The Devil's in the Detail. Matthew S Wilson

David James Shepherd. He read it again and again, like a sign next to a parking spot that is too good to be true. This was the obituary he had been waiting for.

      He tore the page out of the paper and drained the remainder of the espresso. He needed to make a phone call. Baal, the rather promising but all too eager junior lawyer in Gabriel’s office would not be required in Court today.

      CHAPTER 3

      David was sure that every defendant in the history of British law and order had worn a suit of some description to court. While it seemed that in America, serial killers were kindly provided a pair of bright orange overalls to wear by the State during their trial, British defendants always wore a suit. Those who were accused of fraud wore suits. So too did those who had assaulted somebody. Burglars. Extortionists. Rapists. Even those contesting a speeding fine had the good sense to wear a suit to court. But here, in the trial of his life, or indeed death, David Shepherd appeared in a pair of jeans, t-shirt and polar-fleece that had cost him all of fifteen quid from Primark. He only owned one suit. He wished he were wearing it now.

      He was seated at a large stone table next to Olivia. As she busily rifled through that folder she carried, his eyes wandered around the courtroom. Truthfully more of a church than a courtroom, dim light barely penetrated the filthy stained glass windows perched high upon the stone walls. Trapped within the grimy glass were depictions of figures kneeling. Pleading. Hoping. Praying for redemption. This was indeed a place of judgment.

      A set of six columns reached high up to the vaulted ceiling, each adorned with a statue of what he presumed was a Saint. He tried to remember his Bible studies. Was the one carrying the keys Peter? And the one opposite him with the sword, was he Paul? Although only statues, he could have sworn that they’d changed their pose since he first walked in. Now each of their eyes were fixed on him and their fingers seemed to be singling him out. Six saints, each pointing long, cold fingers of blame. He must be going mad. Perhaps dying didn’t entirely agree with him?

      Behind him were about five empty rows of seats, presumably for the gallery. What sort of a person came to watch a trial in Purgatory? Was the afterlife really that dull?

      At the front of the room was a raised bench. This must be where the judge sat. A small witness stand stood to the right of the bench. He looked around for where the jury may sit, but couldn’t see anything. Judgement must be administered by a higher power.

      On the wall directly behind the bench was an enormous seal, depicting an upside down crucifix and a key with Latin words emblazoned around its edge. It was flanked by two flags that stood upright. David didn’t recognise either – one seemed to be pale blue in colour, with a golden sash, whilst the second was black with a crimson sash.

      Aside from the rear doors through which he and Olivia had entered, there were three other entry points, or exits, in the chamber. One was located in the back corner of the room and David guessed that this was some sort of anteroom. The remaining two exits were a pair of gates, one located in each corner of the front wall. They were both roughly eight feet tall and both revealed nothing but darkness beyond their bars. At first they appeared to be identical, but David soon noticed that they were indeed quite different.

      The gate on the left hand side of the room seemed to have bars that were made of the most beautiful arrangement of pearls that he had ever seen. Olivia noticed David’s gaze.

      ‘Didn’t you ever wonder where the phrase “pearly gates” originated from?’

      David hadn’t. In fact, he’d never considered Heaven at all. When he’d attended funerals and priests had spoken of Heaven, his mind usually went blank. Perhaps on reflection he had never really believed that such a place existed. Maybe it was just a place that people had invented to make them believe that their loved ones were residing somewhere happier than six feet under, next to the M25. Yet there they were. The Gates to Heaven.

      His eyes shifted to the right hand side of the room and he looked at the other gate. The bars were made of dark iron, with razor sharp jagged edges that prevented anyone from entering. Or more probably, prevented people from leaving. The thought of Hell made him shudder and he instantly wanted to get things underway and prove his innocence.

      ‘Where is everybody?’

      ‘The prosecution wanted to change their counsel.’

      He looked alarmed.

      ‘Is that common?’

      ‘Not common.’

      ‘Why would they do that?’

      ‘Who knows how they think down there?’

      Down there. David suddenly remembered that Olivia wasn’t merely talking about the room down the hall. Or a few floors down in the building. She was talking about Hell. His eyes flicked to the black gate. How could a place that was bathed in fire send such cold chills down his spine? And it seemed that if Hell were taking the time to change their counsel, then somebody “down there” was taking this case very seriously indeed.

      But why? Hadn’t he lived his life in a relatively good way? Why had they picked on him? He was just a London cab driver. What had he ever done that was bad? Admittedly, what had he done that was any good? He looked up at the majestic courtroom and wondered how a no good lay-about like him warranted all of this.

      ‘So will there be witnesses?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘A jury?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘How can you have a trial without witnesses or a jury?’

      ‘Both are human Mr Shepherd, and humans are particularly susceptible to emotion. And emotion, I’m sure you will agree, can be awfully counter productive when it comes to discovering the truth.’

      ‘The truth? But surely the truth is what somebody says it is. Isn’t it?’

      Her face suggested otherwise.

      ‘I mean, the actual truth is a myth,’ he continued, ‘Who on Earth knows the bloody truth about anything?’

      ‘You are quite right Mr Shepherd. Nobody on Earth does.’

      She gave a little knowing smile, quite pleased with her clever little quip. David was less amused.

      ‘God? We’re expecting God to take the stand?’

      ‘Lower your voice,’ she hissed at him. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that we could certainly do with Him on our side.’

      Although they were the only two people in the room he found himself whispering.

      ‘Seriously? How can he testify?’

      ‘He won’t be testifying Mr Shepherd. There isn’t any need. He has already told us everything that you’ve ever done, said or indeed even thought. It’s all in your Liberiudicium.’

      ‘My Liber-what?’

      ‘Your Liberiudicium. It means your Book of Judgement. Your Liberiudicium is a chronicle of your entire life.’

      ‘God? God writes a book about everything for absolutely everyone?’

      ‘Well nobody knows precisely how it’s transcribed, but ….’

      She shrugged.

      ‘…more or less.’

      ‘How is that even possible?’

      ‘He is God.’

      David had always hated when people had explained the unexplainable with “He is God” or “He moves in mysterious ways”. It had always struck him as exceptionally lazy.

      ‘So have you seen it?’ he asked.

      ‘Seen what?’

      ‘My Liber-whatever it’s called?’

      ‘Your Liberiudicium. I’m your counsel. Of course I have.’

      ‘So you