PRAT

by Integral Archer

Chapter III: The Gravamen

The Royal Guard had thought it best to let the princess and her counsel enter first, rather than to try to squeeze her unmolested into the auditorium through the crush that would undoubtedly form as reporters, courtiers, and vagrants tried to compete for leg room, to more comfortably view the public evisceration of a princess.

Due Process had taken his seat on the right facing the stage, and shortly after Princess Celestia had joined him. Res Judicata sat to the left, and already her briefcase was out, her reading glasses on, reviewing the notes on the case she had made. A little while later, the little complainant, Hearty Bucks, walked—or, rather, rode in, on the back of his rather stocky, corpulent mother. This was all done in silence, save for a brief moment when they passed by the defendants’ bench, and Hearty Bucks, rousing himself all of a sudden from his reverie, sat up straight on his mother’s back, wide-eyed and chirping with the unadulterated wonder that only a child can feel: “Mommy, mommy! Is that the princess? Hi, Princess! I love you!” before being quickly hushed.

Here there ensued an awkward interim, as the police and guards began, as slowly and as orderly as they could, to let the spectators in. Sluggishly, and silently, one by one ponies began to fill up the pews, as the belligerents and their counsels waited.

On the desk in front of her were stacked a few identical copies of a small book, which, when Princess Celestia looked closer, she realized was the same as the one Due Process had so inconveniently and painfully lost on the ride over. Out of curiosity, she levitated one up to her face: Equestrian Pony Rights Act. Looking beside her, and seeing that her lawyer, though pretending to be absorbed in his notes, happily twitched his wings at the light and sound of her magic lifting up the text, she opened it and began to read, in an honest attempt to educate herself on the matter that faced her now, for there was indeed within her a modicum of guilt for having avoiding thinking about this issue for too long.

On the first page, she read:

Be it here and forthwith denounced, that Their Royal Majesties, Princess Celestia the Magnanimous, the Light of the World, the Envy of the Earth, the Benefactor of all Things mundane, the Ambassador for all Things celestial; and Her Most Exalted Sibling, Princess Luna the Somber, the Light of the Night, the Beauty of the Stars, the Scourge of Nightmares, the Interceder of Eclipses, the Sentry of the Slumbering; by and with the Advice and Consent of the Prime Minister and his Parliament, in Representation of Their most devout and loyal Subjects’ Will; do hereby declare and promulgate, as a solemn Law, the following

That was as far as she got before the little pamphlet erupted into flame, and crumbled to ash in the envelope of her magical aura, making her lawyer sneeze.

He went on reading as if nothing had happened; but now she noticed his ears were drooping.

Sighing, she picked up another copy, and flipped to somewhere in the middle.

and, whereas the basic Rights of Dignity and Honor, being necessary to the Life and further Productivity of a free People and their democratic Society, necessitate

In disbelief, she flipped to the end: and, as she expected, there was a facsimile of her—and only her—signature.

By now the auditorium was alive with the voices and stench of scores of densely packed spectators trembling with anticipation. The proceedings were to start soon.

“Now, remember, Your Majesty,” Due Process said, but paused to pour half the pitcher of water that was on his table into one of the glasses provided for them, and drank it all in one slug, his need of oxygen at that moment clearly less than his need for hydration. “Now, Your Majesty,” he said again, “you don’t have to do anything. You, Your Majesty, literally just have to be here. Leave all the talking to me, Your Majesty; that’s why I’m here. Of course, this isn’t because I doubt your ability to speak for yourself, Your Majesty—quite the contrary actually, considering you, Your Majesty, have had a few, uh . . . millenniums? Millennia of practice. I’m sure geological periods have come and passed in which Your Majesty have—has spoken for herself before I even was conceived. It’s not that I doubt your speaking ability, Your Majesty, it’s just that—well, when a mare is before the legal authority, and she’s in heat, she . . . I mean, I mean to say, Your Majesty, that when a mare, in the heat of the moment, tries to . . . no, no, Your Majesty, when a mare is hot on the spot—when somepony needs to represent himself—or herself, of course—when that somepony has to give arguments, it can be hard for that somepony to remain objective under pressure! This is why we—that is to say, ponies in general, or, rather, ponies that have been accused of wrongdoing and who have to stand before a court, or rather, a tribunal—need lawyers. And I, as your attorney and legal advisor, Your Majesty, who have reviewed the case, and I who have no material goods to win or gain from this process, am removed from personal details and am therefore objective! Now, please, Your Majesty, let me make mincemeat of that magniloquent mare!”

He poured the rest of the water into his glass, and drank that too.

A second after he had finished, and had flashed her his triumphant smile, he blushed, and hid his face in his hooves.

“All rise,” came a voice from somewhere.

From behind the stage, in shuffled the three commissioners: Affirmative Action, the oldest, a retired school teacher, who had filed five complaints with the PRAT in her youth and had won in each, becoming wealthy enough from the processes to quit her job and devote her life to one of leisure in the capacity of a commissioner of the Tribunal; Radical Reformer, the youngest, having graduated from the University of Canterlot the preceding year with a degree in gender studies, and who had just went through a painful breakup with her boyfriend, whom she had left for the same reason she had left her previous ten, namely, that when he was at home, he was lazy, and when he worked he had no time for her; and Petty Nicety, the chief commissioner of the Tribunal, who had been an arbiter for the disputes of farmers, when festivals had been trying to figure out whom to award the prize of Most Voluptuous Vegetable to.

Three mares, one young, one middle-aged, and one already planning her eternal slumber six feet underground; one liberal, one moderate, and one conservative; one earth pony, one unicorn, and one pegasus. But they had two things in common: none of them had any previous experience in law, and each of the three had undergone, or was currently going through, an incredibly expensive divorce.

At once, the auditorium went silent, save for the rustling of three hundred ponies rising to their feet—three hundred, minus two: Due Process and Princess Celestia remained seated. To be sure, the lawyer’s first instinct had been to rise; but, noticing that his client had remained impassive through the call, to show solidarity and his empathy, he had remained seated.

The commissioners took their seats. Petty Nicety cleared her throat; and, thanks to the miracle that is signal processing, the microphone in front of her ensured that every single pony in that auditorium knew the exact chemical makeup of the phlegm in her sinuses.

“Before we begin,” she droned, “I would like to take the opportunity to remind the defendant and her counsel to stand when the order is given. Is that clear?”

Due Process hoped the princess would say something, but she only stared impassively ahead.

“Mr. Process!” said Petty Nicety, louder this time. “Is that clear?”

“No,” he said, his face turning red, and the parliament of his stomach holding an emergency session to vote on the question of whether or not the stress of the situation necessitated the immediate evacuation of the latest meal.

“Excuse me?”

“Why do we need to stand?” he said, the verdict of the parliament reaching no majority.

“Because it is the will of the Tribunal.”

“And what happens if I disregard the will of the Tribunal?” said Due Process. “What are you going to do: hold me in ‘Contempt of Tribunal’?”

Res Judicata, on the other side of the room, chuckled.

The chief commissioner cast a scowl down on Due Process which only a mustard gas wound could’ve rivaled in sheer ugliness, and adjusted her glasses as she set herself to reading the paper before her. Due Process looked at his client, hoping to see some indication of approval—but he was met with the same look with which she had met the commissioners’ entrance.

“The two hundred, ninety-second thousandth, five hundred, and sixty-second sitting of the Pony Rights Administrative Tribunal is now in session,” read Petty Nicety. “Complaint number nine hundred thousand, eight hundred and five: Hearty Bucks, filing; Cross Bun in loco parentis; counsel, Res Judicata—claiming a grievance against the Crown corporation of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns; the proprietor and namesake, Her Majesty Princess Celestia of Equestria, standing in representation and defense of the said corporation; counsel, Due Process. The Tribunal gives the floor to the complainant to present his gravamen.”

“Thank you, Commissioner,” said Res Judicata, springing from her seat, her wings perked. “But please, call me Judy.”

The chief commissioner blushed like a schoolgirl just asked to the prom by the quarterback. “All . . . all right, Judy. Go ahead . . .” she squeaked.

Due Process had wondered why a pony Res Judicata’s age, who had received so many honorary degrees, who had formed so many connections, written so many books, would agree to provide counsel to something so beneath her as a complaint to the PRAT, on a pro bono basis no less, the illustriousness of the defendant notwithstanding; but upon seeing the alacrity with which she leaped to the Tribunal’s call, seeing her wings spread, Due Process realized that it had nothing to do with money, justice, or work for the sake of work. She got an inordinate, and possibly unhealthy, amount of pleasure from what she did.

“For my opening remarks, I’ll constrain myself to the facts,” Res Judicata said to the Tribunal, her accent having strangely vanished. “Interpretations and conclusions shall follow in their due time. A year ago, my client applied to Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, hoping to gain admission. His grades were well within the school’s admission requirements, which I have here and will produce at the Tribunal’s leisure. Upon being selected for an interview, the interviewer, seeing my client, at once, with no questions, no examinations of any kind, turned him away; when his mother inquired as to the reason, the interviewer said that as Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns was an institution with the purpose of fostering the development of young unicorns, so that they may go on to devise spells, new theories of magic, and to forward ponykind’s understanding of the mystical arts, a student, as a prerequisite for study, needed to be a unicorn, which my client is not. What is more, when my client’s mother wrote a letter to the school, demanding this to be elucidated, a reply, which I have here, written and signed by the dean of the said school, no less, explicitly states, I quote: ‘While it gives us great pleasure to know that you wish to trust the rearing of your son’—my client—‘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.’ End quote. From section four, clause one of the Equestrian Pony Rights Act, quote: ‘No Pony, of any Age, Sex, or Race, shall be compelled to suffer a Refusal of any Good, Service, Occupation, Employment, or Contract on the Basis of said Pony’s Age, Sex, or Race.’ End quote. My client, who was told not once, but twice, of which the proof is here, that he was refused even the consideration of being a student of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns on the basis of his race, has clearly and unequivocally been a victim of racially motivated discrimination, and beseeches the Tribunal to rectify this matter.”

In silence, the commissioners took notes. Princess Celestia was impassive. Due Process trembled, mouthing the words to his response.

Finally, Petty Nicety, turning to the defendant’s bench, said: “The defense may make an opening argument.” And then, firing a sneer upon Due Process, the commissioner evidently taking a bitter umbrage to the comment he had made earlier, she added: “It’s a serious accusation. Is it true?”

At once Due Process sprang to his feet.

Res Judicata was many things: she was cunning, clever, crafty, incisive, discerning, discriminating, mordant, and sly—but predictable. Due Process had had enough time in school to study her methodology and every single case of hers, that he had been able to predict, nearly word-for-word, what she would open with; and he had labored, for a week straight, barely sleeping, in the composition of his response. It lay before him on the table, an unassailable, irrefutable, impeccable argument, complete with a response to every possible objection that could be raised to it, in one perfect little paragraph.

He took a triumphant breath, and was about to release the legal equivalent of a thermonuclear weapon—when, all of a sudden, his client ejaculated:

“Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”

A swift, sudden kick in the abdomen with a steel-toe boot delivered by the biggest of his client’s guards would not have knocked the wind out of Due Process with as much force, and with as much unexpectedness, as Princess Celestia’s interruption just did.

He keeled over, nearly falling to the floor, clutching his sides, the abortion of his speech dying away in dry wheezes. Somewhere, he thought he heard the clamor of the spectators, who were reacting to the princess’s peremptory words, while the chief commissioner, not furnished with a gavel, despite her frequent and fervent petitions for one, had to content herself with banging loudly with her bare hoof upon the table. The last of Due Process’s strength leaving him, he just managed to croak out: “I . . . request a recess . . . to confer . . . with my client!”

“Request denied!” yelled the chief commissioner over the roar of the crowd. “I will not stop these proceedings, when they have just started, for such petty things as you should have taken care of earlier.”

“I have to pee!” Hearty Bucks cried.

“The Tribunal will take a fifteen minute recess!” said the chief commissioner.

Not waiting for any further words, Due Process, unable in his confusion to take flight, got up, stumbling, and blindly pushed his way through the crowd. Various hoofs, feathers, and horns brushed, poked, and collided against him as he tore in a mad panic to the exit. So many ponies, so little space, so little air!

He made it to the doors, scratched, bruised, hardly knowing who or where he was, and flew into the hallway, which the police had cleared. At the end of the corridor into which he emerged was the front door, and he flew straight toward it. Unable to slow down in time, he crashed headfirst against the door. Rising, dizzy, his head pounding, but too frenzied to be checked by pain, he threw open the doors and emerged outside.

Inhaling, expecting to breathe the outside world and absorb its serenity, he, to his not quite unexpected horror, met with the even bigger crowd outside, who, immediately upon the lawyer’s exiting from the building, struck up a row, shattering him with thousands of camera lights and questions.

In full view of the entirety of Equestria, he collapsed on the front steps in a pool of his sweat and tears.

*

Princess Celestia, with a nod to a nearby captain, was also able to clear a path out of the auditorium and into the hallways, albeit with much less effort on her part, her guard gladly taking the abuse of the crush on her behalf. Now she was walking through the empty halls of the building’s other wing, as far as possible from the auditorium and its sonorous, echoing walls. Here it was quiet enough, if not to think, then at least to give her brain and body a much-needed rest.

Her poor little lawyer had looked so eager that she, for a brief moment, had considered letting him actually make his case, unwilling to tell him his efforts were pointless, for the same reason she would’ve been unwilling to tell a quadriplegic colt that his dream of becoming an astronaut was simply unrealistic. But when she had seen the commissioners and their wrinkled, frowning countenances, and heard the captious, sententious opening words of that vile old mare Res Judicata, not to mention her disgust at seeing that fat mother subjecting her innocent son to the proceedings in order to make a quick bit, her longanimity had finally given way: thus her outburst that had so consternated her counsel. She henceforth resolved to not permit the Tribunal one iota of her usually generously given patience and understanding. She would not unilaterally abolish an institution created through the democratic process, but she would not pretend, even for an instant, that it was a legitimate, respectable institution suitable for a princess’s time.

Presently, she heard something that sounded like a cry coming from the classroom at the end of the hall. She reached the room, opened the door, and entered.

Inside were two Canterlot policeponies and one corporal of the Guard, standing around and looking down at a shuddering mass, the identity of which she could not ascertain.

Without needing any word of command, the policeponies and the guard, seeing her enter, immediately retreated, and fawningly shuffled in their uncomfortable bows toward the door and out of the room.

Her poor lawyer lay sprawled on the hard floor of the classroom, his hooves over his eyes, his wings awkwardly stretched and twisted about him. Upon catching a glimpse of her, he winced, recoiled, and turned away, curling himself up into a ball.

“I’m sorry that had to happen,” she said, “but I’ve decided to—”

“She wouldn’t take it, you know,” squeaked the lawyer.

“Excuse me?”

“They offered it to her before me, and she said no.”

“What do you mean to say? I don’t follow. Who is ‘she’?”

“Fine Print,” he said, still not turning to face her, “the top student of my graduating class. The university offered her to you for your case before me, but she said no. That’s why you have me. Why do you think the Princess of Equestria was given the mere second-best? Because the first best didn’t want it.”

“Well,” said the princess, pained to see this pitiful sight, “given that even I barely have the patience and intelligence to follow everything, perhaps she thought she wasn’t up to my case.”

At these words, Due Process leaped to his feet and glared at her, his tears gone, his teeth bared, his wings lifted as if ready to strike. For a second, the princess had half a mind to call in her guard or just incinerate him on the spot.

“Princess,” he said, his voice unexpectedly calm and measured, “I will not suffer to hear such talk about Fine Print, even from you, Your Majesty. I have never met a pony smarter and more assiduous in her work than she. She could spin arguments around your head and pull a score of precedents out of her flank on a whim to support her case no matter what it may be. If she didn’t take your case, it isn’t because she couldn’t handle it; let me assure you, Your Majesty, that she would have been able to do a much, much better job than I . . . though, I guess”—pinning his ears, and taking a step back—“given what just happened, that bar isn’t very high now, is it?” He sighed, bowing his head. “The reason she wouldn’t take it, Your Majesty, is because every lawyer wants to win his first case, and Fine Print was smart enough to immediately see that your case is unwinnable for a defense attorney, even if he didn’t have to go up against Res Judicata. That’s why she turned it down.”

“So why did you take it?”

“Because I thought . . .” he said, laughing and sobbing in the same breath. “Because I thought, for the tiniest bit, you could win, Your Majesty. I mean, you can see how I’d think that, right? You’re Princess Celestia, for crying out loud! You’ve been nothing but a beneficent, magnanimous ruler for thousands of years. The School for Gifted Unicorns has put out some of the greatest thinkers, philosophers, and wizards in the history of the world! I couldn’t see how anypony could ever think you and your school were anything but a service to ponykind. But . . . I see now. Res Judicata was right; I am naïve.”

He paused, wiping his tears away with a wing. “And you’re right, Your Majesty. You’re right to respond the way you did. You didn’t really make anything worse, after all; you just made them clear. I totally understand: You’re the Princess of Equestria, and divers protectorates; you have too many concerns to waste time bothering with some nonsense like the PRAT! And who cares if you lose? At worst, you pay a fine, maybe change the name of your school, maybe tighten up the interviewing process for plausible deniability, and everything will go back to normal. I understand if you don’t want me in your service; your forbearance and intelligence being what they are, you probably don’t even need me.”

He gave a slight curtsey, and walked past her toward the door, not daring to look into her eyes. Before he left, turning slightly, he said: “I would dare, Your Majesty, hoping it not impudent of me, to ask you only one thing: Please don’t capitulate. I beg you, Your Majesty, don’t give them everything they want unconditionally. Make an argument, make a deal, call them mean names—do something, whatever you’re willing to give, but something . . . anything . . .”

And with that, he turned and was gone.

Princess Celestia was left alone.

Out of the classroom window, she could see that it was a beautiful day: there was not a cloud in the sky; the temperature was neither scorching nor chilly; and there was just the right amount of wind to give the air a crisp freshness, and to animate the trees, making them dance as if bursting to express their joy at being alive. Somewhere out in the city, she thought she could hear the laughter of children at play.

“Esquire,” she said.

Due Process poked his head around the corner of the room, his ears perked. Princesses never called anyone but knights in training esquire; in the civilian world, the title was used only by arrogant holders of undergraduate degrees to refer to themselves.

“You called, Your Majesty?” he squeaked.

“Yes, I did. Come here.”

He tiptoed in front of her, keeping his head bowed.

“Stop that groveling,” she said. “No esquire of mine grovels before anyone. Look at me.”

“I cannot but show deference to my sovereign, Your Majesty.”

“Then show deference,” she ordered, “not obsequiousness.”

When he had looked her in the eye, and when his limbs had stopped shaking, she said: “What can you promise me?”

He fell to his knees, crawled up to her, and pressed his forehead to her shoe. “My princess!” he said. “I can’t promise you I’ll have any argument, any word of rebuttal, any piece of exculpatory evidence; much less can I promise you a verdict. But what I can promise you is that, till your will be satisfied, I will remain in your service, carrying out your desires to the best of my ability, representing you with as much dignity and grandeur as befits you. You will be my sun, and I your magnifying glass!”

“Enough with metaphors,” she said. “What can you promise me in terms of outcome?”

“I can’t promise you that we’ll win—”

“And enough with negatives. What can you promise me?”

Due Process opened his mouth, made a sound, but then checked himself. After a moment of thought, he murmured: “I can promise you that, no matter the outcome, the dignity of the School for Gifted Unicorns will remain intact, will continue to operate just as it did before, and that the result of this tribunal will not result in a nationwide revolution.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good enough,” she groaned. “Arise, esquire. Your princess needs you.”

When they reached the auditorium, Due Process opened the door and gestured his princess through, not so much out of courtesy as it was out of a fear of being the first in front of all eyes; but she, sensing his apprehension, nodded to him, letting him know that she desired that he should go in front, in representation of her.

They walked down the aisle, the lawyer in front, his client a few steps behind. Once or twice before they got to their bench, he stopped, but she, touching him gently on the back, gave him the courage to go forward.

Which almost turned him into a convert of every single one of the world’s religions, the glass pitcher of water on his desk had been refilled. He drank it all straight from the vessel, not even bothering to pour the water into his cup.

“And there’s the defendant,” said the chief commissioner.

“That’s your princess you’re talking about,” muttered Due Process under his breath.

“We left in kind of a hurry last time,” continued the commissioner, “and, if I remember correctly, your client was interrupted. Does she wish to strike from the record anything she has said?”

Due Process looked over to Princess Celestia, who returned his glance with a shake of her head.

“I . . .” Due Process stammered. He looked down at his prepared opening remark with a melancholy tenderness. It had been so perfect, but now it was useless. Though, legally speaking, he had the opportunity to start right where Res Judicata had ended, he still had a little bit of social cognizance to be aware of the fact that most of the speech’s impact would be lost should he deliver it now in its current form.

“No,” he continued, at length, “my client wishes the statement to stand.” He crumpled the speech up in his hooves with a sigh. “What she meant to say is, yes, what the events the complainant has described are exactly what happened; and my client rejects the accusation that such an act was unlawful discrimination, asserting that such a refusal as her school made was proper, as the complainant was unable to meet the bona fide occupational requirement of a student at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns—namely, being a unicorn—which she will demonstrate in the presence of this Tribunal.”

“Can we go home now?” whined the little complainant to his mommy.

Comments

[Oliver]

...Judge, Judy, and executioner. :)

[Cursed Quill]

Words I have learned from this 'fic' so far: longanamity, gravamen.

In disbelief, she flipped to the end: and, as she expected, there was a facsimile of her—and only her—signature.

I confess this rather removes the legal battle tension component. Of course, this still leaves quite open what it will do to the Princess in the "court of public opinion"…

But they had two things in common: none of them had any previous experience in law,

…I guess the law doesn't really matter, then. Should've guessed as this was a tribunal.

Of course, this isn't probably going to go into study of the other races' ways of magic, and how magic in general may be the same, but it's one direction it could've gone.

[Emperor]

Three mares, one young, one middle-aged, and one already planning her eternal slumber six feet underground; one liberal, one moderate, and one conservative; one earth pony, one unicorn, and one pegasus. But they had two things in common: none of them had any previous experience in law, and each of the three had undergone, or was currently going through, an incredibly expensive divorce.

Sounds about par for the course for some of the real-world human rights tribunals.

Due Process' rambling at the start of the chapter was physically painful to read with his anxiety shining through.

[Lancerlot]

there was a facsimile of her—and only her—signature

Not sure if Chekov's gun or red herring.

[The Great Derpsby]

I feel like two things are a bit detrimental for the fic's enjoyment. One, the tone sometimes jumps about. Secondly, the sheer amount of unusual, rare, complicated words and phrases feels a little self-indulgent at times. Brevity and wit and all that.

[The Great Derpsby]

Oh, and Res Judicata made a grave error in her reasoning. He wasn't rejected based on race, he was rejected based on tribe. Moreover, as Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns has an entrance exam, one tuned for measuring spellcasting abilities, he had no chance of getting into the school anyway.

I see lots of non-pegasus ponies taking cloud service providers to court in the future...

[Titanicgaming360]

Courts? Rights? Democratic process?
Nah.
All-Union Communist Party.