Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Inside the Bow Street Courthouse, the judge sat on a high platform, wearing a black judge's robe and a curly wig that made his face appear serious and distant.

James Vaughn, a judge whose surname was known to everyone in London's legal circles, earned an annual salary of £1,500, an amount that an ordinary worker at the time could not earn in a lifetime.

That's why he doesn't need to take risks for money or be at the mercy of anyone.

He is the advocate of the law and the cornerstone of civilization.

On the table in front of the judge were rubbings of account books, workers' testimonies, and several Irish letters translated into English.

His fingers moved slowly across the pages, his gaze sweeping over the numbers and names line by line, occasionally making a small mark on the edge with a dip pen.

He had been waiting for twenty minutes.

The appellant, the arms dealer named Richard Bryan, has not yet arrived.

The gallery was full of people. Greenwood's men occupied the first two rows on the left. Several lawyers in dark suits were talking in hushed tones, occasionally flipping through a law compilation thicker than the Bible.

Several reporters sat in the gallery on the right, their pencils flying across their notebooks, but they couldn't write anything substantial because the trial hadn't started yet.

Slightly further back, several Irish workers huddled together, their hat brims pressed down on their knees, barely daring to breathe.

Finba sat at the front, his hands clenched into fists, his back ramrod straight.

The judge looked up, glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the empty appellant's seat, and frowned slightly.

"Since the appellant has not yet arrived, this court will not wait any longer and will summon the defendant."

Greenwood stood up from the dock, having to take off his coat because of a little incident outside the door.

Sitting next to him was a lawyer in his fifties; just by looking at his attire, you could tell his fees were outrageously high.

He stood up for Greenwood and bowed slightly.

Finba was led to the witness stand by the bailiffs. Once he was standing, he placed his left hand on a black-covered Bible and raised his right hand.

"I swear," he said, "every word I have said is the truth, only the truth."

The judge nodded.

Finba lowered his hand and took his seat in the witness stand.

The judge opened the documents in front of him and read out the charges Richard had brought: bribing customs officials, discrimination and abuse of workers, child labor, and threats and intimidation.

Each time a passage was read aloud, a subtle commotion would rise in the audience.

"Defendant, what do you have to say about the above charges?" The judge slowly looked at Greenwood.

Greenwood's lawyer stood up, calmly adjusted his wig, and then cleared his throat.

"Your Honor," his tone alone exuded confidence, "my client, Mr. Greenwood, denies all of these charges. Anonymous statements and dubious ledgers are evidence of no legal standing."

He shook his head: "My client will not allow it, nor will he accept it. What's more serious is that this so-called evidence may very well have come from the hands of some people with ulterior motives, or even be... forged."

There was another commotion in the gallery, and several reporters' pencils flew across their notebooks.

"Furthermore, regarding the witness," the lawyer turned to face Finbar, "this gentleman, Mr. Finbar, we have reason to suspect his ties to the Fenia organization in Ireland. Every word spoken by a morally flawed witness should be treated with extreme caution."

Finba twisted his hand on his trouser leg and said:

"I swear on my soul that I have no connection with Fennia. I am not one of them, nor am I a sympathizer of them. I am a worker who has worked in the Greenwood factory for more than a decade."

"I've seen ten-year-old children crawl into the gaps in machines to clean coal dust, machines that could start at any moment and sever their hands. I've also seen workers with lead poisoning whose hands tremble so badly they can't even hold a spoon, and who were chased out of the workshop by the foreman like dogs. Fennia didn't let me talk about these things, but I have to tell them from my conscience, right here."

He paused for a moment and took a breath.

The gallery was quiet, and the reporter's pencil hovered in mid-air.

"You're saying I'm morally flawed?" Finbar's voice trembled slightly. "In Greenwood's factories, all the dangerous work is done by the Irish, and all the easy work is done by native-born white Britons. You sit there, dressed in a respectable suit, holding Greenwood's checks, and what gives you the right to question my identity?"

The lawyer was completely unaffected by his words, merely chuckled, and turned to face the judge:

"Your Honor, please note that the witness himself admitted to his dissatisfaction with the situation of the Irish. This indignation may very well have been his motivation for joining the Fenian organization. I must remind the court that the objectivity of the testimony of someone with such strong nationalistic sentiments is questionable."

Richard's lawyer immediately stood up: "Your Honor, I object. The opposing lawyer's unfounded speculation about the witness's identity constitutes defamation."

The judge glanced at the lawyer and nodded: "Objection valid. Opposing attorney, please watch your wording."

The lawyer bowed slightly: "I apologize, Your Honor."

Then he turned to face Finbar again: "So, regarding the testimonies of those child laborers, Mr. Finbar, do you think a seven-year-old child knows what a lie is? Does he know the weight of a lie? Perhaps, give them a few candies, and they'll tell you anything?"

Finba became even more agitated, veins bulging on his forehead: "Those children may be poor, but they know they shouldn't say things against their conscience. But what about you? You brazenly... lied in front of the judge."

The lawyer's expression changed, and he opened his mouth to retort when the courtroom doors were suddenly pushed open.

With a bang, the door slammed against the wall.

Everyone turned their heads away.

Richard stood in the doorway, panting heavily, his forehead covered in sweat. He leaned against the doorframe with one hand and held a brown paper bag in the other. The corners of the bag were soaked with sweat, but the sealing wax seal was intact.

"Your Honor, I..." He bowed, "I'm late... I'm going to get, to get the crucial evidence."

This scene drew a chorus of low chuckles from the audience.

The judge struck the gavel once, and silence fell.

"Appellant, please take a seat," the judge said. "This court accepts your lateness, but if it happens again, you will face charges of contempt of court."

Richard straightened up, gave a slight bow to the judge, and strode quickly toward the appellant's seat.

He's not usually this disheveled, but he made extra preparations for today, which is why even walking was a bit difficult for him.

He placed the brown paper bag on the table, plopped down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"Appellant, please submit your evidence," the judge said.

Richard stood up, handed the brown paper bag to the judge with both hands, and the bailiff stepped forward, took the bag, and handed it to the judge.

The judge tore open the seal, revealing a black-covered notebook and a file. The notebook's cover bore the official seal of Scotland Yard, a deep purple St. Edward's Crown, and below it a shield with intricate patterns.

The judge turned to the pages where Richard had folded corners, and then stopped.

He glanced up at Greenwood, then lowered his head to continue reading, turning the pages slowly so that the sound of the paper rubbing could be heard throughout the courtroom.

Greenwood's lawyer stood there, unaware of what was recorded in the notebook, and could only turn to look at Greenwood.

Greenwood sat in the dock, clutching a handkerchief, his forehead beaded with sweat.

Finally, the judge closed his notebook and looked up.

"This is evidence officially authenticated by the Metropolitan Police Department," the judge said. "It clearly records the transactions between your client and Customs Officer Benjamin Brendel."

The judge tapped the notebook cover twice with his finger.

"Opposing lawyer, do you have anything to say?"

The lawyer's Adam's apple bobbed laboriously; he was speechless.

Richard leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh; the trial was far from over.