Kangaroo Court

Skipper was on his second vodka soda when Jo hopped up to the bar.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, “They had him tried and convicted before you even showed up.”

It had been a miserable day for him in court. His client was found guilty on all counts, and Skipper had to promise him they’d do better on appeal knowing full well that was unlikely if not a downright lie. It was his forty-third loss in a row. He wanted to melt like the ice in his drink.

When he was a wallaby, all Skipper dreamt about was being an attorney. He’d sit in his mother’s pouch and listen as she advocated on behalf of other kangaroos in their community. Anyone who was on trial for a crime received a robust defense from her, and she rarely took payment. That meant they mostly lived off what his father made at the zoo. He’d come home from work tired and cross from having to be on display all afternoon. Sometimes Skipper’s parents would fight about how much pro bono work his mother was doing, but his father’s tone would change as soon as she’d tell him about the koala bear who was wrongfully accused of stealing another bear’s eucalyptus or the emu who would have been sent away for vehicular manslaughter if his mother hadn’t done her due diligence.

“All right, Linda,” his father would say, “You’ve made your point. I just wish sainthood paid better.”

Memories like those were the reason Skipper should have stayed far away from the law. Instead, they sunk past his fur into his very nature. He’d hear his mother’s closing arguments in his dreams. As soon as he was old enough to leave the pouch, he began pursuing a career in the courts.

It didn’t take long for him to learn that there were two kinds of justice in the Outback. There was the kind that humans got, which sometimes made sense and sometimes didn’t. Then there was the kind everybody else got. The kind that was all emotions and anecdotes and long-held grudges and matters of opinion. The kangaroos were in charge of prosecution, defense, judging, and jurying, but no matter how often they talked about trying to keep their procedures orderly, it always devolved into chaos.

Jo had been a prosecutor for only three years, but she was already more accepting of the flaws in the system than Skipper, and he’d been at it for nearly a decade. In all those years, he’d watched as clients he knew were innocent got thrown into jail (or worse), and he wondered how his mother ever managed to keep her tail up. While he was nestled in her pouch, he must not have been paying attention to how often defendants were found guilty based on no evidence whatsoever.

“That’s how the kangaroo court goes,” said Jo, motioning to the bartender, “You can’t let it get to you. You did great in there. That point about the fingerprints was genius. Do Tasmanian devils even have fingerprints?”

Skipper nodded, but truthfully, he wasn’t sure.

“See, you’re so creative,” Jo said, “I never think of things like that.”

“You don’t have to,” Skipper replied, “You’re the prosecution. This lot is bloodthirsty. They’re rooting for you. Me, I’m just the guy getting in the way of their vitriol.”

The bartender came over and took Jo’s order. A very dry martini. Her usual. Skipper saw the judge sitting at a table off to the side. He was having drinks with a few members of the jury. Something like that should be grounds for discipline, but there were no regulations against fraternization. There weren’t really any regulations against anything. If you didn’t like what you saw a judge doing, you could bring it up in court, and then you’d be certain to never win a case again.

“Do you ever think about doing something else,” Skipper asks, half to Jo, but half to himself, “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”

“What else would you do,” she asked, popping the martini’s olive in her mouth, “They closed the zoo. Jobs are hard to find. You could box, I guess. My cousin just started coaching if you want me to put you two in touch.”

Skipper was too old to start boxing now. Besides, he loved the law even if it didn’t love him back. He told Jo he’d see her in the morning for the trial of a crocodile who was caught embezzling. After paying his tab, he sent a brief text message on his phone and caught a cab back to his apartment.

When he got there, Matilda was already waiting.

“What’s it going to be tonight, Skipper,” she asked, stubbing out the cigarette she was smoking right in front of his building, “We doing another big victory for truth and justice?”

He hurried her inside and offered to take her coat. It looked like it was made out of wombats, but he dared not ask. She asked him if he had any scotch, but all he could offer was water. It had been over a week since he’d gone shopping for essentials, let alone liquor.

“I’ll just take my money then,” she said, “Might as well get it upfront. Not that I don’t trust you, mate. I know what an upstanding kanga you are.”

The enactments never quite landed with him, because Matilda was a dingo, not a kangaroo. No self-respecting kangaroo would be in this kind of business. Only dingos and devils showed up to an apartment early in the evening on a weekday to make some money and take instructions.

“Do you remember how we did it last time,” Skipper asked her, already taking his place on the couch.

“Don’t worry,” said Matilda, taking a fake pair of eyeglasses out of her coat pocket and putting them on as she pulled out the piece of paper he’d given her when she came over last month, “I practically have this memorized by now.”

She cleared her throat and gave him the signal.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Skipper said, trying to mimic the serious tone used by judges, “What say you?”

Matilda looked down at the paper. She was beginning to relish this part. And why shouldn’t she? Once it was over, she could take her money and go home. It must all seem so easy to her. Little did she know what it was doing to Skipper.

“We the jury find the defendant,” she paused dramatically as she had been told to do, “...Innocent.”

Skipper closed his eyes and found his breath.

“Again.”

“We the jury--”

“Slower.”

“--find--the--defendant--”

“That’s good, yes.”

“Innocent.”

“Again.”

He had her say it a few dozen times, and then showed her to the door. After inhaling some moss and silkwood leftover in the fridge from god knows when, he sat down on the couch and turned on the television. There was a procedural on. Something about a group of young, hotshot human assistant district attorneys fighting the good fight.

Skipper watched it the way some others might watch a show about elves or dragons. He found the whole thing to be wildly entertaining and in no way relatable.

At the end of the episode, when the lead character’s client was found guilty, he turned off the television and tried to find his breath again.

It took a minute, but then again, it usually did.