Perversion Of Justice: Top Lawyer Prepared To Flip
Letter from Llanaber
Global politics seen through life in this strange tiny village in West Wales...
I was sitting in the news feed ticker tape room late yesterday evening having a little cry.
Why? (I hear you ask)
It had been a long and eventful day. Let me recount the main points that happened during the day for you.
I was on my way to confront the boss of the Llanaber parish council, Mrs. Dorothy ‘Binky’ Trim. I had heard that Lord Justice Brown-Envelope, the peripatetic judge that administers justice in the village once every ten years, was about to retire, and that Mrs. T was lining up her blubby-hubby, Leonard, to be his replacement. This act would have undoubtedly set the village administration on the road to becoming a totalitarian parish, and Mrs. T and her family’s private thiefdom.
Tucked neatly in my inside pocket was a brown envelope (no pun intended) inside which was my letter of resignation. I believe myself to be ‘a good man’ and had chosen honour over status and financial reward. I could not live in any society where the very foundation of democracy, the justice system, had been corrupted. I fully intended to quit, sell up and move lock stock and barrel to the failing village to our south, Spanibont.
When I reached my esteemed leader’s office she was busy picking her teeth with a hatpin. I asked her if she could spare me a moment, and, despite her protests at being ‘snowed under’ I planted my butt on the sheep milking stool in front of her desk. She leaned over and glared down at me.
“Well?” she barked.
“I’m resigning,” I muttered, fumbling inside my jacket to find the letter I had so painstakingly crafted that laid out the list of reasons why I could no longer carry on.
“Okay,” she said, feigning indifference, “Clear your desk and piss off.”
She went back to the task in hand, clearing shreds of pineapple out of her bicuspids.
“Don’t you want to know why?” I asked, proffering her the letter.
She took the letter, eyed it for a millisecond then threw it in her wastepaper basket.
Then she picked up a handful of news feed ticker tape and threw it down on my head.
“Before you sod off, read this,” she said, then resumed the hunt for pineapple shreds.
I unfurled the tape and read it slowly (I’m a slow reader). It was an article about the boss of America’s shifty lawyer and porn star benevolence enabler, Michael Cohen. I reproduce for you the gist of the article below:
‘Sources close to the US top-cop Robert Mueller are hinting that the erstwhile immovable, staunchly loyal Trump bagman (Cohen) may be prepared to “flip” and co-operate with both prosecutors in New York and investigators looking into Russian election interference and alleged collusion between Trump aides and Moscow.’
I was befuddled. What has this to do with my resignation? (I hear you call). Mrs. T noticed the dumb expression on my face and came to my rescue.
“Read on,” she said.
The article went on to say, and I quote verbatim, “The guy (Cohen) who said he ‘would take a bullet for the president’ and would ‘never walk away’ is now saying ‘my wife, my daughter and my son have my first loyalty and always will. I put family and country first.’”
“So what?” I asked.
“Honestly,” said barked, “Sometimes you can be as dumb as a brick.” (Where have I heard that phrase before?).
She stood up and walked over to her office door and slammed it shut.
There was just her and me, alone. I had no idea what was coming next. I felt my sphincter tightening (or is it loosening?). She has been known to strike employees about the head with a paperweight so I steeled myself for some physical pain.
To my complete surprise she knelt beside me and started stroking my hair as if I was her pet Cocker Spaniel, ‘Muffin.’ What she went on to say staggered me.
“Davy, my boy, you’ll never leave. You’re one of my oldest and most loyal friends.”
This was news to me. I hate the mad old bat. She continued:
“How would you like a big fat juicy promotion?”
I am a ‘good man’ and a man of principle. So my ears pricked up. This is what she said next:
“You have long campaigned for a new position to be created in the parish council, the ‘Anti-Corruption and Nepotism Tsar.’ How would you like that in addition to your current responsibilities?”
I was intrigued.
What she was saying was true. I had long been a campaigner for an ‘incorruptible’ who could start the parish council on the long road towards ‘cleaning up its act.’
I immediately demanded a pay rise. Honesty shouldn’t come cheap, should it?
She offered me an extra £50 a year and all the Turkish Delight I could eat from her display counter every Sunday between 5:50 and 6:00am.
How could I refuse? I accepted her job offer there and then.
“Good,” she said, a sickly grin forming on her face, “You can start right away. Solly’s got the wobbles.”
By this she meant that her personal lawyer, amateur video maker and pervert Solly Weinstein (no relation) was about to do something that could damage Mrs. T in some way.
I was transfixed. I hung on her every word.
The ‘special relationship’ between Mrs. T and Solly had for years been the subject of much speculation in the village. He knew all her ‘dirty little secrets’ but had never blabbed, even when offered free goes on Trevor the Trot’s all you can eat spaghetti buffet (it’s just spaghetti) and a glimpse of Trevor’s wife’s belly button.
Solly had remained resolute.
Mrs. T. stopped stroking my hair (which was a relief. It’s okay for a few minutes but I was starting to like it).
“Look at this,” she said, handing me a note written on a lump of Simnel cake. It read as follows:
‘My wife, my daughter and my mucky vid collection have my first loyalty and always will. I put family and county first.’ It was signed, ‘Solly Weinstein (no relation).’
Solly going wobbly? My sudden promotion? What did all this mean?
I was flummoxed.
Mrs. T saw I was going cross-eyed trying to figure it out so she ‘bailed me out.’
“It means, my little toss-pot, that Gwynedd county council’s auditors are doing the rounds!
They’ve started looking into ‘irregularities’ in the village hospital budget. Solly’s got the squits about it. Solly’s been helping with the technical side of my creative accounting. He thinks Dr. Mengele (the boss of the hospital) has ‘dobbed us in’ for plundering his budget to fund fact finding tours abroad. He’s about to ‘flip.’”
“Mengele?” I stupidly asked.
She struck me across the bonce with a paperweight.
“NO, IDIOT! SOLLY!”
She calmed a little then whispered in my ear, “As of now the head of homeland security, Mateo the Knife is your direct report. I want the two of you to lean on Solly. I want you to pop round to his cottage and ‘give him a slap’ to remind him about loyalty.”
With that she took hold of the hairs on the back of my neck, twisted them hard and threw me out of her office.
Corruption! Intimidation! The perversion of the course of justice! Violence against a member of the Druish faith! Unthinkable!
On the other hand, a £50 a year bung plus a Turkish Delight gluttony session, plus a promotion AND having that thug Mateo the Knife to do my bidding!
In the end Mateo and I did not need to harm a hair on Solly’s very bald head. Let me tell you why.
When Mateo and I arrived at the cottage it was in darkness. This usually meant that Solly would be in his ‘studio’ in his basement making another of his educational videos about women’s health. We tiptoed down the cellar steps and listened. We heard female voices giggling and the sound of running water. Mateo put his huge shoulder against the cellar door and moments later we crashed in upon a scene that took my breath away.
The cellar had been decked out to look like a Russian hotel bedroom. In the middle of the room was a king sized bed. The bedspread had a large picture of Mrs. Clinton (the old girl that runs the card shop in the high street) printed on the top surface. The bedspread was sodden. Two scantily clad village maidens were writhing and squatting on the bed in what I can only describe as a ‘peeing posture.’ Solly was so engrossed in this little vignette that he was not aware of our entry until Mateo started whistling at the maidens.
It took but a quiet word in Solly’s ear about loyalty and ‘perverts doing time’ in the village clink and he was, once again, in Mrs. T’s pocket. I do believe he would now take a bullet for Mrs. T should it be required of him.
As for me, I trudged back to the council office and found my way to the ticker tape room, my head hung in shame. What had I done? I had become a cog in Mrs. T’s corrupt and oppressive machine.
Still, look at the perks.
Mrs. T’s Turkish Delight is to die for, and Solly says I can borrow any amount of his ‘women’s hygiene’ videos whenever I want for free.
That’s it for now.