Gravel looked up from the dime store atlas and spoke.  His words were raspy, each syllable exhausted after struggling out of his antique vocal cords.  “The church is at the corner of Riverview and St. Paul’s.”

Merrick grunted.  “St. Paul’s?  This district suffers from deeply rooted ignorance.”

“Maybe the maps just haven’t been updated?”

“Inefficiency then.  I abhor it.”  Every morning Merrick brushed his teeth — thoroughly — in thirty-six seconds.  He dressed — shoelace tying included — in seventy-two.  He owned nine timepieces, two of which were on his person at any moment.  He looked down at his favourite one, a copper pocket watch with the name ‘Sarah’ etched into the back plate.  “We have twenty seven minutes to stop at the Diner over there for breakfast; more importantly, we can begin gathering information.”

Merrick set off briskly and Gravel, carrying all the photographic equipment, stumbled after him.

* * * * *

The Pig Dig Dig stank of dish soap and grease.   The tiny tables and chairs looked like exiles from a primary school classroom.  Its walls were decorated with pastel renditions of old movie stars.  Merrick was not impressed.  In his opinion, most of Socratia’s problems would be solved if people stopped living in the past.  Gravel was a perfect example.  The Council kept him on active duty even though he was senile because he had participated in the revolution.  It mattered little that all he had done was hand out a few pamphlets.  He was a hero.  At last year’s New Dawn celebration Gravel had received an award.  Merrick and the other Adjudicators who actually kept Socratia functioning received no appreciation whatsoever.

Merrick ordered toast, two eggs, eight potatoes, and twenty-two baked beans.  He washed it own with rancid coffee.  He was almost finished when the Pig Dig Dig’s waitress spilt a bowl of oatmeal into a man’s lap.  “Jesus Christ,” yelled the scalded customer.

Gravel looked at Merrick expectantly.  “Should we arrest him?”

The reply was a harsh whisper.  “We’re here to gather information.  It is best that we blend in.”

Gravel’s wrinkled tea bag of a face convulsed with shame.  “Y... yes sir.”

Merrick resented having to play baby-sitter.  He could have acted more proficiently alone.  When he complained Veritor Lambert had told him, “The Council has decided we need a second opinion on this.”  ‘The Council has decided’.  What that actually meant was Lambert had decided and no-one had been brave enough to argue with him.

Merrick looked around the Pig Dig Dig.  His eyes flitted from face to face.  The people of Descarton had the same vacant expressions that had pervaded Merrick’s home town when he was growing up.  “You’d think it was bedtime,” he mumbled.

“What was that,” Gravel asked.

“Finish your pancakes, there’s work to do.”

* * * * *

The morning was spent making subtle inquiries about Mayor Beaumont.  It was easy to get people talking. It was the hottest gossip in ages.  “Don’t be too hard on him,” one woman declared.  “He’s the best mayor Descarton’s had in my life and I’ve lived through a lot of ’em.  There’s no doctor shortages at the hospitals and for a woman with as many ailments as I do, that’s heaven sent.”

“Heaven sent?”   Merrick’s tone was acidic.

“It’s just an expression.”

No, Merrick thought to himself. It is a symptom.

* * * * *

They visited the church in the afternoon.  Gravel set up a tripod and began taking pictures.  Merrick, meanwhile, inspected it with a touch of disappointment.  He had expected more of the last church on the continent.  He had envisioned an impregnable fortress defiantly standing against all reason and order.  He had been present at the demolition of the All Saints Cathedral in Newtonsfield.  That cathedral had possessed all the trappings of superstition: gargoyles, stained windows, marble pillars, sculptures of saints.  It had towered over the rest of Newtonsfield’s buildings.  This church was small, wooden and worn down.  Merrick shrugged.  “So this is what all the fuss is about.”

* * * * *

In the evening, Gravel and Merrick checked into the only hotel in  Descarton.  There was a view-screen in Merrick’s room and he made a call to Veritor Lambert.  He felt a brief pulse of anger when Lambert’s pudgy countenance appeared.  Lambert had been a professional politician for so long that the wrinkles of a fake smile now permanently bordered his lips.

Merrick delivered his report as briskly as he could.  He ended by summing up his observations in a long list: “people voice forbidden oaths and think nothing of it, children have breaks in the middle of the school day, clothing is multicoloured, they sell sweets in the stores...”

“What about the church?”

“I took forty-one photographs of it.  Beaumont’s travesty is documented in its entirety.   The most troubling element I witnessed was that several townspeople were inside the church.”

“Praying?”  Lambert’s bushy eyebrows cocked warily.

“Just looking, but you would think the building would be deserted.  The sedition in this province is insidious.  I faxed you a full report of today's findings.  Tomorrow, I will complete my assessment.”

“That will not be necessary.  The Council decided that you will represent the state against Beaumont.”

Merrick was stunned.  He swallowed.  “I will be honoured.  I assure that I...”

Lambert held up his hand.  “Because of the trial’s high profile the Council have prepared specific instructions for the prosecuting Adjudicator.”

“I understand your excellency.”

“You should receive them tomorrow.  Congratulations.”   

Merrick reached to turn off the view-screen then paused.  “If I may ask, who will be representing Beaumont?”

“Adjudicator Gravel.”

“You must be joking.”
 
“I’m quite serious.”

“He’s incompetent.  This is such an important case, how can the Council...”

“You should be happy, it will be easier for you to win.”

Lambert was smiling and Merrick knew why.  Against a fool like Gravel, Merrick’s victory in the courtroom would not look brilliant at all.  The last thing Lambert wanted was to create a political rival for himself.  The screen went blank and Merrick cursed.  He pushed down his anger with rationale.  “This is an opportunity, whatever the circumstances.  Come next elections, we’ll see who is elected Veritor.”

* * * * *
 
In Merrick’s dream, he was standing on a podium.  He was surrounded by a crowd of people being inspired by his words.  In his dream, little children who heard him speak decided to model their lives on his and young women offered themselves to him.

He woke up the next morning smiling.  At the hotel reception, the papers the Council had sent him were waiting.  He flipped through them.  For the most part they were filled with information on Beaumont’s history and family.  When he got to the Council’s recommendations, his chest knotted at a single line.

“When he is on the stand, Mayor Beaumont’s words must be kept to a minimum.  He is only to be asked questions that may be answered with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

This recommendation was not typed like the others.  Merrick recognised the handwriting.   Lambert.  The Veritor was clearly trying to cripple Merrick’s chances of impressing the public because he feared Merrick.  Of course he feared him.  Years ago, long before Lambert had risen in position, they had met in court.  Merrick had demolished Lambert.  In the courtroom he was unequalled.  Arguments and counter arguments were a dance to him.  He could undermine credibility and pull apart logic effortlessly.  

Merrick went up to his room and turned on the view-screen.  He dialled the number for Councillor Duris.

“What is it Merrick?”

“I am sorry to bother you,” Merrick said to his old friend.  “I have been instructed by the Council to ask Beaumont only ‘yes, no,’ questions.  This is not an efficient way to proceed.  Mayor Beaumont must be allowed to incriminate himself through his own words.”

“We discussed at length and the Council did not think that would be prudent.  Beaumont is an accomplished orator and if he is allowed to launch into one of his speeches it could have bad results.”

“I have watched footage of him during the revolution.  He is a rabble-rouser.”

“Exactly.”

“His speeches are emotional and affecting but the courtroom is the epicentre of reason.  Under scrutiny they will fall apart because they have no logical basis.  I can tear down his...”

“Timothy Beaumont was one of the heroes who helped drive the rash of religious fanaticism from North America.  That he has become misguided in his old age is a tragedy that we need to keep brief.

“His heroism is an illusion and unless you let me reveal the truth, there will be an outcry.

“Then we will deal with it,” said Councillor Luris.  “If you are not willing to abide by the Council’s recommendations.  Then you can be replaced.”  The screen went blank.

Merrick was shocked.  Luris had addressed him with the abruptness he would expect from Veritor Lambert.  Merrick realised now that he had been naive.  He should have realised something was suspicious because Lambert wasn’t prosecuting this case himself.  The Council was not planning a trial.  They were planning a show.  A once great hero of the revolution would be executed for treason and any anger that followed would be directed at Merrick.  It was too late for him to back out.  To do so would be the end of his career.

Merrick struggled with this conundrum all morning.  His outlook sunk from one level of pessimism to another.  By lunchtime he realised that Lambert had backed him into a dead end.

* * * * *

Early in the afternoon Laney Beaumont, the Mayor’s wife, came by to see Merrick.

“I know it’s unusual for me to come and see you, but the Adjudicator defending my husband doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Yes.”

“They are trying to insure my husband hasn’t got a chance.”

“Yes.”