Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal by Keith Thomson Read Free Book Online

entire case hinges on his testimony,” was
Archipelago’s reply.

So I’ve got to go take the stand now…

P.S. Here’s Flarq’s courtroom scrimshaw of Bluepeace Lead
Counsel H.C. Mutherford, who I’m grateful to cause he makes
even me look good.

Thursday, 8 July 2004 12:36 PM
Twelve Briny Hardcases
    So it’ll be up to a jury to decide whether I’m justified in seeking
revenge against the whale for killing my wife and kid. Problem is,
these hardcases on the jury are of the school that if a whale does
that sort of thing, you owe him a thank you.
I knew even my most saddest recounting of the event
would get little sympathy from them. So I began my testimony by
telling of a card game many years ago, back when I was fishing
salmon in Alaska.

“I came ashore after six months of sucking nets. Wound
up in the secret back room of a bar they used for high stakes five
card. Seven hours later it was down to the final hand between
me and a slick European with waxed mustaches that stuck out
like fish hooks. All the money I’d earned over the last six, hard,
salt-caked months—which is to say every cent I had to my name—
was on the table along with his and that of the unlucky lopers
who’d already called it a night. A pile higher than you could
jump over.

“I put down my three aces.

“‘Bad luck for you, mon ami,’ the European said
graciously, ‘I have a threesome myself, plus a pair as powerful as
they come.’

“That quick, I was needing to bum change off a buddy
just to get myself some breakfast. But that’s cards, right?”
The nods in the jury box told me many of them’d been in
the same position. But they sure as sundown wouldn’t tolerate a
man whining about it.

“But then I saw his cards. Three eights plus a king and
a queen. ‘Actually, here on this side of the Atlantic,’ I said,
thinking maybe the mix-up was some European thing, ‘a king
and queen don’t got that kind of clout.’
“‘Oui, I know,’ he said. ‘I meant this pair.’ His hands
shot into his pants and returned holding a pair of big-assed
automatics, Glocks maybe. One nip from either of them
monsters and I’d be playing Go Fish with Davy Jones.”
In the jury box, revulsion wrinkled several brows. They
had no problem with armed robbery. Except when playing cards.
A gambling den’s their version of a house of worship, and a
poker game’s as holy as occasions get.

“The scourge plowed the pile into a big sack he’d had at
the ready,” I continued, “and was out the back exit and on his
way out of Dodge before any of the sods slumped at the bar up
front were the wiser. I had no choice but to get back on another
fisherman that morning for another six months’ gig. The whole
time, it took all my self-control to keep myself from decking
anyone who had a mustache.

“Reason I bring up this incident though is this: that raw
feeling of being cheated like that—that’s how I felt when the
whale took my wife and kid.”

Suddenly in the jury, there was understanding on every
hard face.

To be continued (court’s recessing for grub)…

Friday, 9 July 2004 2:01 AM
Mutherford Unzipped
    Recess was extended, then extended some more, and finally
court was adjourned for the whole day. The reason: the tavern
next door was having a Buy-One-Flagon-Get-One-Flagon-Free
special for all trial participants.

By evening, even Mutherford was in a lighthearted mood.
I found myself standing next to him in the W.C. (the tavern’s
term for the wooden planks with holes at the ends sticking out
over the stream out back). The intimacy was kind of awkward. As
an icebreaker I challenged him to a swordfight. He was relieved
to learn I didn’t mean with actual swords but rather the kid’s
game where the winner’s the guy with the driest shoes at the
end. Then he was relieved to learn I was just yanking his anchor
chain.

I asked him something I’d been curious about: How he’d
gotten involved