'Zen', by Ian Douglas Robertson

Zen was undoubtedly the most intriguing case I have ever taken on, and as a defense lawyer I have defended a number of interesting people in my time. In Zen’s case, however, my role was reversed. I was designated prosecutor, judge and jury. Zen insisted on defending himself. 
Zen – his full name Zenon – lived on the street but, unlike many of his kind, he did not slink down dark alleys and back streets with bowed head, in an effort to hide his shame. Zen was proud of his homelessness and his ability to survive in the harsh conditions concomitant with such a life. Unlike his counterparts in cities around the world, he was anything but obsequious in his attempt to wheedle a coin or two out of a passerby. Quite the opposite, he would taunt them, mocking their ostentatious display of expensive jewelry or designer clothes. ‘Slaves to fashion!’ or ‘Self-important exhibitionists!’ he would call after them. In most cases, they simply ignored him, making sure to take a detour if they noticed him squatting on the pavement ahead. If, as had happened on one or two occasions, Zen misjudged his quarry, he would end up with a thrashing. However, it did not deter him. It seemed that he had no fear of the consequences of his outspokenness. 
Zen had acquired a reputation around town. The ‘mad philosopher’ they called him. He would often ‘set up shop’ on a street corner and harangue the invisible crowd. Soon, curious bystanders would gravitate towards him, unaware that they might become the butt of his unprovoked abuse. Some believed he was totally round the bend, but a great deal of what he said made a lot of sense, or would have, as part of a philosophical treatise or a novel by Kafka or Jean-Paul Sartre. He was certainly well-read, and well-spoken. It was just that what he said went counter to everything most ostensibly sane people in our sophisticated, cell-toting society believe. 
Yet, what he preached was not all that different from what my leftist friends at college used to orate as they sipped their pints of frothing beer. They too ranted and raved about the iniquities of capitalism; the rat race, the disparities between the rich and the poor, man’s innate greed, and his wish to dominate others. Yet, all of those ardent decriers of wealth and affluence, spouting vitriol against their own, privileged class, have since, without exception, become unashamed members of the capitalist system. 
One diehard communist friend went into property and is now one of the biggest landlords in the city. Yet, he has not disavowed his communist beliefs and, as far as I know, does not donate to charitable organizations, nor give as much as a single coin to an indigent in the street. He is of the belief that such acts of charity are demeaning, and simply perpetuate the ills of society – tell that to one of the homeless and see what reaction you’d get. In his view, it is the duty of the state to provide for all. I wonder how he would feel if the state confiscated one or two of his properties to offer shelter for the homeless. He would no doubt consider it rather unfair as he ‘has never exploited the working man,’ only the middle class, those who can afford to rent one of his highly sought-after apartments.
I was fascinated by Zen, this mad genius, who could no doubt have stood at the front of a lecture hall full of undergraduates and kept them spellbound with his flamboyant condemnation of modern life and society. There was something utterly authentic about him. He was a modern-day Don Quixote, a real-life Diogenes, his gaunt features, bristling grey hair and straggling beard, tangible evidence of his repudiation of the comforts available to those prepared to toe the line and accept the injustices and inequalities of our capitalist society.
I was not sure whether he had noticed me loitering among the crowd of onlookers, there mainly to relish the spectacle of this bedraggled down-and-out holding forth on matters of little interest to them. They certainly were not there to deliberate on the content of his discourse. Though I did my best to remain inconspicuous, I must have stood out from the rest. Zen could no doubt tell I was an office worker of sorts by my conventional dark grey suit and tie. I was clearly not one of the assortment of flippant students, bored shoppers and prurient OAPs. 
There would sometimes be an aging academic among the small band of spectators, a retired professor or judge perhaps. They were as a rule less facetious in their attitude towards Zen, as they were clearly in awe of his command of language and his ability to formulate an argument. They would often question his views and a verbal contest would ensue, which would sometimes end up at the local coffee shop, where Zen would be regaled with as much as he could eat and drink. And Zen could certainly eat, though by his own admission he often went for days without solid food passing his lips. This, he claimed, didn’t bother him in the least, and I believe he was telling the truth. I once heard him say that it is unnatural to eat three times a day at regular hours. “Primitive man,” he would say, “ate whenever he found food. There were times when he had an abundance and others when he was forced to go without. Modern man eats too much and too often.” 
Though I always tried to remain aloof, as I said, I got immense pleasure out of listening to Zen, often wishing that some of my lecturers in law school had been as stimulating. I was reluctant to get into an argument with him, perhaps because I was not a little ashamed of having given in to the allures of capitalism; the social status, the spacious apartment, the flashy car and all the good-looking girls who were duly impressed by such superficial trappings. I couldn’t help feeling that if I were to argue in favor of our modern society, despite all its indubitable advantages, I would be walking on very thin ice, and, notwithstanding the skills I have acquired as a barrister, I was unsure whether I would be able to hold my own against Zen’s compelling arguments. If the truth be told, I was ripe for the picking. All he had to do was reach out and pluck me off the branch.
He had been eyeing me furtively, not for the first time, possibly wondering who I was and what I was doing there listening to his seditious ramblings. Did he see in me something that allowed him to believe he was winning me over to his iconoclastic beliefs? Or did he simply regard me as easy prey? I knew that sooner or later he would single me out and put me to the test and in a way I was quite looking forward to it. 
It happened one evening as I was trying to slip away unnoticed. His audience was tediously docile and I saw no prospect of a heated debate. I hardly had time to take one step towards home when I heard Zen’s gruff voice chafing at my back, “Where are you going?”
I wasn’t sure he was addressing me but I stopped and turned. Though he had a slight squint in one eye, there was little question that he was staring at me, more or less. I pointed a redundant finger at my chest. I must have had a rather gormless expression on my face. 
“Yes, you, the capitalist lackey. What are you, anyway? A banker? Robbing the poor to pay the rich. An insurance broker? Exploiting people’s fears and ignorance.”
I stood there unsure how to react to his mocking tone. Some people had begun to titter at my discomfort, of which I have no doubt he was amply aware. For a moment I thought I should just turn and run, but there was something about his belligerent manner that angered me, inciting me to defend myself. I had seen him humble others in this way and I was not going to give him the satisfaction of watching me scuttle off with my tail between my legs. “I’m a barrister,” I said defiantly.
“Oh, praise the Lord,” he said scornfully. “Even worse than I thought. How many ruthless gangsters and celebrated murderers have you helped to evade justice?”
I took his question seriously. The truth is I had managed to get many of my less salubrious clients acquitted or given reduced sentences. Yet, I didn’t see it as immoral. I was simply doing my job, defending my client, for a hefty fee, I will admit, but doing no more or less what I had been trained and directed to do. After all, I was not the one passing judgment or sentence. That was up to the judge and jury. There were times, it is true, when I did not feel wholly at ease with the outcome of my defense, especially when I was ninety-nine percent sure that my client felt no remorse, but was gloating over the gullibility of the legal system, and had no intention of curtailing his or her shady activities.
He no doubt saw my hesitation and realized I was considering his question.
“Well, how many?”
“Everyone has the right to defend himself in a court of law.”
“Who was it that said the law is an ass?”
“Apart from Mr. Bumble, I don’t know. It’s true the law can be an ass but without it we would have anarchy.”
“Can you tell me then, Mr. Barrister, why the jails of our country are full of the sons and daughters of the poor and lesser educated?”
I had never considered the question but I answered spontaneously.
“I suppose, they are more likely to be unemployed and, as they come from poor backgrounds, have fewer resources to fall back on and so resort to crime.”
“So what you are saying is that the majority of those in our prisons are there because of the circumstances in which they live?”
“Well, I wouldn’t …”
I stuttered. 
“Yes?” he said––pressing his point.
“That’s an over-simplification.”
“Would you be so kind then as to make it more complex?”
“Well, first of all, you are making a generalization. No two cases are identical.”
“Are you questioning the fact that the majority of those in our prisons are from the under-privileged strata of our society?”
“Well, no, that is a fact but …”
“So, my generalization is correct. Please tell me why my generalization is an over-simplification.”
“Well, I suppose it is true up to ...”
“So, you will admit that the majority of criminals in our country are there as a result of social neglect? They have been deprived of the opportunities made available to others, those fortunate enough to be born into wealth. Is it therefore not true that there is something very rotten in the state of our society?”
“It is true that we are not born equal, and that some of us have to make a greater effort to achieve something.”
“Tell me, Mr. Barrister, what are the odds of a black boy born in one of the slums of our great cities ‘achieving something’––as you put it?”
“Quite a few have been successful. I can think of …”
“When you say ‘quite a few’, do you mean one percent or ninety percent?”
“Well, I suppose it’d be more like one percent.”
“And you call that ‘quite a few’. Would you say ‘quite a few’ middle class children complete third level education and become successful lawyers, doctors, businessmen, etc? You yourself no doubt are not one of the one percent who clawed their way up from the depths of poverty.”
“No, but …”
“And that ‘quite a few’ would be in the region of ninety percent, yes?”
“That’s a fair estimate, I’d say.”
“And are you, Mr. Barrister, happy with this state of affairs?”
“Obviously not but …”
“So, tell me what are you doing or planning to do about it?”
Again he caught me by surprise. The truth was it had never crossed my mind to do anything about it. I suppose I had never considered it my responsibility. I would certainly have voted for a political party that included educational reform or improving conditions in the inner cities in their manifesto, but that was as far as it went.
“I’m not a politician,” I said limply.
“We are all politicians, my friend. There are two definitions of politician. One, a crafty schemer, or two, someone who has the welfare of the state at heart. Which are you?”
“The second obviously.”
“So, you have the welfare of the state at heart. If so, how are you actively engaged in improving the welfare of the state?”
“I try to ensure that the right people get into government.”
“In other words, nothing.”
“What can I do? I am one person with no power.”
“Yes, you are one person, a person with a voice. It may not be a loud voice but it can be heard. And the more voices there are, shouting out the same message, the more power you have. You under-estimate the power of the voice, my friend. You use your voice in court. Why can’t you use it in the street, in the papers, on the radio, on television?”
I suppose the answer was clear enough but I was ashamed to admit it. I didn’t care enough.
“Let me tell you, Mr. Barrister. You are sitting pretty. You think you’re somebody, defending shifty characters, who may or may not be innocent. You earn a small fortune, live in a fifth-floor penthouse, drive a swish car, have a sexy girlfriend, why should you care about the dregs of society? You may have even said to yourself they deserve what they get. Or, what can I do?”
I suddenly realized that the rest of the audience had wandered off and Zen and I were alone.
I said, “Zen, I think you’ve won the argument. Now, I don’t know about you but I’m hungry. Can I offer you a meal somewhere?”
Zen smiled for the first time. It was not a pleasant sight. His teeth were in dire need of attention.
“I willingly accept your offer. What do you have in mind? I must tell you that I am a vegetarian.”
“Most restaurants provide vegetarian dishes these days.”
“Take me where you will, Mr. Barrister.”
“On one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“That we do not talk politics.”
“Over dinner, of course not. However, I have a request to make of you.”
“Oh,” I said suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“I wish to avail of your barristerial services.”
“For free, no doubt.”
“Do I look like someone who could pay your exorbitant fees? Just look on it as an amusing exercise of your debating skills.”
“I’ll have to find out what it is exactly before I promise anything. But let’s find somewhere to eat first.”
I considered Zen’s attire and decided not to risk going anywhere too respectable. I knew exactly the place, a restaurant owned by an ex-hippy calling himself Five Stars in the Night Sky. Most people just called him Sky. It was easier. The food at Sky’s was as good as anything you would get at a five-star restaurant, though it had no relevance to his name. The only difference was the clientele and ambience. Neither was what one would call normal or conventional. Zen would fit in beautifully, unlike myself. The first thing I did was remove my tie and loosen a few buttons of my shirt and try to conceal my bureaucratic jacket under my arm.
Sky came towards us, his rubicund face beaming under a thick red beard, his wavy red hair cascading over his shoulders.
“My friends! My friends! Welcome.”
He insisted on giving us both an avuncular hug. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that Zen was severely in need of a bath. Suddenly, recognition lit up his face.
“Zen! So pleased to see you. You haven’t been in for a meal in ages.”
“You know very well, Sky, that I only come as the guest of someone else.”
“Oh, that pride of yours, Zen.”
“Not pride, my friend, just common decency. I believe that what is given should be paid for.”
“Whatever. Come. I have a quiet table for you in the corner where you can talk uninterrupted.”
Sky led us over to the table he had selected for us. I noticed that none of the tables had tablecloths. They were all different and none in the best of condition. When we sat down, he said, “I will bring you food. No ordering here. You have to take pot luck. And if you don’t like my homemade elderberry wine, just leave it, I won’t take offence.”
When Sky had retired, I said, “So, in what way do you wish to avail of my services?”|
“I want to go on trial.”
“Have you committed some crime? If so, it is up to you to go to the authorities. I will not turn you in.”
“It is not a crime punishable by law.”
“Oh,” I said, intrigued. “It can hardly be classified as a crime then.”
“Well, some might consider it a crime. You see, I too studied law. I was a bright student, and my parents wanted the best for me. As you no doubt guessed, I did not claw my way out of the depths of poverty either. But during my studies I became so disillusioned with society that I decided to abandon any idea of practicing. I gave up everything. I decided to renounce my middle-class background, make no further claims on my parents’ estate, and live the life of a pauper. I set out on a mission to bring people’s attention to the ills of our society, but I did not want to be an armchair socialist. I despise such people. They say one thing and do another. Yet, it has come home to me of late that I have achieved nothing. I am merely a laughing stock. I believe in all the thirty years I have been living and talking to people in the street, I may have had an effect on only a handful of lives.”
“That may not be true. First of all, you have no idea how many people you may have affected in some way or another. You may not have changed their lives radically as a result of their listening to you, but even if you changed their way of thinking just a little, that is an achievement.”
“You see, Mr. Barrister …”
“Please, my name is Barry.”
“Barry … Barrister … it is the same thing. Besides, I prefer not to know people’s names. I wish to avoid a bond being formed.”
“What is wrong with a bond between people, Zen?”
“I will begin to care about you and you about me. I will no longer be free.”
“Are you free then?”
“Totally. I am free to die whenever I like with the knowledge that no one will mourn me.”
“That sounds rather sad, Zen, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“The only way to be free is to be utterly alone.”
“But surely by agreeing to have a meal with me tonight we are forming a kind of bond.”
“I see in front of me a young man, like many other young men, a fashionable beard, hair cut like that of most young men of your age, wearing clothes worn by thousands of other like you. You are anonymous. I would not have asked you your name if you had not told me but Barry is so like Barrister it hardly makes any difference. I will not ask about your life, whether you have parents, brothers or sisters, whether you have a girlfriend. And even if you were to tell me all these things, it would simply fit into a pattern. You would be no different from thousands of others like you around the world. So, a bond will not be formed.”
“If that makes you happy …”
“What is happiness? Are you happy?”
“I suppose I am. I enjoy my job. I look forward to going home to a comfortable bed at night, making love to my girlfriend …”
“You are not happy. You are content. Life will pass you by and you will say, what was it all about? You will only feel life if your main purpose is survival.”
“So you are happy not knowing from one day to the next whether you will live or die?”
“Did I say that? There is no such thing as happiness. It exists only in the mind of the romantic novelist.”
Sky brought us two bowls of what looked like gazpacho with feta cheese and mint sprinkled on top. He then placed a basket with slices of warm baguette on the table.
“Enjoy, my friends.” 
I somehow expected Zen to be famished but he did not lift his spoon at once, and when he did he relished each mouthful as if it were the last he might ever savor. I had to admit it was the best gazpacho I had ever eaten.
We ate in silence for some time. Apart from taking a number of slices of bread to accompany his gazpacho, he showed no signs of ravenous hunger.
“When did you last eat?” I said.
“Ah, you are curious, I see, to know the habits of a man like me. I do believe it was yesterday some time, but it could have been the day before. The thing is when you are truly hungry, you appreciate food that much more.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
I had once skipped lunch because I was too busy preparing a case. It wasn’t till I sat down that night for a meal that I realized how hungry I was, and it is true I thoroughly enjoyed the meal, even though it could hardly have been described as anything special, just a quiche Cynthia had rustled up.
“Now, Zen, you still haven’t told me why you require my services.”
“Well, it’s like this, Mr. Barrister. I wish to be tried for the crime of negligence of duty.”
“Is that a crime?”
“In my books it is.”
“And why do you consider it a crime?”
“I should have become a lawyer, and possibly a politician. Then, perhaps, I might have been able to change the world.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid of being sucked into the system, becoming callous.”
“That is hard to believe.”
“So, will you do it?”
“I’m confused. Do you wish me to defend you or prosecute you?”
“I will attempt to defend myself,” he said diffidently.
For the first time, I was seeing a different Zen, not the brash, self-assured man I had seen in the street. I felt almost sorry for him. He had shrunk in stature, like a deflated tire.
“If that is what you want. Though, defendants are usually advised to take council from a legal expert.”
“I have to defend myself, don’t you see?”
“Yes, I understand. When do you want the trial to take place?”
“Tomorrow, if that is convenient.”
“I’m actually free tomorrow. So, yes, that would be fine.”
Sky brought us a magnificent salad topped with slightly roasted goat’s cheese. “I think you will enjoy this my friend. The dressing is a personal recipe that has evolved over the years, and includes a variety of dried fruits and balsamic vinegar.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious, if it is anything like the gazpacho,” I said with gusto.
“Oh, you liked it! That is good. I hope you like mushrooms and truffles, my friends. All organic, fried in olive oil and scalded with fresh cream. After you have eaten the salad, I want your honest opinions! I want you to tell me how it could be improved...”
“I doubt it could be.”
“There is no such thing as absolute perfection.”
Sky left us to enjoy his salad. 
“But first,” said Zen. I could see by his distracted look that he had not been listening to Sky. “Though I risk a bond being formed between us, I would like to show you something. I think you need to get to know me. So, can we meet in the main square? At, let’s say, nine o’clock.”
“That’s fine with me.”“Now let us not talk for the rest of the meal. There is nothing that spoils good food more than too much talk. Words interfere with the palate.”
Everything Sky brought was indeed extraordinary, including his elderberry wine, which was better than the best champagne I had ever tasted. Zen said little more that evening, just savored every mouthful, rolling it around in his mouth to extract the very last hint of taste. 
We said goodbye outside Sky’s restaurant and confirmed our rendez-vous for the following day. I couldn’t help wondering where he would spend the night. Had he stashed some cardboard boxes somewhere? Would he join other hobos under the bridge or in some dark alley beside a bonfire of accumulated garbage? I considered inviting him home but decided against it. Cynthia wouldn’t have been all that happy about my inviting a complete stranger, and a down-and-out at that, back to our home. Anyway, I was certain he would decline my offer.
The next day, Zen was in the main square at the appointed time. He looked extremely jaded. I wondered how well he had slept, if at all. It was hard to tell how old he was. He looked around fifty-five, but I suspected he was much younger. Life on the street is not conducive to good looks or longevity.
“It is a short walk,” he said. 
“A short walk where?’ I wanted to ask, but he had already set off at a pace and was a good few yards ahead of me. We wove our way through the early morning hustle and bustle of people on their way to work, a stoical look on most of their glum faces. I once read that less than twenty percent of people actually enjoy their work. Was I one of the lucky ones? I suppose I enjoyed the challenge, the legalistic banter, getting the better of my legal opponent. The satisfaction of getting an innocent person acquitted I realized was of secondary importance. How many were truly innocent anyway?
It soon became clear to me that we were heading in the direction of the hyper-posh area of the city, where wealthy business people, top surgeons, bankers and the odd star of pop or film lived. Why was he taking me down there, I wondered? To point out what I already knew? The gaping economic divide between the filthy rich and the filthy poor? The inequity of the capitalist system?
Then he stopped outside one of the grandest houses, which had an enormous garden all round, something that was indeed rare in the city center. It must have been a wonderful building in its heyday, reminiscent of European architecture of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It had clearly been neglected of late. Plaster was falling away, and the windows and shutters were in dire need of a coat of paint. No doubt the owner could no longer afford to keep the place up.
“Well, there it is,” he said expecting me to understand what he meant.
“It was once a beautiful building. Whoever built that must have been a millionaire?”
“Yes, he was. He was a clothes manufacturer. A very popular brand, before the competition grew stiff. Made millions exploiting immigrant workers desperate for some form of employment. Conditions were horrific, long hours for subsistence pay.”
“Things have improved a great deal since then.”
“Thanks to the unions.”
“So, why have we stopped here, Zen?”
“I told you I wanted you to get to know me. Well, that’s where I was brought up. I was the only son of a prosperous clothing manufacturer. We lived in the lap of luxury; servants, a chauffeur, gardener, you name it. People respected us for our money. My mother was an arrogant snob, and my father a heartless miser. He would haggle over everything, even his servants’ wages. Money gave him power, and he enjoyed using it. He felt that a degree would enable me to find loopholes in the law and the tax system, so that we could make even more money. I have to tell you, Mr. Barrister, that it made me sick. I gave it all up, and broke my parents’ heart. I was an embarrassment to them. They even pretended that I was not their son, that I was some madman pretending to be me. They made up this story that I had died fighting for my country in Iraq, or some other God-forsaken place. So, now you know all about me, Mr. Barrister. It is time to use all your skills to condemn me, and I will use all mine to prove my innocence. There is a coffee shop across the road that my parents used to frequent before they died. They will probably know me, but we can sit outside. It is quite warm today.”
We ambled over to an elegant coffee shop, with a shaded garden all around. Tables with silk tablecloths were scattered liberally under the leafy trees, allowing ample privacy for those who wished to have a quiet conversation. 
“Zen,” I said diffidently. “I’m not sure I’m up to the task you have assigned me. You stood by your principles. You were not a hypocrite. You lived what you believed.”
“That is true, my friend, but the case against me is negligence of duty. It is up to you to define negligence and duty. I will do my best to show that I was right to neglect what might be considered my duty. Let us order. I’m afraid you will have to pay. I can always write out an IOU?”
I laughed.
“I think I can afford to pay for a couple of cups of coffee.”
“And a croissant and glass of fresh orange juice, if you please.”
“Of course.”
A waitress in rather staid black and white came and took our order. 
When she had left, I said, “When would you like the trial to begin? Now? Or after we get our coffees?”
“Let us wait. It’s better if the trial is not interrupted. Do you have any questions?”
“Were you a happy child?”
“There’s that word happy again. No, I was not happy. I detested my parents from a very young age. I tried my best to find excuses for them. You know, the usual arguments – that’s the way they were brought up, etc. I thought that by showing them love and affection, I would get it back in some way, but they were cold and quite heartless. They were unable to love, even each other. I am surprised a union was able to take place that allowed for my conception. It must have been a rare occasion.”
“When did you decide to renounce it all?”
“Oh, I had been thinking about it for a long time. I had seen how my father treated his staff, both at home and the factory, how my mother swanned around the neighborhood as if she were the Queen of Sheba. But it was not easy. I knew that if I left, they would not have me back. They talked about duty, the duty of a son to his parents, the duty of an incumbent manufacturer to keep the factory going, the duty to society, but the only duty I could see was my duty to fight for social justice and equality.”
The prim waitress brought us our coffees, and Zen his croissant and orange juice. As he did the night before, he ate and drank slowly, relishing every mouthful. When he had finished he said, “Let the trial begin. Your turn, Mr. Prosecutor.”
I found the whole thing rather absurd, but for Zen’s sake I tried to take it seriously.
“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Zen is accused of negligence of duty. It is my intention to show that he callously failed to respect the wishes of his parents, that he allowed the family business to collapse resulting in mass unemployment, and worst of all he failed to fulfil his potential as a gifted lawyer and as such to fight for social improvement, increased wages and better working conditions, in other words, a complete upheaval of the present system. This, he could have done by working his way up the political hierarchy, becoming a councillor or member of Parliament, and, dare I say, leader of the country. Instead, he preferred to live the life of a hobo, preaching to deaf ears, becoming a laughing stock, with no influence or importance in society. I will show that Mr. Zen has completely wasted his life, and totally neglected his duty as a son and citizen of this great country. Thank you.”
Zen clapped ironically. “Well done, Mr. Barrister. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, in my defense I will show you that I had no alternative but to make the choices that I did. First of all, the public prosecutor has made all sorts of absurd assumptions about me. Would I have made a gifted lawyer? That is a moot point. As a lawyer, would I have been in a position to fight for social justice? Furthermore, he assumes that I would have been elected to office. And let us suppose that I had been, would I have been able to effect the radical change that our society needs? We are talking about a revolution here! And I don’t mean necessarily an armed revolution, but a revolution, nonetheless. I would have been dubbed a communist, or worse, as soon as I opened my mouth. I would have been rejected out of hand, not only by the politicians themselves, but by the electorate. No. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, I took the only sure route. I chose to live my beliefs, not to flout my principles. This was the only sure way not to be misled, to be lured into a privileged life living off the wealth that was available to me.”
I was impressed and found myself clapping too but Zen was not amused. 
“Would the prosecutor please cross-examine the defendant?”
I immediately resumed my role. 
“Mr. Zen, I would like to suggest that you abandoned the fight very early on, without even trying. You accepted your own hypothetical weaknesses without attempting to find your strengths. What proof do you have that you would not have succeeded in becoming a politician?”
“I know myself, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“That is not proof. Many people under-estimate their abilities or potential. Can you give me an example of your weakness?”
“Yes. First of all, I agreed to study law when I had no interest in it. Secondly, I accepted a gift of a very expensive sports car from my father in my second year at college. I knew it was a bribe, a means of winning me over, but I accepted it because I fancied myself at the wheel and all the girls looking at me with lust in their eyes.”
“You were young. Most men of your age would have done the same.”
“Most, Mr. Prosecutor, not all.”
“Mr. Zen, is it not true that you neglected your duty to your parents? That you abandoned them in their old age. You were after all an only child. No doubt, you did not visit them on their deathbed, but allowed them to fade away without giving them a last kiss or holding their hand at the last?”
I thought I saw a tear fall from one eye but I couldn’t be sure. It might have been the shadow of a branch playing on his face. Still, I wondered whether I had gone too far.
“They showed no remorse for rejecting me. Why should I show them any love? Besides, they did not love me. I was merely someone to carry on the family name, and fulfil their ambitions.”
“Your decision not to provide any succor to your parents in their final days smacks very much of vindictiveness. May I suggest, Mr. Zen, that you wished to punish them in the most callous and heartless manner? And your claim that they did not love you was merely a pretext? I would go so far as to say that your behavior shows not only cruel neglect, but criminal indifference. It was merely conjecture on your part that your parents did not love you. You said yourself that your parents were brought up in a different era, in which it was not the done thing to show emotion or excessive affection. So, you cannot be certain that their feelings for you were not deep.”
“It is true that I was angry with them, and possibly this anger prevented me from understanding how they truly felt about me.”
“Finally, Mr. Zen, your worst crime of all is the neglect of your duty to the men and women who worked in your father’s factories. Even if your father paid them the basic wage, it was enough to allow them to live with dignity. What is worse to be unemployed at the age of fifty-five, as no doubt many of the workers were, when your father was forced to close down his business, or to have an occupation, to exercise a skill, which for some, if not most, would constitute a source of pride for them? It is true that none of your father’s workers could be classified as rich, but I have no doubt that most of them were content with their lot. As you have admitted yourself, by your preaching and your lifestyle, that wealth is not the source of happiness. In fact, you have said yourself that there is no such thing as happiness, only contentment. But, by your stubborn and hardhearted neglect of duty, you failed to take over the family business, and provide hundreds of families with the security of a steady income to provide housing, food and the basic necessities for their families. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
To my surprise, he looked at me wan and disheartened.
“I take the Fifth. I have nothing to say in my defense.”
I could have continued but I felt that he had been battered enough, and took on the role of judge.
“Before the jury retires to consider its verdict, would the defendant wish to say anything before the Public Prosecutor presents his final summing-up?
“Thank you, your Honor. I simply wish to say in my defense that I believed I was doing the right thing. I did not want to be a hypocrite. I felt I needed to experience deprivation and destitution to fully understand the cruelty of the world. I did not merely live in the streets, but preached my beliefs to anyone who cared to listen to me. I did not withdraw as I could have done, and become a monk or a hermit. The fact that no one listened to what I said is not a reflection on me, but on the society in which we live. I was of the belief that we should not be lumbered with duties, the moment we are born. Finally, my parents showed me little or no love or affection. They were distant and unapproachable. Though I will accept the prosecutor’s speculation than underneath their hardheartedness there may have been some love, I am of the opinion that I can be forgiven for believing there was none.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zen. Now, Mr. Barry, it is your turn to sum up...
“Your Honor, Members of the Jury. Mr. Zen has done his best to excuse his neglect of duty, to his parents, to life and to the workers in his father’s factory, but he failed miserably to do so. His whole attitude showcases an egotistical, narcissistic obsession with self, and an outdated, outmoded ideology. He set out on a quixotic mission to change the world, nay, to incite revolution, to overthrow the democratic system that has existed in this country for centuries. His naivety in hoping to bring about some fundamental change in our society is nothing short of derisory. Furthermore, he destroyed his parents’ lives, causing them immense sorrow and disappointment, demonstrating the utmost callousness in his failure to be with them on their deathbeds. Secondly, he has achieved nothing by giving up on life. He has merely become a laughing stock in the eyes of the people of our city, and a disgrace to his poor, blameless parents. Finally, his failure to take over the family business is nothing short of criminal. By his neglect of duty, he was responsible for turning hundreds of families out into the street, among whom were many men and women only a few years from receiving their pension. Suddenly, they found themselves high and dry, confronted with untold hardship and despair. Members of the Jury, you have no alternative but to find Mr. Zen guilty of neglect of duty on all counts.”
“Thank you, Mr. Prosecutor, would the jury please retire to reach a verdict?”
On cue, the prim little waitress appeared with a broad smile.
“The owner, Mr. Fusedale, would like to offer you both lunch. I believe, Sir,” she added addressing Zen, “that you are Zenon Caulfield. Your parents were regular customers here. They were lovely people, and talked warmly about you. There was some talk of your having been killed fighting in Iraq, but Mr. Fusedale and I are very glad to see that you are in good health. We hope you will accept our offer. Mr. Fusedale would like to say hello, but he is currently unable to leave the kitchens. Shall I get you a menu?”
Zen and I looked at each other in some disarray. I could see Zen would be unable to take a decision so I took it upon myself.
“Yes, we’d love that. Thank you. Perhaps in about ten minutes. We have a little unfinished business. We are about to reach a verdict.”
The girl laughed.
“Yes, of course. Just raise your hand when you’re finished and I’ll bring you over a menu.”
Zen said nothing, just looked at me expectantly, not unlike a real defendant waiting for the jury leader to read out his verdict. 
I pretended to unfold a piece of paper and, with slight hesitation for dramatic effect, I read out the verdict.
“We find the defendant guilty on all counts.”
Zen’s face dropped as if he had indeed been tried and found guilty in a real court and by a real jury. 
As judge, I was now called upon to pronounce sentence.
“Thank you, Members of the Jury, for your prompt and unequivocal decision. Mr. Zen, would you please rise to receive sentence?”
I didn’t expect him to but he rose from his chair, a bent and broken man. 
“Mr. Zen, having considered your case carefully, I can only come to the conclusion that you were the victim of self-deceit, and lack of self-esteem. You were overly concerned with your own possible hypocrisy, and capacity to resist temptation. However, it is my opinion, given all that you have said here today, that you are a man of great strength of character. I also believe that you have learnt a great deal from your experiences living, as you have, on the rough streets of our city. However, the jury has found you guilty. Therefore, I cannot absolve you totally of your crimes, and you must be punished. In consequence, I sentence you to living a normal life, retrieving what wealth still remains to you, and doing your utmost to restart your father’s business so that you can offer employment to those who now find themselves unemployed, particularly those nearing retirement age. Failing this, you will resurrect your skills as a lawyer, and, with what remains of your parents’ wealth, you will provide your services pro bono to those unable to pay for their defense. Furthermore, with whatever time you have left over at your disposal, you will fight through official channels to improve the lot of the working man, not through revolution, but through gradual change. I believe, Mr. Zen, that you have both the character, and the means to do so. You are now free to leave the court. However, be warned. I will be appointing a young barrister by the name of Barry to make sure you serve your sentence in full, which I sincerely hope you will, as I do not wish to see you in my court again. That will be all. Court dismissed.”
Zen was still standing there, looking drawn and dejected. I felt sorry for him. Had I destroyed, admittedly by his own bidding, his whole raison d’ẽtre? Was this whole trial business a terrible mistake? Should he have remained blissfully preaching to the unconvertible? 
“The trial is over, Zen,” I said gently. “You can sit down now.”
He sat down, a blank expression on his face. What was he thinking? Was he going to suddenly burst out laughing and say what a whole parody the trial was? Or was he going to meekly accept his sentence as if what had transpired was in fact a real court of law? 
Finally, he looked up at with a watery expression.
“You did a good job, Mr. Barrister, much better than I had anticipated. Do you honestly expect me to accept your sentence?”
“It was not mine, Zen. It was the judge’s. I was merely in charge of the prosecution. Actually, I thought it could have gone either way, but, I have to say, you were not up to your usual standard. It was almost as if you wanted to be found guilty. What nonsense was that about taking the Fifth? It was that, I believe, that was the deciding factor. The jury knew you just didn’t have an argument in your defense.”
“You know I can’t do it, Barry.”
It was the first time he had called me Barry, and I felt that unwittingly a bond had been formed between us.
“May I suggest, Zen, that we have a splendid meal and chew over it, in a manner of speaking – in silence of course, so as not to interfere with our palates. Shall I call over that delightful waitress? I do believe it’s lunch time.”
I glanced cursorily at my watch.
“Yes, but in silence.”
“You mean order our lunch using sign language?”
“No. Eat in silence.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. I too wish to savor every mouthful. It’s not often I treat myself to a place like this. Cynthia wants us to save up to buy a house.”
“How very bourgeois!” he said abrasively.
“Very, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
I raised my hand to show the waitress we were ready to order. 
She trotted over, hands grasped tightly in front of her in her eagerness to serve. 
“I think Mr. Fusedale is available to see you. I hope you don’t mind. He is so pleased to see that you are alive and well.”
Zen looked dubious.
“If you’d prefer …”
“No,” I said. “We’d love to see him.”
Zen gave me a disgruntled look.
Within minutes, a large man with drooping moustaches came trundling out across the garden to see us. 
“Zenon, my dear boy, it has been so long. And we all thought you had been killed. We have both aged, I know, but we are the same, yes?”
“I am not,” said Zen bluntly.
“Ah, the war, I know. It changes people, but time heals all things. I wanted simply to say how sad I was at your parents’ passing, and with only a month’s difference. I didn’t see you at the funerals, so I assumed the worst. Oh, but how glad I am to see you are well! Please accept my condolences. What lovely people they were! So kind and generous! They never stopped talking about you. Our darling Zen this, and our darling Zen that. The saddest thing was having to close the factory. It was your father’s life, and his greatest wish that it should continue. It broke his heart to have to dismiss all those workers, who had been faithful to the company all those years. He so wanted you to take it over, but it was not to be. Your destiny was elsewhere. So, tell me what do you do, Zenon?”
“I have just lost a very important court case, and have to consider my options.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did it have to do with the property? I look at it every day and say, “Oh, if only Zen could take it over and look after it! I hope the court’s decision was not too costly.”
“In terms of money, no. I believe it may seriously affect my state of mind, though.”
“You are a strong man, Zenon. Your father always said that. A man with his own mind, he would say. Your mother would become very tearful towards the end, whenever I mentioned your name. That’s why I assumed the rumors of your death were true…. Enough talk. Enough talk. Time to eat. Now it is on the house … in memory of your dear parents. Will you allow me to decide what you will eat? I know you are a vegetarian, Zenon. Your parents once mentioned it to me, but do not worry. I have plenty of dishes that are without meat. I hope you are hungry, gentlemen.”
“I think we are,” I said. “It has been a very strenuous morning.” 
The demure waitress, with the flighty eyes, brought us one dish after another, which we ate like professional food-tasters, in studied silence. By the end of it, we felt like stuffed boa constrictors, whose only thought was to find somewhere quiet to sleep. I couldn’t help wondering, however, what was going on in Zen’s mind. Clearly, everything that had happened since our fateful contest on the street corner, the meal at Sky’s, the trial and its outcome, now his reunion with Mr. Fusedale, had had a profound, and possibly life-changing effect on him. And me too, perhaps. 
“So?” I said, staring at him through drooping eyelids.
“So what?” he retorted.
“I have been ordered by the court to make sure you serve your sentence. Are you going to make it difficult for me?”
“You got yourself into this, Mr. Barrister?”
“Ha!” I snorted. “You got me into this. You were the one who called me back, remember? You knew from the very beginning what was going to happen.”
“But you accepted.”
“Yes. I was intrigued.”
“And where does that leave you? Are you prepared to carry out the court’s wishes? You know it will be a demanding job.”
“I believe it will be worthwhile. Where do we start?”
“God knows. You’re my lawyer, Mr. Barrister.”
“Well, first of all, if I’m going to be your lawyer, you’ve got to start calling me by my name. Like it or not, a bond has been formed between us. So, the name is Barry, Barry Young.”
“Barry Young, the young Barrister, how appropriate,” he said with a twisted smile.
“I may be younger than you, Zen, but I know one thing. You can’t go through life without forming bonds. Sky, Mr. Fusedale, your parents, they all mourned your spurious passing, though you were blissfully unaware of it. And the truth is, if you were to drop down dead this minute, as a result of a burst stomach, I would mourn you. So, let’s dispose of all that shit from the start. Anyway, we will no doubt hate each other’s guts by the time we have you back in that house, and have sorted out the mess of your inheritance, assuming they didn’t leave everything to the dogs’ home.”
“They hated dogs, and cats, and every living creature.”
“Except you, it seems. So, the chances are they would hope that you would eventually see sense. Hasn’t someone been in touch with you?”
“Yes. A lawyer, a young man not unlike yourself, forced a letter into my hand. The truth is I’m a multi-millionaire.”
“Right, Zen. Let’s not waste any more time. It’s time to put it to good use. Get off your ass, and let’s get moving. You did keep that letter, I hope.”
“I remember the address.”
“Thank heavens. I’ll just pay the bill.”
“He said it’s on the house.”
“Well, we should at least thank him, and leave a good tip for the lovely waitress.”
“You’ve forgotten. I have no money.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? Well, you won’t be able to use that excuse again after tomorrow.”
“You know, Barry, we might start hating each other sooner than later.”
“I have no doubt about it.”
I left a sizeable tip for the waitress and scribbled a large THANK YOU on a paper napkin.
I wondered what the hell I had got myself into.

  
Ian Douglas Robertson is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin. He lives and works in Athens, Greece, as a teacher, actor and translator. He has had a number of poems and short stories published in online and print magazines as well as three books of non-fiction in collaboration with his wife Katerina. He has also recently published several novels, available on Amazon, including Break, Break, Break, Under the Olive Tree, The Frankenstein Legacy, On the Side of the Angels, The Reluctant Messiah and The Adventures of Jackie and Jovie. His latest novel The Return of the Dissolute Son was published in 2024.

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