Plague of Pythons

I

Because of the crowd they held Chandler’s trial in the all-purpose room of the high school. It smelled of leather and stale sweat. He walked up the three steps to the stage, with the bailiff’s hand on his elbow, and took his place at the defendant’s table.

Chandler’s lawyer looked at him without emotion. He was appointed by the court. He was willing to do his job, but his job didn’t require him to like his client. All he said was, “Stand up. The judge is coming in.”

Chandler got to his feet and leaned on the table while the bailiff chanted his call and the chaplain read some verses from John. He did not listen. The Bible verse came too late to help him, and besides he ached.

When the police arrested him they had not been gentle. There were four of them. They were from the plant’s own security force and carried no guns. They didn’t need any; Chandler had put up no resistance after the first few moments—that is, he stopped as soon as he could stop—but the police hadn’t stopped. He remembered that very clearly. He remembered the nightstick across the side of his head that left his ear squashed and puffy, he remembered the kick in the gut that still made walking painful. He even remembered the series of blows about the skull that had knocked him out.

The bruises along his rib cage and left arm, though, he did not remember getting. Obviously the police had been mad enough to keep right on subduing him after he was already unconscious.