//------------------------------//
// Chapter IV: The Complaint 
// Story: PRAT 
// by Integral Archer 
//------------------------------//

The proceedings of a court, despite what may be the perception of the vulgar population, whose only exposure to the law is that which they can glean from cable dramas, and which faulty conception is exacerbated by politicians trying to scare, by legal lecturers trying to keep an auditorium awake; and by hack writers of derivative comedies, who have just as much experience as the masses themselves, desperate to grab the attention of a reader or two lest the poor artists and their meretricious novels decompose, the former from malnutrition due to an inability to make money, and the latter due to the fate that befalls all paper in a landfill—such proceedings, conducted in an abstruse language replete with highfalutin terminology, are slow, monotonous, with many interludes and interims; and, above all, somnolent; though this last quality, trying as it is to the public, is not an insurmountable obstacle for lawyers, whose education and experience have strengthened their forbearance to such dry situations. A court, though tiring, is nothing the constitution of a lawyer, and even his accused client, couldn’t withstand, as long as the effort toward it is put in.

A tribunal, however, is absolutely insufferable to one and all.

With the exception, perhaps, of the complainant, who initiated the proceedings, and who, perhaps, for some unearthly reason, likes to have the legal sanction to accuse innocents and force them to attempt the Sisyphean task of proving a negative; of the commissioners, for which supposition is adduced the facts that they have made their professions out of the tribunal, and that most of them, upon attaining the office, hold it till death; and, perhaps, of the particularly sick and twisted lunatic the complainant chose as his counsel, whose nature is probably such a significant amount of the time, given that said counsel is usually a lawyer.

Due Process and Princess Celestia had taken their seats with their new determination; but as soon as the proceedings began, they were taken to task with just staying awake. Still, they survived the first day, and they were so happy that they had that they forgot that there were about five or so more to go, till they could even begin to make their defense.

On the second day, the audience fell asleep the moment the call of “all rise” was given. Princess Celestia, though used to proceedings like this, still struggled; she stayed awake without managing to pay attention to the words. His honor kept Due Process, whom cases usually fascinated and galvanized more so than any cup of coffee, from drifting off, if unsuccessful in suppressing his very noisy yawns, which aroused the ire of the commissioners, and by consequence augmented the pleasure and hopes of Res Judicata. The only spectators who remained unaffected by the tribunal’s somnolent spell were the Royal Guards—though they were more plaster and concrete than flesh anyway.

“From this,” Res Judicata was expostulating, “the next piece of evidence can be presented a fortiori; namely, because this tribunal operates ex æquo et bono, or at least was founded under those principles, this act of discrimination per se, in the capacity of hostis manni generis, is, universitas rerum, clearly, ipso facto, ultra vires reginæ. If you please, mei parvi manni, if I may draw your attention to a precedent, namely, in R. v. Flash, it is true, demirabar, thirty years ago, quid esset amicitia, though it was ultimately mooted, tunc ejus magicam mihi communicavistis. Yes, indeed, magnum iter, and multum deliciæ, pulchrum cor, fidele potensque! Communicare beneficia facile est, et magica omnia complet! Mei parvi manni, scitisne ipsos mihi amicos optimos esse? Et . . .”

“What is she saying?” whispered Princess Celestia.

“I have no idea,” her counsel replied. “But it all sounds very legal and dignified, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve been in foreign politics long enough to know what filibustering sounds like in every language. You need to stop her.”

Due Process gulped. He had considered saying something from the outset; a certain fear had stopped him. But now, as it was his client’s desire, he had no choice.

He rose from his seat. “I must,” he interjected, interrupting Res Judicata, “insist that this irrelevant and incomprehensible screed be put to an end.”

Res Judicata stopped at once and, with a knowing, sly smile, looked at the commissioners, who glared with angry scowls down at Due Process.

“I find Judy’s words completely comprehensible,” shot Petty Nicety, “and, not only that, but lucid and relevant. It is not the tribunal’s fault if the lack of your erudition precludes your understanding its proceedings. Continue, Judy.”

“Gratias tibi ago,” replied she. “Nunc, Rainbow, mea cara, meam sonare lætitiam non possum . . .”

Due Process, his fear being fulfilled, let his forehead fall to the table with a heavy thud.


*


Res Judicata had the letter, which explicitly stated the reason for Hearty Bucks’s rejection from the school. All her case was there, and she did not need the totality of the five days that followed for speeches, and she most certainly did not need to question the poor interviewer, who had issued the first rejection, and the dean of the school, who had confirmed it.

The said interviewer, a kindly, shy looking old mare, shook and stuttered as she waited for Res Judicata to organize her notes. For ten long minutes, the witness, alone and silent on the stand, simmered in her own fear, as the entirety of the courtroom watched and judged her, and the consciousness that all her words would be recorded and promulgated for posterity and tabloids probably did not help her nerves, or her blood pressure, much.

“Did you reject my client because he’s a unicorn?” Res Judicata finally asked.

The interviewer looked as if she were about to collapse, so white as she was. She was unable to choke out a response. Desperately, more out of pity for her than any sort of desire for justice, Due Process rose and interrupted the proceedings. “She’s leading the witness!” he cried.

It was a good, healthy, robust outburst, and Due Process felt himself, and the interviewer, vindicated from it. He cocked his ear, expecting to hear from the commissioners’ bench a low word of agreement—but instead, there was silence.

He took a look around, and saw the bemused look of the audience, the disgusted sneers of the commissioners, and the haughty grin of Res Judicata.

Res Judicata, affectedly raising her brow, said only: “So?”

For about three seconds, Due Process was so shocked that he was unable to reply. “What do you mean ‘so’?” he at last squeaked out, surprised to find himself growing indignant now. “You can’t lead your witness.”

“Why not?” said Petty Nicety.

Due Process fell back in his chair. “Because . . . because . . .” was all he could breathe.

“It’s a relevant point of questioning. Continue,” said the chief commissioner.

“Well?” snapped Res Judicata. “Any time now, ma’am.”

The interviewer, who had erupted into a fit of coughing and who had to be given a glass of water before she could say anything, finally managed to stammer: “That . . . is correct.”

“Why did it never occur to you that such a refusal would be unlawful?”

“The . . . the amount of things that need to be objected to in that question . . .” Due Process murmured.

“I . . .” stammered the witness, “well . . . you see, so what happens is that . . . after I approve ponies, they have to . . . demonstrate their magic to a second round of interviewers . . . so it doesn’t really make sense to—”

“Please answer only the questions put to you,” said Res Judicata, cutting her off. “Commissioners, I request that all the witness’s foregoing comments be stricken from the record.”

Due Process, his head wrapped in his wings, didn’t even have to hear Petty Nicety’s response to know that it was one of complete agreement.

In much the same way proceeded the rest of Res Judicata’s line of questioning, and by the end of it the remaining strands of colored hair in the witness’s mane had turned completely white.

Now it was Due Process’s turn to examine her.

“Is being a unicorn a requirement for admission to the School for Gifted Unicorns?” asked he.

“I ask,” interrupted Res Judicata, “that the tribunal not allow that question, as it is leading.”

“Rephrase the question, Mr. Process,” said Petty Nicety.

“Commissioner!” screeched he. “Res Judicata—”

“Judy,” said she, eliciting a hearty, mirthful laugh from the audience, and from the commissioners.

When Due Process was discomfited, and circumstances precluded his venting of frustration in the form of invective, his voice, to his supreme embarrassment, became screechy and high-pitched. It was in this helium-like tone, that he said, to the backdrop of the laughs of the spectators: “She took such umbrage with my suggesting . . . that her leading question was unacceptable, and now . . . now that it’s my turn for a cross-examination, it is totally legitimate to ask leading questions.”

When the audience and the commissioners had recollected themselves, Petty Nicety responded: “Since it has been unequivocally demonstrated that the complainant’s race was indeed the reason for his refusal, and since this is in violation of the Equestrian Pony Rights Act, it is incumbent on the defendant to prove her defense. Therefore, Judy’s objection will stand.”

Due Process, unable to see how exactly this justified the objection, did not have enough time to ponder it. Instead, he gave an audible groan, and, turning to the witness, said: “Can you name one requirement of admission to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns?”

The witness, sensing Due Process’s meaning, promptly replied: “That the student be a unicorn.”

“Who wrote that requirement?”

“The school, whoever is responsible for that—the dean, I presume.”

“The witness is speculating,” interjected Res Judicata.

“Stricken from the record,” said Petty Nicety. “Mr. Process,” she said, turning toward him, “please tread lightly, for you are very close to annoying the tribunal.”

As Due Process turned back to the witness, he could feel several parts of himself dying inside.

“I do have the admission requirement documents here,” said Due Process, handing them to the witness. “Can you read point number four, toward the middle of the page?”

The old mare, adjusting her glasses, read: “That the student be able to perform, in front of the examiners, a class A charm by Starswirl the Bearded, or a kinetic spell from Super Nova’s middle years (see form Y68W for a complete list of the curriculum’s spell classifications and categorizations).”

“For which users of magic did Starswirl the Bearded and Super Nova compose their spells?” asked Due Process.

“There is no way,” objected Res Judicata, “that the witness could possibly tell us the exact thoughts of two ponies who have been dead for thousands of years.”

“Actually,” shot back the witness, her voice rising one or two decibels higher, “I can. Because in the preface to Starswirl’s On the Order and Harmony of Natural and Mystical Matters, he says, I quote: ‘The spells in this book are intended for any unicorn so inclined.’ And in Super Nova’s Les Éléments de la magie, he says, in the acknowledgements, I quote: ‘J’espère que chaque licorne essayera au moins un des charmes que je fis.’ Therefore, I can say with some certainty that both these wizards intended their spells for unicorns, as that word, unicorn, licorne, is explicit in their texts.”

Res Judicata nodded, and sat back down; and no matter how prim and proper she was, how expressionless she made her features, Due Process can tell she had been struck—not deeply, of course, but enough to give him a bit of pleasure.

His confidence rising, he said: “It seems to me a reasonable inference, that, since these spells the school require were composed for unicorns’ use, as evinced by their composers’ explicit words, being a unicorn is a proper requirement for admission to the school.”

With that, he reclaimed his seat. As the witness was leaving, she turned to him, and Due Process was surprised to feel a new hope rising within him, when he saw that she mouthed to him the words: “Thank you.”


*


Whatever fleeting morsel of exculpatory testimony Due Process had been able to tease out of that foregoing performance, he would be unable to claim he was able to procure likewise with the testimony of the dean of the school.

The dean, an old, but still virile, unicorn, with a neatly polished and maintained mustache, sat on the witness’s stand, his forelegs crossed in front of him, frowning and snorting superciliously at every aspect of the tribunal.

“Did you write this letter?” said Res Judicata, extending it to him.

“Sincerely, Dean Magnus Sol,” he said, reading the signature at the bottom of the page. And then, glaring at Res Judicata, he snapped: “Is there any other dean of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns named Magnus Sol?”

“You wrote here,” continued Res Judicata, “I quote: ‘While it gives us great pleasure to know that you wish to trust the rearing of your son to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, he, being an earth pony, would be unable to complete the course of studies the school would require of him; thus, we regret to inform you that we are unable to accept his candidacy at this time.’ Would you please tell the tribunal what you meant by that?”

“It means exactly what it says.”

“But, for the sake of absolute clarity, could you summarize the meaning in ten words or fewer?”

The dean leaned over his podium and shot a fierce, angry glare at her, so unsettling that even Due Process shivered and mouthed a silent thank you to the firmament for making him ineligible to ever be a student at the school and have to risk one day being sent to his office.

“He,” said the dean, emphasizing each word with bitter precision, “cannot—be—a—student—because—he—is—an—earth—pony.”

“Dean Sol,” replied Res Judicata, “I believe that’s eleven words.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m unable to distill such a complex idea into a shorter, more digestible morsel suitable for your consumption.”

“I find the ‘at this time’ part of your letter to be most intriguing,” Res Judicata continued, unfazed. “Can you tell the tribunal what a time when my client would be able to enroll and be a student at your school would look like?”

“Sure,” riposted the dean. “He could be a student, if it would please the school’s namesake to turn him into an alicorn.”

Princess Celestia’s regal laugh resounded in the midst of the silent auditorium. His scornful air, and his laconic, disdainful answers to Res Judicata’s questioning, reminded Princess Celestia, to her lasting and overwhelming pleasure, that she had selected the dean of her school wisely, as being a stallion who was one of the few remaining holders of that scarce resource known as reason, for he had said everything she would have said herself had her office and its concerns of public image not forbade her from doing so; but to Due Process, who saw that Res Judicata was doing everything in her power to paint him as the archetype of the outdated gentry, complete with all its connotations of elitism and bigotry, and succeeding at it too, the dean could not have shown the school in a worse light.

Much the same was the rest of Res Judicata’s questioning, as she goaded him on and on toward answers that would appear yet more and more bigoted to a captious listener. When she stopped, Due Process let out a long-held breath. He genuinely believed that had the dean been allowed to speak another sentence under that line of questioning, he would’ve probably said that earth ponies are an inferior, dirty race, and Equestria needs to be cleansed of them.

“Dean Sol,” said Due Process, “does the School for Gifted Unicorns employ earth ponies?”

“No. Unicorns need to be taught by unicorns.”

Due Process winced, as behind him boos and hisses came from the audience. He and Princess Celestia had known what the dean meant, but it was too late now to prevent the words from being twisted out of context.

“Really?” said Due Process. “There are absolutely no earth ponies on the payroll?”

“There are,” said the dean. “The janitors are all earth ponies. And so is my secretary.”

At that moment, Due Process wanted to run to a big, soft meadow somewhere with rolling prairies, find a nice spot where the grass didn’t grow, dig a cozy little burrow, curl up in it, and die.

“No professors? No counselors?”

“No.”

“Not one?”

“Well, there’s one—Schopenhoofer, the philosophy professor.”

“Aha!” cried Due Process, leaping six feet into the air and hovering there longer than he perhaps should have.

“Is he a good teacher?” he asked from the air.

The dean shrugged. “He’s all right, but he has a funny accent, and I can barely understand him most of the time.”

Due Process crashed headfirst into the ground.


*


“The complainant rests.”

These words shook the princess from her torpor. How long had these infernal proceedings been going on? Five days? A week? A fortnight? Whatever it was, it had been too long. But, unless her ears had deceived her, it—or, at least, half of it—had just ended.

“This tribunal will resume next week,” said Petty Nicety, “wherein the defense will make its case.”

The spectators, despite the police’s best efforts, exited in a proper stampede; the odiousness of the proceedings had overwhelmed their desire to be in the vicinity of a princess.

“Well, Your Majesty,” said Due Process, noticing that his client was eyeing the exit too, “best if we start right away. So, when we meet tomorrow, I’ve been thinking that—”

“Tomorrow?” she gasped. “Do we have another day of proceedings tomorrow?”

“Well . . . no, Your Majesty, but I’ve always found it best to start on things right away . . .”

She shook her head. “Tomorrow I cannot do. I have a meeting with the ambassador of the Crystal Empire, which I expect is going to take all day.”

“Okay, Your Majesty, how about the day after tomorrow?”

“Esquire Process,” she said, rising, in which movement Due Process thought he could detect the tremble of a mighty effort to keep a powerful anger in check, “right now, I cannot say when I can meet with you. For now, work on the case; write down any concerns you wish to address with me, and then when we meet next we’ll go over them and smooth out any avenues of our approach.”

“Your Majesty—”

“I’ll be in touch. Good luck!”

And with that, she spread her great wings, and her guards, understanding that to be the signal that their commander wished to be off, swiftly cut a path for her through the crush; and before Due Process could get another word in, she was gone.

“Hey, don’t get discouraged, kid,” said Res Judicata, sitting down next to him and throwing a hoof around his shoulder, “remember that you’re goin’ up against the best. But you did a real good job; and believe me, I’m not just sayin’ that. I don’t just say that t’anypony, only when I see a real effort, a real job well done. Say, why don’t I buy ya dinner? I know a great place not too far from ’ere. Don’tcha worry, when I drop ya at your place afta’, ya have my word that I won’t try anythin’ indiscrete nor improper—not ’less you want me ta.” She gave him a wink, and clicked her tongue.

Due Process, though perhaps earlier in the month would’ve had a heart attack at the sheer miracle it would’ve been to be invited to have dinner with Res Judicata, much less the chance to invite her home afterward for a passionate night of case studies, could only, on account of his tiredness, murmur a vague: “Okay.”

On the way out, Res Judicata whispered to him: “Wanna hear some advice, from the old generation ta the young?”

“Huh?” he replied, his ears perking up slightly.

“You’re clearly very smart and have done your research. The rigorousness with which ya follow the procedures is quite admirable—only problem is, you’re treatin’ it too much like a tort case.”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

Res Judicata laughed. “No, darlin’, because tort cases take place in a court. This’s a tribunal.”

Due Process ground his teeth.

“You’re concentratin’ way too much on facts, contexts, and circumstances,” she replied, “which is fine fa a court of law; but fa this tribunal, you’ll wanna concentrate more on feelings, emotions, and tone of voice. Use legal terms; it confuses the commissioners. Also, the more liberal jargon ya can use, the betta; the commissioners eat that stuff up.”

He shivered, stepping away from her. “I’m the attorney defending the party against your client,” he said. “Why are you helping me? Aren’t you worried I’ll take your advice and use it against you?”

Res Judicata tousled his main, and Due Process felt something in his teeth crack. “Not at all, my dear,” she said, “because ya and I both know that ya’re not gonna win. Therefore, the best thing you can get from these proceedins is a learnin’ experience. I wanna help ya!” Then, noticing how red his face was turning, she cooed: “Ah, come now! It’s okay. This place I’m gonna take you to is really the bee’s knees. I always go there to unwind after a stressful case—somethin’ ’bout the food and atmosphere that really greases the noggin. Come on!”

“Okay,” again murmured Due Process, following her. He very much doubted that any greasy food or bad music would in any way lift his spirits enough to give Res Judicata the conversation he had always imagined he might one day be able to have with her, when all he wanted to do right then was to go home, curl up in bed, and wait till the world looked a little more appealing; but, nevertheless, he accepted the free meal, as he was at that moment a little short on money.