...David Bowie. He pulled off his dark glasses and wig, and stood up.
The spectators murmured amongst themselves. "It's David Bowie!" --"Who?" --"Oh, you
know. Ziggy White Duke or whatever." --"That's 'Ziggy Stardust,' you young ignoramus." --"Listen, you--"
"ORDER!" The judge banged his gavel. "Order in the court. What is the meaning of this?"
Bowie smiled. "It's a pronoun used to identify a specific person or thing close at hand or being indicated or experienced. But that's not important right now." He paused for laughter from his fellow Zucker and Zucker fans. "Your honour, may I please say something on the defendant's behalf?"
"Erm, well. This is highly irregular," said the judge. "Which means, of course, that I must allow it. Why that is, I don't know. It's as if some hack writer were pulling--". He suddenly went wide-eyed. Lisa, who'd already testified (sorry), grinned. "No, no, that's impossible. In any case...very well, Mr. Bowie. You may speak."
Bowie strode sexily (yes, sexily. So what if he's sixty-five. Don't you judge me
) to the centre of the courtroom. "Your honour. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Your Holiness the Dalai Lama. I've known Mr. Machrie for many years, going back to when he was the up-and-not-quite-coming glam rocker Oliver Oohlala. And although he's a...quirky fellow, as befits one in his line of work, I can attest that he is no
pornographer. He has worked successfully and cordially with a number of actors old...and young. Like Zac Efron, whom he helped discover
. Like Ms. Velte here, who has already received acclaim not only for her 'Stick it to the man' contribution to reality TV, but also distinguished herself as the lead in last fall's off-Broadway production of David Mamet's When You Say 'Fuck You,' What Do You Mean, Exactly?
Believe me, if he were a peddler of filth for filth's sake, I wouldn't have employed him as pantomime director for my upcoming I'm Still Relevant, Damn It! world tour this spring.
"And as for Ms. Velte's wardrobe malfuction, I believe it's already been established that was an accident. Now certainly, one could
argue that she should've been wearing less flimsy panties underneath the nightie, but--well. The stories I could tell you about the time my pants split during the first Ziggy
tour, as I was mock-fellating Mick Ronson's guitar and got arguably a bit too into it...ahem. My point is, no one arrested me then. And that was at a much less permissive time, in terms of what could be done on stage, than today.
"So who, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is truly the guilty one here? Is it Mr. Machrie? Ms. Velte? Ms. Winters? Or is it the double standard employed by our society, which adopts an 'anything goes' attitude to such instances of 'high culture' as erotic glam rock concerts, but suddenly turns Puritan when it comes to such 'disreputable' art forms as Shakespearean comedy? I rest my case." Bowie sang. "I've borrowed your time / And I'm sorry I called / But the thought just occurred that Calvin Machrie's not guilty at all / After all.
There followed applause from the jury and spectators, and more banging from the judge's gavel.
"Thank you, Mr. Bowie. If the prosecution and defence have nothing further...? Well then, I shall charge the jury: blah blah, obscenity, blah blah, community standards, blah blah, flexible definition, blah blah, artistic merit, blah blah blah.
We'll now take a recess while the jury deliberates."
Following a well-received impromptu, a capella performance of "'Heroes'" by you know who, the jury returned to their seats and court was back in session. "Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked the foreman.
The foreman stood. "We have, your honour. We find the defendant...