From The Other Side of the Door
Last Minute Trip
Last Minute Trip
Having just broken up with my girlfriend of
seven years, I decided on the spur of the moment to take a week off work and go
away somewhere.
I looked on the internet for package deal holidays leaving the next day, and booked the cheapest. It didn’t matter to me where I went; in my current state of mind nowhere inspired me. All I wanted was to get away and be somewhere where there were no memories, I knew no one, and had no decisions to make – hence the package deal.
It turned out someplace I had never heard of in Spain called Guardamar was to be my “thinking and re-grouping” respite.
I threw a pair of jeans and a pair of trousers, a jumper and a shirt, a pair of shoes and a jacket into a case and closed it. After lunch, during a flash of common sense, I remembered essentials like socks, toothbrush and toothpaste, razor and shaving cream along with shower gel and shampoo and added them to my small bag.
That evening I sat in the dark with the phones all off and didn’t answer the incessantly ringing door bell.
It had been that way since I walked into our bedroom yesterday and found my live-in girlfriend and my brother Nigel doing, “it isn’t what it seems.” It seemed they were having sex, but if that was not what was happening I really couldn’t figure out what was. I could, however, figure out who was at the door and exactly what they would say should I open it - “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to. I hope you can forgive me”, then for good measure, “we need to put this behind us”.
That last part was proving harder than it should be, and was the reason I knew what Nigel would say - it was what he had said nine years ago when I walked into my bedroom and found him having sex with my fiancée.
In the months following this first betrayal I had derived some small compensation when the errant fiancée discovered she was pregnant and, after heated paternity tests, it had turned out to be Nigel’s. He had been forced to marry the promiscuous so and so and for years had been paying for school fees, riding lessons and massive orthodontist bills – to name but a few.
As the pain lessened we all started to meet at family gatherings, (for a while, with our parents help, I had made sure we went on different days), but things remained strained, not least as the loose woman, who was now my sister-in-law, had started coming on to me. By then my life was in such good shape I was able to say no and mean it, but I did enjoy thinking how she couldn’t wait to deceive her husband, who was also my betraying brother.
At some point I must have fallen asleep, as I woke up on the couch with daylight visible through the curtains. In panic I looked at the time, but it was still early and I hadn’t missed my flight.
A rushed breakfast, shower and shave, were followed by a hasty throwing on of clothes as I grabbed my small case and went to meet the horn blaring taxi waiting to take me to the airport.
I don’t know if I slept on the journey or just sat in a daze, but remembering nothing of it I emerged from the airport into bright sunlight. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I saw vast expanses of sandy looking terrain, palm trees, camels and men with long flowing robes.
The only Spanish town I knew was Barcelona, and this airport was further south, but even so this scene seemed more Arabic than Spanish. The only thought that stopped me from panicking was that it was impossible to get on the wrong flight as there were so many checks and controls to pass through before you were allowed on-board. Nevertheless, I got out my ticket, checked it did say ‘Alicante’, and having that confirmed I looked for the promised hotel transport.
There were no vehicles from ‘Playa del Mar’ in sight, so I set down my case to wait. A few minutes later I spotted one of the Arab looking men walking around and carrying a board with my name on it. I said with a foreign accent, “Yo soy el Señor Waterstone”, but he just stared blankly. I hadn’t thought my Spanish was bad enough to be incomprehensible but the man showed no sign of understanding. Trying a different tack, I pointed to the board and then to myself. That produced a relieved expression, a flurry of words spoken so quickly they were incomprehensible to me, and a sign to follow him as he snatched my bag. Presumably the hotel had only one guest on that flight and I would get to travel to the hotel alone. Good! I didn’t feel like making conversation with fellow tourists who, unlike me, would probably be bubbly and full of joy at being on holiday.
The "car" was a big, long white limo and when he opened the door for me I could see a bottle of champagne on ice. For the first time I became wary - two star hotels don't send massive limos like this. “Hotel Playa del Mar?” I queried. He nodded.
“Guardamar?” I tried too.
"Hotel Playa del mar, Guardamar” he confirmed, so I got in thinking two star hotels in Spain were not bad. Before driving off he uncorked the champagne and poured me a glass - so I rode through southern Spain in a chauffeur driven limo, sipping champagne and enjoying the view. I hadn’t expected such luxurious treatment for the low price I had paid but, had no intention of protesting.
We seemed to be in an extensive desert with nothing except sand and an occasional palm tree. This wasn’t what I had imagined, nor was it what I wanted – but that was my own fault for not looking closely at where the hotel I booked was. Somewhere in my mind I had envisioned wandering through streets flanked by historical buildings, sitting in old churches and relaxing in squares sipping something cold and alcoholic. From what I could see out the window I would have to spend the time in the hotel, as there seemed to be nothing nearby to do or see. Luckily, the weather was good and surely a hotel that sent a limo would have a pool, so a boozy day swimming and lazing around would have to do.
About an hour’s driving took us into a town in the middle of the desert. There was no warning, just a sudden change of view out the side window, from everlasting sand to whitewashed walls. Perhaps sightseeing was on the cards after all.
The car stopped and the door was opened by a uniformed doorman, giving me my first glimpse of the hotel. It was amazing, and everything I saw gave the appearance of an expensive five star hotel. I went to the check in desk to fill out the necessary forms and found the hotel was extremely well organised. The manager greeted me by name, (in English), and without asking me to sign anything, he picked up a key and suggested I follow him. He stopped in front of two large double doors and flung them open.
Wow! Majestic, regal, sumptuous – too expensive, was what went rapidly through my mind.
I turned and instantly the manager said, “You like it? It is the Sultan Suite, our best room.”
Assuring him I did like, I tried delicately to explain I was afraid it would cost more than I had intended spending. He reassured me it was what I had booked and paid for and there would be nothing else to pay.
Things were starting to feel out of sync, but I thanked him, and when he had left with the remark, “no tips allowed is the hotel policy”, I sat down on a sofa and took out my travel itinerary.
I wondered briefly if my conniving brother had found out about my trip and got me an upgrade; but he couldn’t have known I was going away, never mind where. Something did not seem right. I had paid for two star accommodation, (and thought it cheap at the price), yet everything to do with this hotel yelled expensive luxury.
I searched all the documents, and read all the bits I had foolishly skipped when I had reserved the room, but there was only booking confirmation for ‘a room and full board’, no mention even of double or single, and I couldn’t remember what I had put on the form. At least I had paid for it, and my papers confirmed ‘paid in full’, so they couldn’t hound me for an exorbitant sum at a later date.
I unpacked my few belongings and while putting them away I realised I had brought neither pants nor deodorant.
There was just time before lunch to nip out and get them, and still thinking about the strange place that was not at all Spanish looking, I walked into a menswear shop and got pants. At the till the man said in English, “No, Sir”, to my offer of Euro, “guests in the Sultan Suite do not pay for any essentials.” While I was pondering this new twist he went on, “I took the liberty of adding two pairs of pyjamas, as you seem to have forgotten them too.”
Before I had time to say anything he had excused himself and disappeared. As he did not appear again, and time was running out for getting to the chemist before it closed, I decided the best option was to take the package and talk to the hotel manager later. There was obviously some sort of arrangement or deal going on between the shop and the hotel.
With my mind occupied with my freebies, a doubt began to creep in – had someone from the hotel gone through my things and phoned the shop to tell them I had no pyjamas? That didn’t make sense either, as many men do not bother wearing pyjamas and the hotel staff had no way of knowing whether I was one of these or not.
Yet again I found myself in the chemists without being aware of going there. This ‘daydreaming’ was going to have to stop. Here too I got exactly the same spiel as in the menswear shop, with the difference that the chemist had added a hairbrush I had forgotten to pack.
Back at the hotel I was greeted by a member of staff and told my lunch was waiting, the bellboy would take my ‘purchases’ to my room if I wished to go straight through, and ‘no, the manager was out, but would be back in an hour or so’.
Seeing little else I could do, I sat down to a feast fit for a king, including wine that would have cost that king his whole ransom.
Between courses I took stock of all the weird things that were happening and realised I had overlooked an important one – here I was in a strange city, (in more ways than one), yet I had known where to find a clothes shop and chemist without a guidebook, map or having to ask directions.
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced I was having a nervous breakdown. I was probably still at home asleep and having a dream, or maybe I was awake and had totally lost touch with reality. There simply wasn’t any other plausible explanation.
I needed to test these theories to find out which was true, so I picked up a paper lying on the next table and looked at the date. It was today, not yesterday, so that ruled out my being still asleep and dreaming.
Next I phoned one of the staff who worked for my accountancy firm, asking if he had found a tax dodge for Mr Armbruster’s accounts yet, and when he said he hadn’t, I suggested he check the offshore accounts and compare them to Mr Alexander’s as the same dodge may work for both. He did that while I waited, and found the same ploy would work - so that established that reality was still within my grasp – and got us another satisfied customer into the bargain, but got me no further forward in this puzzle.
Deciding to sit in my room and think a bit before doing anything else, I was on my way to the lift when the manager approached me saying, “The Sultan has requested an audience.”
“The Sultan has requested an audience?”
“Yes. Perhaps he can clear up your other concerns.”
“My other concerns?”
To his credit he gave no sign of noticing I had turned into a parrot, but rather continued, “He is waiting in the lounge. If you would like to go to your suite and freshen up I will ask him to go up in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.”
Like an obedient child I did as he suggested, and after a quick shower donned my trousers and shirt – jeans didn’t seem appropriate for meeting a Sultan.
The Sultan of Pashima and a magnum of champagne arrived together, and after introductions he asked if I found his suite to my liking. I did of course, and told him so, explaining I thought I had only booked a normal room so it had been a lovely surprise.
“Ah!”
I sat like an idiot hoping he would clarify his exclamation which had sounded so full of meaning, but instead he asked, “And I suppose you thought you had booked to go to Spain too?”
“Yeeees?”
“Well you didn’t. What you booked was our ‘desperation holiday’, with all that entails,” he emphasised.
“What does it entail?”
There are two parts. The first is this; waving a careless hand around the suite; luxury and spoiling for you. The second is more complicated and does, I’m afraid, involve a decision from you.
Let me explain more – when someone behaves badly they get ‘minus points’ and the person they treat badly gets positive ones. Each set of points has a threshold – positive ones get you a sumptuous treat, negative ones earn you something negative.
While you are here you can ask for anything you want, anything at all. Whatever you choose can go back with you – it doesn’t disappear once you leave here.
Or – you can choose to enjoy luxury surprises we choose for you, which only last however long you stay here - but, you get to choose your brother’s punishment for his behaviour. That can also be anything at all. Anything! You must decide which of these you want within two minutes, but if you chose to be your brother’s destiny, you have until dinner time to think of a punishment that would satisfy you.”
I thought quickly – I did a job I loved helping people avoid taxes legally, and I owned my own, very successful company, so I could always buy my own ‘treats’. However, the joy of watching my brother squirm, for the first time in my life, was worth more than any supercar or champagne.
“I want to choose his punishment.”
“Very well. This afternoon, if you wish, you can play a round of golf with the world’s number one, who will also give you tips and advice. Then you can have a sauna and massage before cocktails on the terrace. I will meet you for dinner and you can outline your plans for your brother’s future.”
To be honest I did not enjoy the golf as I was thinking of an adequate ‘pound of flesh’. I had discarded having him killed, as I wanted to make him suffer, but that left lots of alternatives still open. I had little time to narrow them down and find the right one.
During a seven course feast I explained to the sultan that my brother’s good position at work and consequent high social standing were more important to him than anything else. As he had twice stolen my most prized asset – love – I felt it was fitting he lose his job under some sort of cloud, and that would take care of his social aspirations too.
“That sounds reasonable. I will leave you to enjoy coffee and liqueurs as I must start the arrangements”, said the sultan.
I thanked him and settled back replete, to my coffee, vintage brandy and hand rolled cigar, with a satisfied grin on my face.
I went to bed, slept long and deep and woke at noon – in my own house. The sultan was sitting in the lounge when I wandered through in a daze on my way to the kitchen.
“Why am I here?” I queried.
“It is all a misunderstanding,” he replied to my short-lived relief. And after a pause he added, “Yours!”
“Huh?”
“You assumed the ‘bad person’ was your brother. You assumed you deserved indulgences and you assumed when I said people must pay, that did not include you. You assumed wrong.”
“Taking you to my hotel I was offering you one last chance – you could gain anything or you could choose to hurt others. You choose to hurt, not only your brother, but your parents, your sister-in-law, your niece and your nephew. Did you think these people would care as little as you about what became of your brother?”
“It takes two to have sex, and while it was wrong of him, it was also wrong of the girls - and yes, it was them who approached him, just as he said, and not the other way round. When your brother asked for your help with his accounts many years ago, you charged him an exorbitant fee and stole money while you were doing them. You did the same to your parents – and your brother found out. He was hurt, but never said anything to your mother or father for fear of hurting them too, and that prompted him to accept the girls’ offers of sex – to get even with you.”
“On the holiday you took everything offered without really asking why and checking it was not a mistake. You went through the motions, so, if challenged you could say, “I did ask” but if you were really bothered you could have left money in the shop for the extra items, you could have suggested the suite was a mistake – you could have done much more, and you should have.”
“We offered your brother the same deal as you - and he took ‘gain’. He asked for forgiveness for what he had done - that is why the papers today are full of the scandal about how you embezzled funds and cheated your clients with various double deals and fraud.”
“You chose your own fitting punishment.”
© Jill Vance 2013
I looked on the internet for package deal holidays leaving the next day, and booked the cheapest. It didn’t matter to me where I went; in my current state of mind nowhere inspired me. All I wanted was to get away and be somewhere where there were no memories, I knew no one, and had no decisions to make – hence the package deal.
It turned out someplace I had never heard of in Spain called Guardamar was to be my “thinking and re-grouping” respite.
I threw a pair of jeans and a pair of trousers, a jumper and a shirt, a pair of shoes and a jacket into a case and closed it. After lunch, during a flash of common sense, I remembered essentials like socks, toothbrush and toothpaste, razor and shaving cream along with shower gel and shampoo and added them to my small bag.
That evening I sat in the dark with the phones all off and didn’t answer the incessantly ringing door bell.
It had been that way since I walked into our bedroom yesterday and found my live-in girlfriend and my brother Nigel doing, “it isn’t what it seems.” It seemed they were having sex, but if that was not what was happening I really couldn’t figure out what was. I could, however, figure out who was at the door and exactly what they would say should I open it - “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to. I hope you can forgive me”, then for good measure, “we need to put this behind us”.
That last part was proving harder than it should be, and was the reason I knew what Nigel would say - it was what he had said nine years ago when I walked into my bedroom and found him having sex with my fiancée.
In the months following this first betrayal I had derived some small compensation when the errant fiancée discovered she was pregnant and, after heated paternity tests, it had turned out to be Nigel’s. He had been forced to marry the promiscuous so and so and for years had been paying for school fees, riding lessons and massive orthodontist bills – to name but a few.
As the pain lessened we all started to meet at family gatherings, (for a while, with our parents help, I had made sure we went on different days), but things remained strained, not least as the loose woman, who was now my sister-in-law, had started coming on to me. By then my life was in such good shape I was able to say no and mean it, but I did enjoy thinking how she couldn’t wait to deceive her husband, who was also my betraying brother.
At some point I must have fallen asleep, as I woke up on the couch with daylight visible through the curtains. In panic I looked at the time, but it was still early and I hadn’t missed my flight.
A rushed breakfast, shower and shave, were followed by a hasty throwing on of clothes as I grabbed my small case and went to meet the horn blaring taxi waiting to take me to the airport.
I don’t know if I slept on the journey or just sat in a daze, but remembering nothing of it I emerged from the airport into bright sunlight. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I saw vast expanses of sandy looking terrain, palm trees, camels and men with long flowing robes.
The only Spanish town I knew was Barcelona, and this airport was further south, but even so this scene seemed more Arabic than Spanish. The only thought that stopped me from panicking was that it was impossible to get on the wrong flight as there were so many checks and controls to pass through before you were allowed on-board. Nevertheless, I got out my ticket, checked it did say ‘Alicante’, and having that confirmed I looked for the promised hotel transport.
There were no vehicles from ‘Playa del Mar’ in sight, so I set down my case to wait. A few minutes later I spotted one of the Arab looking men walking around and carrying a board with my name on it. I said with a foreign accent, “Yo soy el Señor Waterstone”, but he just stared blankly. I hadn’t thought my Spanish was bad enough to be incomprehensible but the man showed no sign of understanding. Trying a different tack, I pointed to the board and then to myself. That produced a relieved expression, a flurry of words spoken so quickly they were incomprehensible to me, and a sign to follow him as he snatched my bag. Presumably the hotel had only one guest on that flight and I would get to travel to the hotel alone. Good! I didn’t feel like making conversation with fellow tourists who, unlike me, would probably be bubbly and full of joy at being on holiday.
The "car" was a big, long white limo and when he opened the door for me I could see a bottle of champagne on ice. For the first time I became wary - two star hotels don't send massive limos like this. “Hotel Playa del Mar?” I queried. He nodded.
“Guardamar?” I tried too.
"Hotel Playa del mar, Guardamar” he confirmed, so I got in thinking two star hotels in Spain were not bad. Before driving off he uncorked the champagne and poured me a glass - so I rode through southern Spain in a chauffeur driven limo, sipping champagne and enjoying the view. I hadn’t expected such luxurious treatment for the low price I had paid but, had no intention of protesting.
We seemed to be in an extensive desert with nothing except sand and an occasional palm tree. This wasn’t what I had imagined, nor was it what I wanted – but that was my own fault for not looking closely at where the hotel I booked was. Somewhere in my mind I had envisioned wandering through streets flanked by historical buildings, sitting in old churches and relaxing in squares sipping something cold and alcoholic. From what I could see out the window I would have to spend the time in the hotel, as there seemed to be nothing nearby to do or see. Luckily, the weather was good and surely a hotel that sent a limo would have a pool, so a boozy day swimming and lazing around would have to do.
About an hour’s driving took us into a town in the middle of the desert. There was no warning, just a sudden change of view out the side window, from everlasting sand to whitewashed walls. Perhaps sightseeing was on the cards after all.
The car stopped and the door was opened by a uniformed doorman, giving me my first glimpse of the hotel. It was amazing, and everything I saw gave the appearance of an expensive five star hotel. I went to the check in desk to fill out the necessary forms and found the hotel was extremely well organised. The manager greeted me by name, (in English), and without asking me to sign anything, he picked up a key and suggested I follow him. He stopped in front of two large double doors and flung them open.
Wow! Majestic, regal, sumptuous – too expensive, was what went rapidly through my mind.
I turned and instantly the manager said, “You like it? It is the Sultan Suite, our best room.”
Assuring him I did like, I tried delicately to explain I was afraid it would cost more than I had intended spending. He reassured me it was what I had booked and paid for and there would be nothing else to pay.
Things were starting to feel out of sync, but I thanked him, and when he had left with the remark, “no tips allowed is the hotel policy”, I sat down on a sofa and took out my travel itinerary.
I wondered briefly if my conniving brother had found out about my trip and got me an upgrade; but he couldn’t have known I was going away, never mind where. Something did not seem right. I had paid for two star accommodation, (and thought it cheap at the price), yet everything to do with this hotel yelled expensive luxury.
I searched all the documents, and read all the bits I had foolishly skipped when I had reserved the room, but there was only booking confirmation for ‘a room and full board’, no mention even of double or single, and I couldn’t remember what I had put on the form. At least I had paid for it, and my papers confirmed ‘paid in full’, so they couldn’t hound me for an exorbitant sum at a later date.
I unpacked my few belongings and while putting them away I realised I had brought neither pants nor deodorant.
There was just time before lunch to nip out and get them, and still thinking about the strange place that was not at all Spanish looking, I walked into a menswear shop and got pants. At the till the man said in English, “No, Sir”, to my offer of Euro, “guests in the Sultan Suite do not pay for any essentials.” While I was pondering this new twist he went on, “I took the liberty of adding two pairs of pyjamas, as you seem to have forgotten them too.”
Before I had time to say anything he had excused himself and disappeared. As he did not appear again, and time was running out for getting to the chemist before it closed, I decided the best option was to take the package and talk to the hotel manager later. There was obviously some sort of arrangement or deal going on between the shop and the hotel.
With my mind occupied with my freebies, a doubt began to creep in – had someone from the hotel gone through my things and phoned the shop to tell them I had no pyjamas? That didn’t make sense either, as many men do not bother wearing pyjamas and the hotel staff had no way of knowing whether I was one of these or not.
Yet again I found myself in the chemists without being aware of going there. This ‘daydreaming’ was going to have to stop. Here too I got exactly the same spiel as in the menswear shop, with the difference that the chemist had added a hairbrush I had forgotten to pack.
Back at the hotel I was greeted by a member of staff and told my lunch was waiting, the bellboy would take my ‘purchases’ to my room if I wished to go straight through, and ‘no, the manager was out, but would be back in an hour or so’.
Seeing little else I could do, I sat down to a feast fit for a king, including wine that would have cost that king his whole ransom.
Between courses I took stock of all the weird things that were happening and realised I had overlooked an important one – here I was in a strange city, (in more ways than one), yet I had known where to find a clothes shop and chemist without a guidebook, map or having to ask directions.
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced I was having a nervous breakdown. I was probably still at home asleep and having a dream, or maybe I was awake and had totally lost touch with reality. There simply wasn’t any other plausible explanation.
I needed to test these theories to find out which was true, so I picked up a paper lying on the next table and looked at the date. It was today, not yesterday, so that ruled out my being still asleep and dreaming.
Next I phoned one of the staff who worked for my accountancy firm, asking if he had found a tax dodge for Mr Armbruster’s accounts yet, and when he said he hadn’t, I suggested he check the offshore accounts and compare them to Mr Alexander’s as the same dodge may work for both. He did that while I waited, and found the same ploy would work - so that established that reality was still within my grasp – and got us another satisfied customer into the bargain, but got me no further forward in this puzzle.
Deciding to sit in my room and think a bit before doing anything else, I was on my way to the lift when the manager approached me saying, “The Sultan has requested an audience.”
“The Sultan has requested an audience?”
“Yes. Perhaps he can clear up your other concerns.”
“My other concerns?”
To his credit he gave no sign of noticing I had turned into a parrot, but rather continued, “He is waiting in the lounge. If you would like to go to your suite and freshen up I will ask him to go up in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.”
Like an obedient child I did as he suggested, and after a quick shower donned my trousers and shirt – jeans didn’t seem appropriate for meeting a Sultan.
The Sultan of Pashima and a magnum of champagne arrived together, and after introductions he asked if I found his suite to my liking. I did of course, and told him so, explaining I thought I had only booked a normal room so it had been a lovely surprise.
“Ah!”
I sat like an idiot hoping he would clarify his exclamation which had sounded so full of meaning, but instead he asked, “And I suppose you thought you had booked to go to Spain too?”
“Yeeees?”
“Well you didn’t. What you booked was our ‘desperation holiday’, with all that entails,” he emphasised.
“What does it entail?”
There are two parts. The first is this; waving a careless hand around the suite; luxury and spoiling for you. The second is more complicated and does, I’m afraid, involve a decision from you.
Let me explain more – when someone behaves badly they get ‘minus points’ and the person they treat badly gets positive ones. Each set of points has a threshold – positive ones get you a sumptuous treat, negative ones earn you something negative.
While you are here you can ask for anything you want, anything at all. Whatever you choose can go back with you – it doesn’t disappear once you leave here.
Or – you can choose to enjoy luxury surprises we choose for you, which only last however long you stay here - but, you get to choose your brother’s punishment for his behaviour. That can also be anything at all. Anything! You must decide which of these you want within two minutes, but if you chose to be your brother’s destiny, you have until dinner time to think of a punishment that would satisfy you.”
I thought quickly – I did a job I loved helping people avoid taxes legally, and I owned my own, very successful company, so I could always buy my own ‘treats’. However, the joy of watching my brother squirm, for the first time in my life, was worth more than any supercar or champagne.
“I want to choose his punishment.”
“Very well. This afternoon, if you wish, you can play a round of golf with the world’s number one, who will also give you tips and advice. Then you can have a sauna and massage before cocktails on the terrace. I will meet you for dinner and you can outline your plans for your brother’s future.”
To be honest I did not enjoy the golf as I was thinking of an adequate ‘pound of flesh’. I had discarded having him killed, as I wanted to make him suffer, but that left lots of alternatives still open. I had little time to narrow them down and find the right one.
During a seven course feast I explained to the sultan that my brother’s good position at work and consequent high social standing were more important to him than anything else. As he had twice stolen my most prized asset – love – I felt it was fitting he lose his job under some sort of cloud, and that would take care of his social aspirations too.
“That sounds reasonable. I will leave you to enjoy coffee and liqueurs as I must start the arrangements”, said the sultan.
I thanked him and settled back replete, to my coffee, vintage brandy and hand rolled cigar, with a satisfied grin on my face.
I went to bed, slept long and deep and woke at noon – in my own house. The sultan was sitting in the lounge when I wandered through in a daze on my way to the kitchen.
“Why am I here?” I queried.
“It is all a misunderstanding,” he replied to my short-lived relief. And after a pause he added, “Yours!”
“Huh?”
“You assumed the ‘bad person’ was your brother. You assumed you deserved indulgences and you assumed when I said people must pay, that did not include you. You assumed wrong.”
“Taking you to my hotel I was offering you one last chance – you could gain anything or you could choose to hurt others. You choose to hurt, not only your brother, but your parents, your sister-in-law, your niece and your nephew. Did you think these people would care as little as you about what became of your brother?”
“It takes two to have sex, and while it was wrong of him, it was also wrong of the girls - and yes, it was them who approached him, just as he said, and not the other way round. When your brother asked for your help with his accounts many years ago, you charged him an exorbitant fee and stole money while you were doing them. You did the same to your parents – and your brother found out. He was hurt, but never said anything to your mother or father for fear of hurting them too, and that prompted him to accept the girls’ offers of sex – to get even with you.”
“On the holiday you took everything offered without really asking why and checking it was not a mistake. You went through the motions, so, if challenged you could say, “I did ask” but if you were really bothered you could have left money in the shop for the extra items, you could have suggested the suite was a mistake – you could have done much more, and you should have.”
“We offered your brother the same deal as you - and he took ‘gain’. He asked for forgiveness for what he had done - that is why the papers today are full of the scandal about how you embezzled funds and cheated your clients with various double deals and fraud.”
“You chose your own fitting punishment.”
© Jill Vance 2013
From Dark Between Shadows
Courtroom Trick
Courtroom Trick
“Mr Thor, can we have a quote?”
I paused, unsure how to phrase it delicately as I knew I had already antagonized so many people with what would undoubtedly be called ‘my trick’.
“I am happy that justice prevailed and an innocent man was not jailed for a crime he did not commit,” saying the only thing possible under the circumstances.
I started to move on, and although many questions battered me, I simply told all the reporters that was all I had to say, and went back to my office.
Generally after a spectacular victory like the one I had just pulled off, Stephen, the senior partner, produced a bottle of Brut Champaign and we all toasted the sweet success of a win. Somehow I doubted this time my entrance would get cheers and applause – more likely people would smile politely and after a few obligatory words, turn away.
The Clark Case, or ‘Chic Case’ as the newspapers called it, had been a bitter battle in every sense.
Thomas Clark had been accused of torturing and brutally killing at least seven women last year, over a period of five months. It had taken the police a long time to figure out that what connected each victim was that they had bought the first copy of Chic Magazine from the same newspaper stall the day before or the same day they were killed. The stall belonged to Thomas, so he was immediately a suspect and was watched closely.
Every week as Chic hit the news-stand, the first woman to buy it was also tailed, until finally the law officers caught a man trying to tie up Deborah, the first to buy the magazine that particular day. The man escaped, leaving behind a bag full of ancient instruments of torture with no fingerprints, but the police had seen his face and knew who he was. Thomas Clark. They immediately arrested him, and that was when I was called in to defend the case.
At first it looked hopeless and I was reluctant to accept the job, but as Thomas protested his innocence to me, I felt he was telling the truth. I couldn’t see how that was possible, and was still inclined to refuse. Then he told me a vital piece of information, and I agreed to defend him.
I confronted the police with this new knowledge, in the hope of avoiding going to court, but they didn’t believe it. They did however, check it up, knowing I would present it in court. They wanted to be ready to discredit it, but they insisted they could find no proof of the facts as I had told them. They refused to believe me and set out to prove me wrong instead of examining the facts of the case properly, and that caused friction between the legal firm I worked for and the police.
I was annoyed they didn’t take me seriously and someone from their office even resorted to ‘leaking’ snippets of information to reporters. This always included something, couched in careful terms, about my incompetence, possible nervous breakdown, and the fact I was siding with a brutal killer rather than caring about the welfare of the people.
Sides were taken by just about everyone in the country; the population believed the newspapers, so I was a bad guy, the police hated me for defending Thomas and doubting their own eyewitness accounts. Other lawyers believed I was ruining already delicate relations between the police and legal counsel, in addition because the journalists wanted sensational news and I couldn’t discuss the case with them, the police leaks gave them enough fodder to sell extra papers, so they sided against me too. The bad press made me unpopular in our own office too and the long hours I had to work to get my case together, coupled with an unadmitted belief in the papers, caused my live-in girlfriend to move out.
Everyone insisted the man arrested was the guilty party. The police had caught him in the act, therefore there could be no doubt – except he had got away and was arrested at home later, so he hadn’t been literally ‘caught in the act’.
No one had faith in me, and even the legal clerks, secretaries and investigators who were suppose to work with me were unhelpful, and I would even go as far as to say they were actually against me.
I kept on with the case for two reasons; one you can’t stop representing a client in the middle of a case without valid reasons, and a judge would not see ‘I am tired of having everyone against me’ as one of them. Secondly, I really believed in Thomas’s innocence, or at least that it was perfectly possible someone else was responsible for killing these women, therefore the term ‘reasonable doubt’ applied and he should be set free.
The court case started, and as defence council I had to wait through the prosecution’s long drawn out arguments before I could put my own. The jury, public, court officers, newspapers and entire population were sure Thomas was guilty and there were even calls to reinstate the death penalty so he could be ‘removed from this earth’.
For days, I could only throw in odd questions to witnesses and sit quietly for the rest of the process, simply passing time until it was my turn.
Ten days into the trial the prosecution had finished and the next day I was on.
I hadn’t made up my mind exactly how to proceed as I wanted to see where the other side had taken the case. I could either hit everyone with the fact immediately or play around with it for a bit, and it was the latter I finally opted for. That way I would not leave any doubt in the jury’s minds. The impact would be greater and that would let everyone see Thomas was wrongly accused.
I called my first witness, Thomas’ teacher from his first few years in school.
“Do you remember Thomas from school?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about him as a student.”
“Objection. Irrelevant.” The opposing lawyer was on his feet.
“Your Honour,” I interjected, “I will show relevance soon if your Honour permits.”
“Very well, but be quick,” his Honour replied.
“Tell us about him as a student,” I tried again.
“He was a hard worker and always did his homework. He struggled to keep up with the class, but by working hard he managed it. I knew about his home situation and tried to help anytime I could. He was helpful and well liked.”
“Would you read us the school report you wrote about him?” handing her the report.
She did.
“And what can you tell us about…” my questions continued and a quick glance at the jury showed they were confused, but not enough – yet.
“And this report?” Again, she complied.
Next on the witness stand was another teacher, this time she had taught Thomas when he was fifteen.
“Do you remember Thomas from school?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about him as a student.”
There was no objection this time around, and her answer was similar to the first teacher’s. Thomas wasn’t the brightest, but worked hard and managed to scrap through his exams.
The third teacher came to the stand.
“You taught…” and again as I asked a few simple questions, my eyes on the jury, I could see their doubt get slightly stronger.
The jury now knew Thomas’ parents were illiterate, had a small farm which barely kept them from hunger and his father often beat him.
Bosses from various jobs and landlords from a few different apartments followed. All agreed Thomas was a model employee and tenant.
They all also said Declan was a different story. Declan had always been in trouble in school. He was intelligent, but used his brain to figure out ways to do damage. He had been jailed for fifteen years for rape and brutality, and in prison he had killed another man, in self defence admittedly, but it is still murder. He got out two and a half years ago, after serving the full term.
I had managed to get Declan’s existence in over numerous objections by the prosecution by saying, “Your Honour, this is information I gave to the police and they ignored. It proves there is more than reasonable doubt my client did it, and without this person, an innocent man could be sent to jail for crimes he didn’t commit. All will soon become obvious if your Honour would be understanding for only a few minutes more.”
So far I had not connected Declan to Thomas, but when I did the room exploded.
Declan was Thomas’ identical twin brother.
When I introduced the twin my opposing colleague objected as he said there was no proof of this person’s existence. I pointed out to the judge the teacher’s comments on Declan and the school reports. This proved he existed.
The opposition said there was no proof Thomas was related to him and the birth certificate the police had dug up said, ‘born to Marie and Tom Clark, a son’, not twins or two sons.
“Yes,” I responded, “a son named Thomas Declan. There was a mistake made at the time of their birth. Since neither Mr nor Mrs Clark could read, they were happy everything was in order because Thomas and Declan were registered. They did not realise they were both registered as the same person. “I looked at the jury and they were captivated by this turn of events.
“Your Honour, I have the midwife who delivered the boys as my next witness. She will testify two boys were born,” I sustained, and I was told to proceed. Any doubts were removed by the lady swearing two twin boys were born to Mrs Clark.
The judge adjourned proceedings for a day to give the police time to find Declan.
The day Declan, identical to Thomas, was brought into court I knew Thomas would be acquitted, and he was. A new trial was arranged against Declan and the police were reprimanded for not doing their jobs properly by not investigating my claims thoroughly.
My victory had come at a very high personal price and people now couldn’t forgive me for being right. Life was not easy, but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I had saved an innocent man.
That small redress lasted only until the next day when Thomas came into my office to pay. He had been offered a huge sum for his story and a good price for his newsstand. He was going to use the money to buy a small vineyard in France, he said. Then he thanked me for helping him make his plan work.
It took a while for that last remark to sink in, and when it did I couldn’t help asking how he had done it.
Apparently right from an early age he had always put the blame on Declan for everything, by seeming none too bright when in actual fact he, Thomas, was far sharper than his twin.
Knowing I was bound by client confidentiality, (and he still hadn’t paid, absolving me of that obligation), he even admitted the crime for which Declan had been jailed before was actually Thomas’ handiwork too.
"If people think you are an idiot, they look no further," he enlightened me.
Then he paid and left to lead a fun life in the Mediterranean.
© Jill Vance 2014
I paused, unsure how to phrase it delicately as I knew I had already antagonized so many people with what would undoubtedly be called ‘my trick’.
“I am happy that justice prevailed and an innocent man was not jailed for a crime he did not commit,” saying the only thing possible under the circumstances.
I started to move on, and although many questions battered me, I simply told all the reporters that was all I had to say, and went back to my office.
Generally after a spectacular victory like the one I had just pulled off, Stephen, the senior partner, produced a bottle of Brut Champaign and we all toasted the sweet success of a win. Somehow I doubted this time my entrance would get cheers and applause – more likely people would smile politely and after a few obligatory words, turn away.
The Clark Case, or ‘Chic Case’ as the newspapers called it, had been a bitter battle in every sense.
Thomas Clark had been accused of torturing and brutally killing at least seven women last year, over a period of five months. It had taken the police a long time to figure out that what connected each victim was that they had bought the first copy of Chic Magazine from the same newspaper stall the day before or the same day they were killed. The stall belonged to Thomas, so he was immediately a suspect and was watched closely.
Every week as Chic hit the news-stand, the first woman to buy it was also tailed, until finally the law officers caught a man trying to tie up Deborah, the first to buy the magazine that particular day. The man escaped, leaving behind a bag full of ancient instruments of torture with no fingerprints, but the police had seen his face and knew who he was. Thomas Clark. They immediately arrested him, and that was when I was called in to defend the case.
At first it looked hopeless and I was reluctant to accept the job, but as Thomas protested his innocence to me, I felt he was telling the truth. I couldn’t see how that was possible, and was still inclined to refuse. Then he told me a vital piece of information, and I agreed to defend him.
I confronted the police with this new knowledge, in the hope of avoiding going to court, but they didn’t believe it. They did however, check it up, knowing I would present it in court. They wanted to be ready to discredit it, but they insisted they could find no proof of the facts as I had told them. They refused to believe me and set out to prove me wrong instead of examining the facts of the case properly, and that caused friction between the legal firm I worked for and the police.
I was annoyed they didn’t take me seriously and someone from their office even resorted to ‘leaking’ snippets of information to reporters. This always included something, couched in careful terms, about my incompetence, possible nervous breakdown, and the fact I was siding with a brutal killer rather than caring about the welfare of the people.
Sides were taken by just about everyone in the country; the population believed the newspapers, so I was a bad guy, the police hated me for defending Thomas and doubting their own eyewitness accounts. Other lawyers believed I was ruining already delicate relations between the police and legal counsel, in addition because the journalists wanted sensational news and I couldn’t discuss the case with them, the police leaks gave them enough fodder to sell extra papers, so they sided against me too. The bad press made me unpopular in our own office too and the long hours I had to work to get my case together, coupled with an unadmitted belief in the papers, caused my live-in girlfriend to move out.
Everyone insisted the man arrested was the guilty party. The police had caught him in the act, therefore there could be no doubt – except he had got away and was arrested at home later, so he hadn’t been literally ‘caught in the act’.
No one had faith in me, and even the legal clerks, secretaries and investigators who were suppose to work with me were unhelpful, and I would even go as far as to say they were actually against me.
I kept on with the case for two reasons; one you can’t stop representing a client in the middle of a case without valid reasons, and a judge would not see ‘I am tired of having everyone against me’ as one of them. Secondly, I really believed in Thomas’s innocence, or at least that it was perfectly possible someone else was responsible for killing these women, therefore the term ‘reasonable doubt’ applied and he should be set free.
The court case started, and as defence council I had to wait through the prosecution’s long drawn out arguments before I could put my own. The jury, public, court officers, newspapers and entire population were sure Thomas was guilty and there were even calls to reinstate the death penalty so he could be ‘removed from this earth’.
For days, I could only throw in odd questions to witnesses and sit quietly for the rest of the process, simply passing time until it was my turn.
Ten days into the trial the prosecution had finished and the next day I was on.
I hadn’t made up my mind exactly how to proceed as I wanted to see where the other side had taken the case. I could either hit everyone with the fact immediately or play around with it for a bit, and it was the latter I finally opted for. That way I would not leave any doubt in the jury’s minds. The impact would be greater and that would let everyone see Thomas was wrongly accused.
I called my first witness, Thomas’ teacher from his first few years in school.
“Do you remember Thomas from school?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about him as a student.”
“Objection. Irrelevant.” The opposing lawyer was on his feet.
“Your Honour,” I interjected, “I will show relevance soon if your Honour permits.”
“Very well, but be quick,” his Honour replied.
“Tell us about him as a student,” I tried again.
“He was a hard worker and always did his homework. He struggled to keep up with the class, but by working hard he managed it. I knew about his home situation and tried to help anytime I could. He was helpful and well liked.”
“Would you read us the school report you wrote about him?” handing her the report.
She did.
“And what can you tell us about…” my questions continued and a quick glance at the jury showed they were confused, but not enough – yet.
“And this report?” Again, she complied.
Next on the witness stand was another teacher, this time she had taught Thomas when he was fifteen.
“Do you remember Thomas from school?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about him as a student.”
There was no objection this time around, and her answer was similar to the first teacher’s. Thomas wasn’t the brightest, but worked hard and managed to scrap through his exams.
The third teacher came to the stand.
“You taught…” and again as I asked a few simple questions, my eyes on the jury, I could see their doubt get slightly stronger.
The jury now knew Thomas’ parents were illiterate, had a small farm which barely kept them from hunger and his father often beat him.
Bosses from various jobs and landlords from a few different apartments followed. All agreed Thomas was a model employee and tenant.
They all also said Declan was a different story. Declan had always been in trouble in school. He was intelligent, but used his brain to figure out ways to do damage. He had been jailed for fifteen years for rape and brutality, and in prison he had killed another man, in self defence admittedly, but it is still murder. He got out two and a half years ago, after serving the full term.
I had managed to get Declan’s existence in over numerous objections by the prosecution by saying, “Your Honour, this is information I gave to the police and they ignored. It proves there is more than reasonable doubt my client did it, and without this person, an innocent man could be sent to jail for crimes he didn’t commit. All will soon become obvious if your Honour would be understanding for only a few minutes more.”
So far I had not connected Declan to Thomas, but when I did the room exploded.
Declan was Thomas’ identical twin brother.
When I introduced the twin my opposing colleague objected as he said there was no proof of this person’s existence. I pointed out to the judge the teacher’s comments on Declan and the school reports. This proved he existed.
The opposition said there was no proof Thomas was related to him and the birth certificate the police had dug up said, ‘born to Marie and Tom Clark, a son’, not twins or two sons.
“Yes,” I responded, “a son named Thomas Declan. There was a mistake made at the time of their birth. Since neither Mr nor Mrs Clark could read, they were happy everything was in order because Thomas and Declan were registered. They did not realise they were both registered as the same person. “I looked at the jury and they were captivated by this turn of events.
“Your Honour, I have the midwife who delivered the boys as my next witness. She will testify two boys were born,” I sustained, and I was told to proceed. Any doubts were removed by the lady swearing two twin boys were born to Mrs Clark.
The judge adjourned proceedings for a day to give the police time to find Declan.
The day Declan, identical to Thomas, was brought into court I knew Thomas would be acquitted, and he was. A new trial was arranged against Declan and the police were reprimanded for not doing their jobs properly by not investigating my claims thoroughly.
My victory had come at a very high personal price and people now couldn’t forgive me for being right. Life was not easy, but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I had saved an innocent man.
That small redress lasted only until the next day when Thomas came into my office to pay. He had been offered a huge sum for his story and a good price for his newsstand. He was going to use the money to buy a small vineyard in France, he said. Then he thanked me for helping him make his plan work.
It took a while for that last remark to sink in, and when it did I couldn’t help asking how he had done it.
Apparently right from an early age he had always put the blame on Declan for everything, by seeming none too bright when in actual fact he, Thomas, was far sharper than his twin.
Knowing I was bound by client confidentiality, (and he still hadn’t paid, absolving me of that obligation), he even admitted the crime for which Declan had been jailed before was actually Thomas’ handiwork too.
"If people think you are an idiot, they look no further," he enlightened me.
Then he paid and left to lead a fun life in the Mediterranean.
© Jill Vance 2014
© Jill Vance