~~The Scene~~ In a conference room in the hallowed halls of the Joe Louis Arena, a small room that no one much uses, sits the entire team of the Detroit Red Wings, minus their Captain. There is a small, raised area at the front of the room, a platform that is generally used for public announcements. There is a folding table set up upon it. There is one folding chair behind the table, and another off to the right side. No one is sitting at the table, but there is a hockey stick lying across it, and a bottle of water next to that. There are two folding chairs on the main floor, one on each side of the platform, set up in front of the step leading up to it. The chairs face the rest of the room. Upon the left sits Darren McCarty, and upon the right sits Kirk Maltby, with a small table next to him. There are two folding tables set up facing the platform, again on either side, with two men sitting at each. Behind and between the tables sits a single folding chair, also facing the platform. Sitting on it, and looking utterly miserable, is Jiri Fischer. The rest of the team is sitting in three rows of folding chairs set up along the right side of the room. The rest of the team, minus their Captain.
~~~
A low buzz of chatter filled the room, the quiet talk of a group of people waiting for an event to begin. And so they were. Darren glanced down toward his watch, and then over his shoulder. He’d been doing this for the last fifteen minutes. At last his patience was rewarded, however, for as he glanced over his shoulder he saw the door in the left corner of the room crack open. The figure behind the door nodded at him, and Darren nodded in return. He rose to his feet.
“Ahem,” Darren cleared his throat and looked around the room expectantly. No one paid any attention, and the chatter continued.
“Ahem!” He said louder.
“I’m telling you,” Kris Draper was saying to Tomas Holmstrom. “He never, ever should have won. It was Clay all the way. Clay WAS that show.”
“Why you didn’t vote for him then?” Tomas asked, in his odd version of English.
“Julie wouldn’t let me,” Kris admitted sheepishly. “She wanted Reuben to win.”
“QUIET!” Darren bellowed, and at last the room hushed.
“Right,” he continued. “The Player’s Court is now in session, the honorable Judge Yzerman presiding.”
The door behind him swung all the way open and Steve Yzerman stepped through it. He was holding a pad of paper. He was also wearing a bathrobe over his clothes.
“This is so weird,” Derian Hatcher muttered.
“It gets weirder,” answered Nick Lidstrom.
“ALL RISE!” Darren yelled, and everyone in the room stood up. Steve stepped up onto the platform, and settled himself into the folding chair at the table. He pushed the hockey stick out of the way and moved the bottled water to where he wanted it.
“Please be seated,” he said, not looking up, and everyone sat back down. There were several loud crashes on the right side of the room, followed by shouts and curses. Steve looked up, aiming a stern gaze toward the commotion. “The jury will refrain from pulling the chairs out from underneath each other.”
“Yeah,” muttered Brendan Shanahan, rubbing his backside.
“Let the court stenographer begin the court record,” Steve said. He looked down at Kirk. So did the rest of the team. After thirty seconds or so of silence, Kirk looked up from examining his fingernails to see everyone staring at him. He blinked.
“OH,” he said. “Right, that’s me.”
He cracked his knuckles, and stretched, getting ready for his task. Slowly, and with great care, he extended his hand toward the small table sitting next to him. With solemn ceremony, he lifted one finger high in the air. He brought it down with purpose, and flawlessly pressed the “record” on the small tape deck. The jury broke into applause for a job well done.
“Thank you, thank you,” Kirk said humbly. He put his hands behind his head, grinning, and leaned back.
“Quiet, quiet!” Darren shushed the crowd.
“Thank you, Bailiff,” said Steve. He looked toward the jury. “Do you all have paper and pencils for note-taking?”
The jury stared at him.
Steve sighed.
“Here,” he said to Darren, handing him the pad of paper and a pencil. “Give this to the head juror. I had a feeling they wouldn’t be prepared.”
Darren handed the items to Brendan and then returned to his place. He retrieved a manila envelope from beneath his folding chair.
“Your Honor,” Darren announced, handing Steve the envelope. “This is the case of Chelios versus Schneider.”
“Right,” Steve said. He opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper full of handwriting. He looked down at the two tables sitting in front of him. “I’ve reviewed this case in my chambers already…”
“When Stevie says “reviewed it in my chambers” that means he read it on the toilet,” Brendan whispered to the rest of the jury. There were smothered giggles. Brendan made note of his observation on the pad of paper.
“…so I know the history of this case. Mr. Chelios,” Steve said, looking down at the table on the left side of the room. “You accuse Mr. Schneider of identity theft, and seek reparations for stealing…” Steve looked down at the paper to see exactly what had been written. “‘A taste of Jiri.’” There were whispers in the room, and Jiri squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “Is that correct?”
“It is.” Chris said coldly. There was silence. “Uh, your Honor.”
“And Mr. Schneider,” Steve continued, looking down at the table to his right. “You have pleaded ‘not guilty’ to these charges. Is that correct?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Mathieu answered. He glanced unhappily toward Chris, who glared back at him.
“Okay,” answered Steve. He rapped the handle of the hockey stick sharply against the table. “Let’s begin. The counselors of each side will now make a few brief opening remarks. The plaintiff may go first.”
The man sitting next to Chris rose to his feet. “Thank you, your Honor.”
Chris smiled up confidently at the man he’d chosen to represent his legal interests. With solemn dignity, and flicking imaginary motes of dust from the sleeves of his suit coat, Brett Hull took center stage.
“Your Honor,” he began. “Honorable court officers,” he nodded to Darren and Kirk. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury-”
“There aren’t any ladies,” interrupted Mathieu Dandenault.
“That’s up for debate,” replied Brett. He continued. “I intend to show you all here today that a maliciously evil crime has taken place. That THAT man,” he pointed accusingly at Schneider, “did knowingly and wantonly pretend to be my client. And furthermore, that he used this false identity to take advantage of, dare I say seduce, my client’s lover. Simply put, Mathieu Schneider tricked Jiri Fischer into believing he was my client, Chris Chelios, so that he could have sex with him. Poor Jiri didn’t have a chance, being as he was in a state of inebriation.”
“In a state of what??” Kris demanded.
“He was shitfaced,” Nick clarified.
“Well, why didn’t he just SAY that?”
“Silence!” Steve said warningly.
“By the time this case is over,” Brett went on. “After all the witnesses have had their say, you will have heard a sordid tale of illicit sexual conduct…”
“NOW it’s getting good,” whispered Brendan, scribbling on his paper.
“…and you will have no choice but to believe what the Almighty Himself already knows.”
“What does Gretzky have to do with this?” whispered Dandenault.
“And that is, of course, that Mathieu Schneider is as guilty as sin.” Brett leveled a significant look toward the jury, and then toward Schneider.
“Thank you.” He swaggered back to his table and sat down.
“Thank you, Mr. Hull,” Steve said. He looked toward Schneider’s table. “The defense may speak.”
“Thank you, your Honor.” With a cool grace that none there could match, Igor Larionov rose to his feet. He straightened his spectacles and looked calmly toward the jury, all of whom subconsciously straightened in their seats.
“Gentlemen,” he began, his Russian accent highlighting the seriousness of his demeanor. “What I am going to prove to you today is that what happened on the night of July 4th, 2003, was, in effect, one big misunderstanding. Not only is my client completely innocent of willfully stealing Mr. Chelios’ identity, but what resulted from that mistake was something that everyone involved wanted. It was something Mr. Fischer wanted to happen-” Igor gestured to Jiri, who scrunched down in his seat, trying to make his large body as small as possible. Chris muttered something and glared angrily at Igor. Brett put a hand on Chris’ shoulder, calming him down.
“It was something my client, Mr. Schneider, wanted to happen,” Igor nodded at Mathieu, who was still sitting unhappily.
“And moreover, it was something Mr. Chelios himself wanted to happen, too.”
“That’s a fucking lie!” Chris burst out.
“You’re out of order, Mr. Chelios,” Steve said sternly. “If you can’t control yourself, I’ll have you escorted out of this courtroom.”
Chris snorted and sat low in his chair. He crossed his arms and stared sullenly down at the table.
“Please continue, Mr. Larionov,” Steve said.
“Thank you, your Honor. Gentlemen, the only “crime” that has been committed here has been that one man-” He looked toward Jiri again, who looked back up at him with a flushed face and eyes shining with tears. “Tried to give the man he loved-” Igor looked toward Chris, who continued to scowl down at the table. “What he thought he wanted.”
Igor turned to the jury. “You will see for yourselves that there is no identity theft here; if anyone is confused on who he is, it’s Mr. Chelios himself. Thank you.”
Igor took his seat, and patted his unhappy client on the shoulder.
“Very well,” Steve said. “The opening remarks have been made. The plaintiff’s side may begin their case. Mr. Hull, you may call your witness. And remember, the Player’s Court, in the interest of time, allows only one witness per side. So choose wisely.”
“Thank you,” Brett replied. He gave Chris’ arm one last squeeze and stood. “Your Honor, I call Mr. Chris Chelios to the stand.”
The jury murmured in surprise that Brett would call his own client as his one and only witness. Chris stood and stalked his way to the podium. He climbed the step and stood facing the room in front of the empty folding chair. Darren stepped up to him, holding out a book.
“Place your left hand on the book and put your right hand in the air,” Darren said. Chris did so. “Do you swear-”
“Wait, what is that?” Steve interrupted, peering at the book.
“It was the only book we could find,” explained Darren. “It came from Boyd’s locker.”
Steve squinted at the book’s title. “‘Gay Sex for Dummies?’”
“HEY!!” Boyd yelled. The jury erupted in laughter. Boyd flushed a dark red.
“Well, we didn’t have a Bible…” Darren shrugged. “Considering the case I thought it would be appropriate.”
“That is NOT mine,” Boyd declared.
“Sure it isn’t,” Brendan snickered. “This is SO going in the jury notes.”
“This team is SO going to hell,” Jason Woolley added.
“You are all SO going to shut up,” Steve glared at the jury. “Immediately. Continue, Bailiff.”
Darren fixed Chris with a stern look. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” Chris answered.
“Please sit,” Steve said to him. Chris lowered himself into the chair. Brett straightened his suit coat and stepped up to the platform.
“Mr. Chelios,” he began. “What was going on at your house on the night of July 4th, 2003?”
“I was having a party,” Chris answered. “I invited over everyone from the team who could make it.”
“And what sort of things had you planned to do at that party?”
“Well, I had the barbeque going, there was a driving range set up, the pool was open, and when it got dark enough we were going to set off fireworks. Normal fourth of July stuff.”
“I see,” said Brett. “And was there alcohol at your party?”
“Of course there was,” Chris replied. “I had a wet bar set up.”
“So, people were drinking alcohol at your party.”
“Hell, he oughta know that,” Kris whispered. “He was the one who had all those tequila shots, announced that he was going to live under the sea from now on, and dove headfirst into the pool.”
“Fully dressed,” added Nick.
“I’ll put that in the notes,” Brendan whispered back.
“Yes,” Chris answered.
“Was Jiri Fischer at your party on the night of the fourth, Chris?”
“Yes, he was.”
“And was he drinking alcohol?”
“He was,” Chris replied, looking out at the single-person audience. Jiri sniffled. “He was very, very drunk.”
“And what about Mathieu Schneider? Was he at your party, too?”
“Yes,” answered Chris grimly. “Unfortunately.”
“So, you said you were going to set off fireworks at your party when it got dark enough. Did you do that?”
“Yes,” said Chris. “We started lighting them off about ten pm.”
“Was everyone at your party there to watch?”
“No,” Chris replied. “Mr. Schneider disappeared into my house sometime after we ate and before it got dark. He went inside to set his trap.”
“Objection, your honor!” said Igor. “He’s speculating.”
“Sustained,” Steve replied. “Mr. Chelios, please stick to the facts.”
“Sorry,” Chris muttered. “Sometime after we ate and before it got dark, Schneider went into the house.”
“Did he say why?” Brett asked.
“No, I didn’t talk to him. I just noticed he was gone.”
“Then how did you know he went in the house?”
“I didn’t at the time. I know now because of what happened later.”
Brett nodded and began to slowly pace the room. “Was anyone else missing when you set off the fireworks?”
“Yes, Jiri wasn’t there.”
“Where was he?”
Chris sighed. “Well, he had way too much to drink that night. He was stumbling around after we ate, and I saw him stagger toward my house.”
“When was that?”
“That was right after we finished eating, so about nine pm. I figured he needed to throw up or lay down or whatever, so I let him be. I was going to go check on him after I made sure someone else was sober enough to light the fireworks.”
“So, you yourself weren’t drinking alcohol?”
“No.”
“Let the record show that Mr. Chelios was perfectly sober, and sound of mind and body, when these events occurred. Did you go and check on Jiri like you were going to?”
“Yes,” Chris scowled.
“What happened when you did?”
Chris glared toward Schneider. “I walked into the house, and started looking for him. I checked the living room and the bathroom, and then the rest of the main floor. I called his name but there was no answer.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went upstairs and noticed my bedroom door was closed. I thought he was in there so I opened it. The lights were off, I couldn’t see anything. So I hit the switch by the door.” He scowled. “Then I saw things all too clearly.”
Brett stopped his pacing and stood in front of Chris.
“Was Jiri in your bedroom?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Was he alone?”
“No,” Chris growled. If looks could kill, Mathieu Schneider would be playing defense on that great ice rink in the sky. “He was in bed, in my bed, with HIM.”
“Please state his name for the jury,” Brett told him.
“Mathieu Schneider,” Chris said through gritted teeth. “My lover, Jiri Fischer, was in bed with Mathieu Schneider.”
On to Chapter Two
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