Self-Igniting Books

A short story

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Superior Court Judge Evelyn Washington slammed her gavel on the matching round block with such force that the courtroom’s walls shook. 

Her thick, leather chair squeaked as she leaned back. She clasped her hands behind her head. “I like this case. This is an interesting case, perhaps even an important one. But you,”—she pointed to Hascombe Gleason, the redheaded attorney representing the United States of America—“and you”—her finger lurched to Priscilla DeKune, the attorney for the plaintiff—“are neither interesting nor important. You can be replaced by lawyers who are far more erudite, thoughtful, and, most importantly, quiet. You will be quiet. You will not interrupt each other, and you will certainly not interrupt me.” Washington leaned forward in her chair and aimed fiery eyes at the lawyers. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Judge,” came their replies, a duet of acquiescence. 

The enormous neon American flag on the courtroom’s far wall cast red, blue, and green waves across her black silk robe. She smiled at the giant painting of President Adam Seymour Nelson, who’d been America’s leader for the past fourteen years since the repeal of the Twenty-Second Amendment in 2026. 

“I’ll entertain a closing statement from the plaintiff. Proceed.”

DeKune glanced at her notecard, placed it on the table, and removed her reading glasses. “As with all book buyers, my client, Enola Hensley, is well aware that the State could nullify her purchase. She acknowledges she took a chance purchasing The Well Below and admits that the book’s subject, though fictional, could be construed as controversial, given that the main character is a gay, Jewish man in his twenties in pre-World War II Germany, facing the double danger of—”

Washington banged the gavel. “Ms. DeKune, I will not allow this courtroom to be used as a forum to disseminate ideas deemed obscene, pornographic, purulent, or dangerous by virtue of the State burning of all copies of The Well Below. You may not discuss the plot of the book in question. If you try that again, I will declare you in contempt of court, resulting in an automatic thirty-day sentence in Westchester County Jail.”

“Sorry, Judge. We grant that the State was within its power to burn my client’s book and that my client purchased The Well Below knowing that the State could activate the self-igniting feature of this or any book. My client further concedes that she read the disclaimer on the back jacket that said, ‘The State may, at any time, deem this book a moral, material, or other danger to the American people and remotely cause it to burn to ashes without notifying the book’s owner. Purchasing said book constitutes agreeing to this condition.”

“Fine then.” Judge Washington sounded her gavel. “Let’s hear the prosecution's closing argument now.”

“Judge, I’m not finished.”

“What did I say about interruptions?” Washington stroked her chin and continued, “You say you’re not finished? You certainly seem finished to me.”

“Judge, I implore you; please let me continue.”

“Very well. You have a minute.”

DeKune swallowed a swift, shallow breath. “If the State is going to take the extreme measure of burning somebody’s book—”

“Counselor, don’t embellish. Stick to the facts. ‘Extreme’ is not in evidence.”

DeKune’s face turned pale. Her throat tightened. She cast a sorrowful gaze at her client, who was fidgeting with her hair. This is not going well.

“I’ll make my point—”

“You have twenty seconds remaining.”

“If the State has the right by law to incinerate any book, then it’s obligated to make that process safe. My client, a single mother of two children, ages three and six, suffered third-degree burns when the State remotely burned her copy and all copies of The Well Below. Accordingly, we ask for one-hundred-thousand dollars for medical costs and damages.”

A stone-faced Judge Washington turned to the State’s attorney. “Does the esteemed Counselor Gleason for the Government wish to make a closing statement?”

“Yes, your honor. I know your time is valuable, so I’ll keep my remarks brief.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Gleason. Take all the time you need.” 

Hascombe Gleason spoke for thirty minutes, his soliloquy a libretto of Latin and Old French peppered with the rhetoric of Nelson-speak. This was a judge trial, and Gleason wanted to impress with both his words and exuberance, even though he knew Washington was in his pocket.

He orated as if the opposing side didn’t exist, ignoring them into irrelevancy. He concluded, “When citizens buy books, they assume all risks. They know that the omniscient and enlightened State might choose to burn any book a day, a week, a year, or a hundred years after publication, and if it does, the ensuing fire could harm them. If citizens don't want to assume that risk, they should not buy books. Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Counselor.” Washington tugged on her robe’s sleeves. “I am prepared to rule. The plaintiff and lawyers will rise.”

Gleason smiled. 

DeKune grimaced. 

Hensley sobbed. 

“I find for the plaintiffs and award Enola Hensley one-hundred-thousand dollars plus attorney’s fees.”

Spectators gasped.

Hensley fell into her chair. 

The three reporters in the galley scribbled frantically in their notebooks, pens scratching furiously against the paper.

Gleason thrust an arm into the air. “Your honor! The State objects.”

“Be quiet, Mr. Gleason.”

“Your honor, the State vehemently objects and strongly suggests you reconsider.” Hascombe Gleason pulled his shiny, white iPhone out of his briefcase, tapped the screen to wake it, and placed a call. 

“My decision is final, Mr. Gleason.”

“Bad decision.”

Judge Washington yelled at Gleason to put his phone away. She pounded her gavel and roared “contempt of court,” “jail time,” and “disbarred,” all of which Gleason ignored. 

As Gleason spoke in hushed tones over the phone, he kept his gaze on Judge Washington, shaking his head from side to side and mouthing “tsk-tsk.” He slipped the phone back into his briefcase, shot the judge a smirk, and wagged his finger. A moment later, Judge Evelyn Washington burst into bright red and orange flames. 

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If you enjoyed Self-Igniting Books, you might like my story, The Word Boss.