Pointing Fingers and Whispering Teacups
written by: Dimitry Partsi
The Honorable Judge Alistair Finch rapped his gavel. The sound was less a command for silence and more like a very heavy book being dropped on a quilt, a muffled suggestion of authority. He adjusted his robes, cleared his throat, and surveyed the room with the gravity of a man about to ask a truly profound question.
“What do we know about order?” he boomed, his voice echoing slightly. “We know that order is the absence of chaos. But what is chaos, if not merely a different, more spirited, form of order? An order we have not yet learned to appreciate. Therefore, by demanding order, I am in fact demanding a specific and, let’s be honest, rather dull version of chaos. Let us proceed with the sanctioned chaos. Mr. Walker, you may begin.”
The prosecutor, a gaunt man named Walker with a perpetually startled expression, stood up. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
“Your Honor,” he began, “what do we know about the crime? We know that a crime is an act against the law. And the law is a set of rules. And what are rules, if not suggestions for how things ought to be? The crime, therefore, is that the defendant, Mr. Michaels, preferred how things are to how they ought to be, specifically in relation to the plaintiff’s prize-winning, porcelain teacup.” He pointed a long, trembling finger at the defendant. “He took it.”
Michaels, a man whose primary expression was one of mild confusion, as if he’d just been asked to explain the color blue to a rock, simply blinked.
His defense attorney, Ms. Gable, a woman with hair sculpted into a rigid and architecturally unsound bun, rose to her feet. “Objection, your Honor! What do we know about pointing?”
The Judge leaned forward. “An excellent question, Ms. Gable. What do we know about pointing?”
“We know,” Ms. Gable said, with the confidence of a prophet, “that pointing is the act of extending a finger. A finger is a part of the hand. And a hand, as we all know, is primarily used for waving. Therefore, to point is merely an unsuccessful wave. My learned colleague is not accusing my client; he is simply failing to greet him properly. It is a social faux pas, not a legal argument.”
Judge Finch nodded slowly, stroking his chin. “A compelling, if lonely, wave. I’ll allow it. Continue, Mr. Walker.”
Walker, flustered, shuffled his papers. “What do we know about the teacup itself? We know it is the Emperor’s Whispering Teacup. And why does it whisper? Because it is full of secrets. And what is the greatest secret a teacup can hold? The identity of its thief. The teacup, by its very existence as a whispering object, proves it has been stolen. An un-stolen teacup would be silent. And a silent teacup is indistinguishable from a bowl. My client’s bowl, I might add, remains safely at home.”
Michaels whispered something to Ms. Gable.
“Your Honor,” Ms. Gable said, “what do we know about location? We know that for something to be stolen, it must be moved from its proper place. But what is a proper place? It is merely a place where we are used to seeing a thing. I, for one, was growing quite tired of seeing the teacup on my client’s neighbor’s mantelpiece. I find its new, currently unknown location to be a refreshing change of pace. Therefore, my client has not stolen a teacup; he has performed an act of interior redecorating on a municipal scale.”
The Judge tapped his pen. “So your argument is that the defendant is a rogue, unlicensed designer?”
“What do we know about licenses?” Ms. Gable shot back. “Only that they are pieces of paper that prove you have paid a fee. My client’s poverty is his license!”
“Brilliant,” the Judge muttered. “Mr. Walker, do you have a witness?”
“We do, Your Honor. We call Mrs. Higgins to the stand.”
A frail, elderly woman with a hat adorned with plastic fruit was sworn in.
“Mrs. Higgins,” Walker began, “what do we know about the night of the third? We know it was a Tuesday. We also know you were looking out your window. What did you see?”
Mrs. Higgins squinted. “What do we know about pigeons?” she asked, her voice thin and reedy.
Walker blinked. “I… I’m not sure that’s relevant.”
“What do we know about relevance?” the Judge interjected. “It’s a subjective measure of connectivity. Let the woman talk about the pigeons.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mrs. Higgins chirped. “What do we know about pigeons? We know they coo. But they do not coo in the presence of guilt. Guilt creates a low-pressure system in the soul that is disruptive to a pigeon’s inner ear. On the night of the third, as the defendant, Mr. Michaels, scurried past my window, the pigeons on my sill were silent. Utterly, damningly silent. They weren’t cooing; they were judging.”
A murmur went through the courtroom. Ms. Gable stood.
“And what do we know about silence?” she countered. “We know it is the absence of sound. It is nothing. The witness saw the defendant, and heard… nothing. She has presented the court with a complete lack of evidence.”
The Judge leaned over his desk, his eyes now fixed on the defendant. “Mr. Michaels. It is time we heard from you. What do we know about your innocence?”
Michaels stood up, his hands clasped nervously. He looked at the Judge, at the lawyers, at the silent, judging pigeons on the windowsill.
“Your Honor,” he said, his voice surprisingly clear. “What do we know about borrowing? We know that borrowing is simply taking something with the intention of returning it. And what is life, if not borrowing a body from the universe with the full intention of one day returning it? All existence is a loan. I did not steal the teacup. I merely engaged it in a profound metaphysical transaction that mirrors the very nature of our mortal coil.”
A hush fell over the court.
Judge Finch stared at Michaels for a long, silent moment. He then rapped his gavel once.
“What do we know about a verdict?” the Judge declared. “We know it is a conclusion based on the presented facts. The facts are as follows: A crime is a preference for reality. Pointing is a lonely wave. A teacup’s whispers prove its theft. Pigeons are barometers of guilt. And borrowing is the fundamental state of existence.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam.
“Therefore, this court finds the defendant, Mr. Michaels, innocent of theft, but guilty of being a philosopher without a license. The teacup, however, is found guilty of being an accessory to its own disappearance. I sentence it to be lost forever, so it may have more secrets to whisper about. Case dismissed.”
The Judge rapped his gavel, then paused. “What do we know about truth?” he said. “Only that it ruins a good story. Court is adjourned.”
- Pointing Fingers and Whispering Teacups - November 30, 2025
