Amid The Maples IV The Phoenix

Summer is oppressive in Iowa.  The high humidity of the Mississippi Valley compounds the heat from the blistering sun of early June.  Along the highway, evaporating rain pools are slowly disappearing proof of the heavy night rain, thunder, and lightning that prevented sleep the night before. 

Paul is riding in a bus with seven other sweaty men, a driver, and two armed guards.  All, but the guards and driver appear to be in their early twenties.  The guards are perhaps thirty-five.  The driver is obviously over fifty.  Each of the younger men wears civilian clothes and a padlocked shackle on his right ankle.  A heavy and slightly rusted chain connects them in single file.  The young men are quiet, fearful, solemn. 

Despite Paul''s apprehension about the future, he cannot escape the memory of the proceedings that put him in chains and aboard this bus. 

He cannot rid himself of the feeling of despondency that gripped him during the jury''s slow return march to the courtroom two weeks ago.  As if ashamed or embarrassed, the jurists'' facial expressions did not indicate the verdict carried by the middle-aged foreman. 

Paul sat with his attorney as the jury returned.  Seated behind him, were his best friends, John and Seanelle Puller.  Next to them, sat his high school coach, Tom Stavenhager. 

Across the room, Dr. Thornton and his wife Ellen sat by themselves.  They would not look at Paul.  Dr. Thornton glowered; grief diminished the aging beauty of Mrs. Thornton''s face.  Paul knew no one else in the gallery. 

The jury consisted of eleven men and one matronly woman on the long side of fifty.  Not one juror smiled; not one glanced at Paul; not one''s face reflected anger, empathy, or mercy. 

Paul knew his fate.  The jury could only come to one verdict.  It did not matter.  They could not punish him more than he chastised himself.  They would only confine him; he had to live with his heartache for the rest of his life. 

Twelve of my peers!  What a colossal sham that is!  Not one of my "Peers" has been trained to box.  Not one of them has had years of conditioning to counter a right lead with a left hook.  Not one was born to suffer the hypocrisy and social bias on which Maple City thrives.  Not one has achieved anything beyond a self-deluded social superiority in their little worlds.  If the truth were told, my so-called "Peers" decided my fate before the trial began, but it doesn''t matter.  What they do to me doesn''t matter.  All my family is dead.  Elise is dead.  Linda is dead.  Nothing matters.

The Bailiff announced the arrival of Judge Clarence P. Mayborn.  The courtroom filled with the sounds of leather-soled shoes scraping oaken floors and the metallic sound of folding hinges on un-cushioned seating. 

The judge sat at his bench; everyone else remained standing.  "Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

The middle-aged man answered.  "We have, Your Honor." 

Paul did not know the foreman''s name. 

"Very well!  The Bailiff will bring the verdict to the bench, please." 

 The Bailiff obeyed.  Judge Mayborn unfolded the paper, read it, refolded it, and returned it to the Bailiff.