If I was lucky, I’d get to go to Hell.
The walk to the courtroom was nerve-wracking, I’ll admit, but it sure beat sitting in that endless void of a waiting room called Limbo for who-knows-how-many-centuries. I was ready to get this over with, and my defense attorney and I were confident that I had an infallible case.
We climbed the milky white cloud steps that wound up to the nebulous trial in the sky, the fluffy cumulus surfaces billowing like sentient beings around and beneath us, the deep scarlet sky bleeding through the translucent cloud clusters with an eerie effect. I didn’t feel the cold or the wind—you don’t really feel anything when you’re a deceased, disembodied spirit—but I imagined if I were still joined with my body that it would be utterly freezing, and for once I was grateful to be dead.
Finally, we reached the gate to the roofless courtroom (not pearly gates, mind you), the whole place composed entirely of clouds. As I followed the procession of devils and angels inside, I beheld a heavenly—nay, infernal—well, at any rate some kind of throng filling rows of stratocumulus benches, chatting eternity away. Most of them turned to gawp at me, the only one in the room who hadn’t been committed to either Heaven or Hell yet. I tried to ignore the horned red faces with their malevolent yellow eyes; the angelic figures of varied skin, eye, and hair color gazing with perfectly justified self-righteousness which to me seemed to imply that they would be dissatisfied no matter what sentence I received.
My attorney devil glanced at me as we sat down near the front, his black business suit going strikingly well with his blood-red skin and dirty, wrinkled claws.
“Keep it cool and follow my lead,” he said with a mischievous grin. “We’ve got this one in the bag.”
I just nodded and suddenly noticed the towering cirrus pulpit in front of us. It stood between the two jury benches, six angels in one and six devils in the other, and at the top stood probably the brightest angel I’d ever seen—I mean, talk about brighter than the sun with glory beyond description; my retinas couldn’t have been more fried by Saint Peter if I’d challenged Sirius to a staring contest.
Anyway, like all Arc Angels, Peter’s halo actually had three golden rings rather than the traditional single one, which was reserved for your standard run-of-the-mill heaven-dweller, while two gold rings indicated sainthood or something. I wasn’t really sure, and to be quite honest hoped I’d never have to find out.
So here’s the thing—I don’t want to go to Heaven. Why, you ask? Three words: The Divine Comedy. For those unfamiliar with Dante’s illuminating work, it’s a description of the three major afterlives: Inferno (Hell), Purgatorio (Purgatory), and Paradiso (Heaven). Inferno is chock-full of colorful lifestyles. Are there unpleasant punishments? Certainly. But those inner circles and rings don’t seem so bad when compared to the starry doldrums of Paradiso. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t get any joy out of sin—no one really does, but I’m one of the few perceptive enough to realize it—yet I crave an afterlife of excitement. So I figure if I can get in deep enough with the demons once I’m down there, I can work the system and find fulfillment I never would have found wandering the boring, abstract orbits of the empyrean realms.
I glanced over at the plaintiff, who carried such a threatening air of holiness about him that I involuntarily gulped and silently wished we didn’t have to go through all these formalities—even though I knew I was going to win. Oddly enough, even without a body I craved a soothing glass of milk as I’d always craved in life whenever I was stressed.
Once everyone had done that thing where you stand as the judge stands, we all sat back down and allowed Peter to kick it off.
“Angels and devils of the court,” he said, his gaze sweeping around the assemblage and pausing on me, penetrating into my soul like a spiritual poker heated with the furnace of a thousand afflictions. “Today we decide the fate of this man—whether he is worthy of Heaven or Hell, Salvation or Damnation. State your name for the court.”
I froze, not expecting to be put on the spot so soon. “Is…is that really necessary, Your Honor? I mean, I think it’d just be a waste of—”
“Your name.” Peter tapped his finger impatiently on the pillowy podium.
I exchanged a look with my defendant and sighed. “Fine. My name is Judas.”
Peter frowned, examining the document in front of him. “I have you down as Joe.”
“That’s just what my friends call me.”
Many of the jurors and spectators leaned forward with renewed interest. One of the jury members couldn’t keep his mouth shut for the life of him—which, come to think of it, could very well be why he’d died so young.
“Judas? You mean Judas Iscariot, the one who betrayed Jesus to the Pharisees?”
“No.”
Another jury member spoke up, looking as if she felt smarter than her colleague.
“You must be Judas Not Iscariot, then.” She got blank looks from those around her. “You know? The apostle named Judas who wasn’t a douchebag and had like three lines in the New Testament?”
“No.”
“Well, then, what Judas are you?”
“I’m Judas Not Not Iscariot.”
Peter saw that people were trying to think that one through, and quickly decided it wasn’t worth his or the court’s time. He spoke again.
“Very well, Judas Not Not Iscariot. What is your day of death?”
“January 12, 2018.”
“AD or BC?”
“Sorry—AD.”
“Cause of death?”
“Lethal injection.”
“And how does the defendant plead?”
“Not guilty of being not guilty. Or guilty of being guilty. Take your pick.”
Peter finished jotting a couple notes and shuffled some papers on the podium, then looked up at the two benches. “The prosecution may proceed with its opening statement.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
The prosecuting angel smiled like he was about to serve a plate of chocolate strawberries and took the front.
“Angels and devils of the court, from time immemorial this room has dealt both justice and mercy in ensuring men and women are sent to the immortal realm where they best belong. As we all know, goodness draws us nearer to Heaven and to God, while wickedness—”
Saint Peter banged his gavel and cleared his throat. “Get to the point.”
“Yes. Well. The individual in question, Judas Not Not Iscariot, has lived a conclusively good life, and our aim today is to prove beyond a shadow of a valley of death of a doubt that he is fit only for Heaven and not even slightly deserving of any level of Hell or even Purgatory.”
My blood began to boil (or it would if I had blood), but I forced myself to remain calm as the trial proceeded. I imagined that refreshing milk rushing down my throat to alleviate my nerves.
“I’d like to call my first witness to the stand,” the prosecutor said.
An old woman stumbled up to the stand, peering out at the courtroom through thick spectacles, looking for all the world as if she was trying to make out the missing letters on an episode of Wheel of Fortune.
The angel began pacing back and forth in that painfully stereotypical way that prosecutors do. “Ma’am, are you not the mother of the defendant?”
She narrowed her eyes to just make out the figure of her son less than ten feet away from her. “Why, yes; yes I am.”
“How would you describe Judas?”
Her mouth stretched like wrinkly puddy into a wide smile. “Why, Junior’s just about the finest young man I done ever made. He took care of his folks like we was royalty ‘til the day my husband and I died.”
“Interesting. Would you say his behavior is deserving of endless torment and everlasting misery and woe?”
She chuckled. “Why, of course not! Junior’s a saint if I ever known one.”
Thanks, Mom, I thought bitterly as she left the stand. My defense attorney had nothing to ask her, but it was our turn now. The devil stood up and took the angel’s place before the court.
“I think it’s time we get the true story—not the watered-down, pampered version from my client’s doting parents. I call my first witness to the stand.”
A young man with chestnut skin, wildly unkempt hair, and a worn leather jacket lumbered up to the stand and sat with a sigh that suggested he’d rather be doing just about anything anywhere—in Heaven, Hell, Limbo, or Purgatory—other than be in this hearing.
“You are Brad, Judas Not Not Iscariot’s best friend, yes?”
“You got it, buster.”
“Now I’d like you to be honest—what kinds of things would you and him do together?”
Brad gave me a knowing look and winked. “All kinds o’ crap. Shoplifting, robbing, kidnapping, arsoning…you know; the works.”
“And after your time together, how would you describe your trust in Judas Not Not Iscariot’s character?”
Brad snorted. “I wouldn’t trust ol’ Silvertongue with a plastic cucumber. He swindled me outta my share so many times I lost count. A real piece of work, that one is.” He nodded in my direction.
“Thank you.” The well-dressed devil sat back down beside me and grinned. I grinned back. Our opposition was already toast.
“Your Honor, I’d like to question their witness, if that’s acceptable.”
“Request granted.”
The angel walked up to Brad, beaming like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. A methodical, diabolical, all-knowing six-year-old.
“You said you committed crimes together. Now why did you, Brad, choose to break the law?”
“Why?” Brad laughed. “Because it was fun. It was good sport. And also having a few extra thousand bucks around was a real nice perk, too.”
“Okay. Now…why did Judas choose to break the law with you?”
At that, Brad frowned. “Well, now, that’s different. You see, Joe was what you might call in America a ‘secret agent.’ Sure, he robbed and burned down buildings and took candy from little children with me, but he always had his hidden agenda that impelled him to accompany me, whether it was to stop a terrorist plot or destroy a counterfeit money facility or prevent an alien child from sucking the Earth’s energy dry like a raisin in the sun. Least, that’s what I heard.”
“Thank you.” The angel looked irritatingly smug as he took his seat once more.
If my attorney was at all shaken by this most recent development, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stood confidently and boomed in his deep, demonic voice.
“I call my second witness to the stand.”
A good-looking young woman with long brown hair stepped fragilely up to the stand. She looked out at the heavenly-infernal host with trepidation.
“You are Mary, wife of Judas Not Not Iscariot, correct?”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet somehow the acoustics of the room caused it to resonate clear back to the far end.
“You seem young for one who’s passed on. Would you mind sharing with us how you died?”
She seemed to hesitate, but then, realizing she had no choice, relented. “My husband came home late one night and carried me asleep into the garage. He left the car exhaust on, and I suffocated from carbon monoxide poisoning without ever waking up.”
The jury began muttering; this latest story seemed to have stirred them.
“In other words, he murdered you in cold blood. Is that accurate?”
She looked across the room at me. We made eye contact, and I inclined my head up and down ever so slightly. She turned to the defense devil and nodded.
“Thank you. Let the jury note that there are no exceptions for unrepentant first-degree murderers to gain entrance to heaven. I rest my case.” He slunk smoothly back into his seat, steepling his fingers with a satisfied smirk.
The plaintiff angel stood up, obviously a bit peeved, but still mostly collected. “Objection. Articles 79-81 of Statute XLVII of the Book of Life decree a number of exceptions for killers at the judgment bar.”
“Sustained,” Peter said.
“Now, Mary…you are obligated under oath to answer me honestly, since pleading the Fifth is of no efficacy here seeing as God’s judgment is perfect and he needs neither Amendments nor a Bill of Rights. Here is my question: Why did your husband kill you? What would have happened to you if he hadn’t?”
“Objection,” my attorney said. “My opponent asked two questions, not one.”
“Overruled,” Peter said, his head resting passively on his hand. He nodded to Mary. “Go on.”
Mary looked at me hopelessly with somber eyes. But there was no way around it. “If he hadn’t asphyxiated me, the virus implanted inside me by the Chinese Secret Service through a Panda Express wonton would have grown; the viral Xenomorph would have feasted on my internal organs and broken out through my stomach, causing the airborne virus to spread and kill off most of America. He gave me the most painless death possible.”
At that, the jury’s mutterings grew even more ferocious. Peter slammed his gavel.
“Order in the court. The prosecution has made its point. You may call your final witness.”
My defense attorney’s expression resembled that of a dog with hypersensitive olfactory abilities who’d just picked up on a roadkill skunk that had been having bad diarrhea shortly before its untimely demise. I myself wasn’t feeling too hot about this anymore. I could really use that glass of milk. I leaned over and whispered to him.
“Shouldn’t we use—”
“Not yet.”
“I call Judas Not Not Iscariot to the stand,” the prosecutor said.
I reluctantly stood and meandered up to the short stratocumulus podium. No microphone was necessary since every voice carried itself naturally across the cloudy courtroom.
“Mr. Not Not Iscariot…with your obligation under oath in mind, please tell the court what was your deepest, most heartfelt desire in life.”
I swallowed. This wasn’t good. “To save the world.”
“Good. And have you ever committed a serious crime in your life that wasn’t motivated by a pure and noble purpose?”
“…No.”
“Have you ever mistreated your family in any way other than the already-mentioned case?”
“Never.”
“Then why, may I ask, do you want to go to Hell?”
I shrugged. “YORO. You Only Resurrect Once. Might as well make it interesting.”
The angel then used a remote to turn on a projector screen which shone on one of the large cumulus walls. The images revealed my dirtiest secrets: Me serving turkey at a Thanksgiving dinner; me shaking hands with the President of the United States after preventing a missile crisis; me hugging puppies with an incriminating crowd of little children climbing all over me in delight.
“Angels and devils…the evidence is overwhelming. Judas Not Not Iscariot is undeniably one of the most selfless, heroic individuals ever to walk the earth. To even begin to suggest he be granted a place in even the mildest circle of Hell is simply ludicrous—blasphemous, even. I rest my case, Your Honor.”
I shook my head as I sat back down beside my attorney. This could be it. They’d presented a strong case against us. It all rode on this last play—our trump card; our ace in the hole. I could only hope the prosecution’s case was, as I suspected, a true case of Imaginary Stick Diplomacy (as opposed to TDR’s Big Stick Diplomacy): “Speak loudly and pretend to carry a stick.” You know, like that Biblical story of the Israelites marching around Jericho, or like playing up your hand in a game of poker, or like Paul Blart the mall cop pretending to pull out a gun. My attorney, visibly miffed, nevertheless tried to give me a reassuring snarl and took to the platform.
“Even with everything my opponent has pointed out, I must confess that we have left out one final piece of evidence. One that we knew would deeply disturb this court should we mention it.” He pounded a fist on the witness stand. “But our hand has been forced. Some acts of evil cannot be explained away, nor justified by any means. To attempt to do so would be as futile as trying to win a game of UNO by stealing other people’s cards. Mr. Not Not Iscariot, would you care to explain the worst thing you have ever done?”
I rose to my feet, hoping against hope that my incredible story would be believed. Of course it will, I chided myself. It’s literally impossible to lie in this court. They’ll have to accept my testimony. They have to.
“The worst thing I’ve ever done is…”
I drew a breath and opened my mouth, milking the courtroom’s suspense for all it was worth.
“I…opened a new gallon of milk before finishing off the last one.”
Stunned silence. Then:
“Monster!”
“Fiend!”
“Sworn servant of Ba’al, the Soul Eater!”
The outcry was better than I could’ve hoped for. I barely even heard Saint Peter’s disgusted sentencing as the bailiff dragged me away from the pearly gate exit on one side, toward the flaming cave entrance on the other. Before I disappeared inside, lyres and trumpets being thrown at me by the raging mob, my attorney came up and we exchanged a conspiratorial knuckle punch.
“See you in Hell.”
I couldn’t hold back a soft laugh. “See you in Hell indeed…and thank Heavens for that.”
The Commonplace Notebook 