son Carl severely injured in a motorcycle accident.
    So far, Bill Russell's life had not ricochetted off any unexpected hard surfaces. His trajectory had sailed on, perforating all barriers. He survived Nam in one piece, Connie married him, and Carl not only lived but kept his damaged eye. In the courtroom Russell has time to appreciate this focal point arriving with such calenderal notice, unlike the others. He savors it, grateful for his life and family. Although death hangs not over him, a sort of amputation does. The State is poised to lop off five years of life and much of his freedom thereafter. And for what? A $20 tube of metal.
    An "n" or a "g." Thumb up or thumb down. It's come to this all because of a burnt-out 30¢ bulb.
    The tiny things. There's nothing bigger.
    Fleming's voice snaps Russell back to the present. "Mr. Foreman, will you read the verdict."
    Slater intones, "On the felony count of illegal possession of an assault weapon, we the jury, find the defendant . . . "
    Over three hundred eyes and ears are locked on Slater's lips.
    " . . . Not Guilty."
    The courtroom erupts with cheers and applause. Krempler sits in his chair, stunned. A grapefruit can be thrown in Lorner's open mouth. Bill Russell hugs Juliette as Judge Fleming bangs and bangs his gavel, but the sound is lost amidst the furor. It takes nearly a minute for the courtroom to quiet down.
    Foreman Slater continues, "Furthermore, this jury believes there is evidence of prosecutorial malfeasance in this case, and — "
    The uproar is instant and deafening. Fleming's gavel pounding is a mime routine.
    "— and recommends that the matter be reviewed by the Grand Jury," Slater manages to yell over the din.
    Judge Fleming shouts, "Case dismissed! Court adjourned!" and flees the bench, his black robe fluttering behind him like a wake.
    On the front steps of the Federal Building a large crowd gathers as the TV news crews jostle with questions for Bill Russell, Juliette Kramer, and most of the jurors, including James Preston. The afternoon rain had cleared out, leaving a bright and sunny day. It seemed fitting.
    In the US Attorney's office, Krempler and Lorner are watching the live coverage. As Preston explains to the press the two different gunpowders likely used to create different flash plumes, Krempler slowly turns to Lorner. The ATF had a long and sordid history for evidence tampering such as Waco, as well as abusive raids such as in 1995 when Agent Donna Slusser stomped the Lamplugh's family kitten to death.
    "What the fuck did you do , Lorner? Don't . . . tell . . . me . . . you — "
    "Hey, you wanted a significant reduction in flash, you got a significant reduction in flash!" taunts Lorner. " You're the one who let Preston get on that jury. A target shooter? A handloader ? Real smart, Krempler. Hey, too bad he wasn't wearing an orange and brown tie!"
    "Do you know what you've done , genius? Michael Gartner at NBC News faked those pickup truck explosions and merely got canned. We're all looking at years in the federal pen!"
    "Oh, yeah ? How so? I'm not admitting to shit and they won't find shit 'cuz all the spent brass got thrown in the recycling barrel, so just chill out. This'll all die