Judgment Day

A fictitious recount of the sinking of the Costa Concordia from the Captains perspective.

Captain Fisher looked at his hands. The jury members would suspect that he was bowing his head in shame; maybe it would earn him a little more sympathy. That wasn’t his intention. Lower, he looked, inspecting the splintered wood of the witness bench�"he wondered how many victims had sat uncomfortably in this very chair, one that creaked stiffly with every nervous movement, wishing they had paid more attention in drama class.

Fisher’s whole life depended on this testimony.

“Captain Fisher?” Fisher’s lawyer inquired, just as they had practiced. He was supposed to appear lost in thought, lost in guilt, lost in translation. Really, all he was thinking about was the fact that no one but his lawyer called him Captain anymore.

“I’ll repeat the question,” his lawyer continued, “can you tell us all you remember of January 13^th, 2012 onboard the Costa Concordia?”

He could. He really, truly could. Fisher could tell you every moment with perfect accuracy.

“As I said, I don’t remember everything that happened.”

“And why is that?” His lawyer inquired.

“A week prior my doctor raised the dosage of my cholesterol medication.” True. “I was feeling hazy because of it.” Not true.

“For the ease of the jury, can you repeat the dosage Dr. Ford prescribed?”

“One hundred and fifty milligrams.”

“I’d like the jury to note the maximum dose for Lipitor is eighty milligrams.” He paused for theatrical effect. Fisher’s lawyer definitely paid attention in drama class. “Now, please tell the court everything you remember about that night.”

            And so it began, the main event, complete with tears, passionate hand gestures and pleading looks toward the jury. His lawyer was confident he would get a minimum sentence if he executed this testimony, and Fisher’s performance was practiced to perfection. So why was he hesitating? Why couldn’t Fisher speak the words?

            After a pregnant pause, the defense lawyer cleared his throat, attempting to recapture the attention of the Captain. Fisher raised his head and observed the crowd from his elevated seat. The room was stuffy and packed full of people who might as well have been witnessing a public execution. For if Fisher went to jail, he believed he might as well be dead.

            Dead. It was a word the prosecution used many times. Thirty-two times, in fact, as they read aloud the names of every person who died that night, as well as the two they never found. Names, names that were connected to many more names that were all in supportive attendance today. All those names had faces, and all those faces had eyes, and all those eyes stared at Fisher; waiting for his imminent bullshit response.

The scrutiny made Fisher feel naked, vulnerable, and exposed. The walls that all humans build around themselves were now non-existent in him, and he sat rigid in his seat. Moments passed by, the judge eyed Fisher cynically, imitating the faces that sat parallel. Fisher continued to look on, at expressions that he would have to face for the rest of his life. Whenever anyone heard his name, hostility would be plain and unmasked. If he went to jail or not, it would make no difference.

In that moment, as he sat paralyzed by over three hundred pairs of eyes, Fisher knew that justice wasn’t a jail sentence. Justice was the unbearable looks directed at him in that courtroom. His fate had had been sealed long before the proverbial verdict reading, and his punishment would last for as long as people looked at him with such hostility.

“Do you need the question repeated, Mr. Fisher?” The judge asked. Fisher didn’t. Instead of replying to the shriveled old man, the Captain told a story�"one very different from the version he had memorized the previous night. This tale was the truth, and as the words echoed through the room, Fisher relived every disturbing moment, saw every detail come to life in his mind like a movie. It was a spectacle of horror he wished never to see again.

 

It was a day just like every other. Passengers were excitedly becoming acquainted with their ship; vacationists submerged help desks and ticket booths, hastily booking dinner and entertainment reservations. Ironically, departure day was one of the most relaxed in the bridge room, as partings always went off without a hitch due to the lack of straggling passengers, a most uncommon occurrence at excursion ports. 

Day flowed seamlessly into night and the buzz of yet another weeklong journey thankfully reanimated the bridge staff, for the majority of attendants manning the control room had been at sea for upwards of seven cycles.

Fisher was one of those people. For seven months he had been addressed as Captain of the Costa Concordia, and he dealt with it the same way he always had.

Fisher stood at the window, gazing with hooded eyes out over the endless expanse of blue, where even the lines dividing sky and water were indistinguishable. He hated the sight; maybe that was the reason he was gripping his chilled glass of golden liquid the way most passengers were presently clutching safety rails. He was sick of the water, and he knew that soon the travelers would be too.

Captain Fisher strolled over to the master control board, and made a few calculations. He had cruised this route over a hundred times and he wanted to give the passengers a show.

His colleagues didn’t share the sentiment, “Are you sure you want to stray off course, Captain?” one of the switchboard attendants nervously asked. Fisher sneered; Cocky kid thinks he knows everything about cruising by reading it in a book. Without responding, Fisher fiddled the necessary joysticks and dials, enabled the control steering, and proceeded to edge off the pre-determined path. What he didn’t do, however, was stay awake to finish the job.

After reprimanding the young kid for questioning his judgment, Fisher stumbled out of the bridge room and into the men’s laboratory, unwilling to part with his scotch, which had stained his shirt on behalf of the holder’s jerky movements. With a huff, Fisher unbuttoned his uniform and shed the ruined garment. He sat himself on the toilet, slumped against the wall, and began to snore.

 

Sweaty hands shook Fisher awake. The captain slowly opened his eyes and fought the urge to hurl as the room spun and the weightlessness set in. Fisher could successfully make out the face of the loudmouth kid in front of his own, however, and his clammy hands matched his perspiring face. His mouth was moving frantically, but Fisher couldn’t make sense of anything he was saying.

Exasperated, the young man stood up and exited the washroom, but not before pointing an accusatory finger in the Captains direction. Baffled, Fisher stood and fastened his pants. He splashed some cold water on his face, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong in his short absence, when all artificial light shut off with a wheezing protest.

Adrenalin filled and subsequently immediately alert, the Captain abandoned his glass and planted his hands firmly against the wall for guidance to the exit. Fisher emerged into the corridor, only to find that the emergency lighting had yet to illuminate the hallways. Darkness made it impossible to navigate through the intricate pathways, so Fisher simply followed hysteria-wrought voices.

After migrating down several flights of stairs to the main level of the ship, Fisher saw everything a Captain should never see take place onboard their vessel. Bodies were pushing, grasping, pulling other forms, attempting to exit onto the outdoor hallways where emergency boat boarding took place. Staff sounded over the intercom, trying to placate the passengers, telling them there was no emergency when their voices sounded like the antitheses of calm and collected.

Slot machines in the casino began to crash to the ground and people fell and stumbled, trying to stay upright as the ship began to turn on its axis.

            Fisher grabbed onto the railing beside him to keep himself upright, a feat especially difficult at his level of intoxication. With the brace of the railing, Fisher truly observed his destroyed ship, one that was probably in worse shape on the outside. The Captain suspected that a large whole had ripped through starboard side, a gash that worked in reverse, as the real danger was not what could escape the wound, but what it would allow in. Fisher knew that what was invading this vessel would kill him and everyone on board.

Sudden terror overwhelmed the Captain and he sank to his knees. He was the sole person responsible for the safety of everyone on board, but he was abandoning his obligations, much like every other panicked passenger was forgetting their responsibility to their fellow man. It was every person for themselves.

Fisher counted himself in the group.

Sheer will to survive pulled him up and forwards, toward the herd of passengers. He stopped and grabbed a baseball cap that was lying discarded on the floor and yanked it far down his forehead. It was the first day of the cruise, so Fisher had yet to introduce himself personally to the cruisers�" no one would know who he was without his uniform.

Fisher pushed, shoved, and threw the occasional elbow until he was situated at the front of the pack. Every time a crewmember looked his way he dipped his head lower, hoping the ball cap masked him.

The Captain claimed a spot on the first lifeboat that touched water and as the boat pulled away from the sinking ship, Fisher sought out the bridge room. As he peered through the wall of windows, he could make out the young boy, standing with palms braced against glass, staring right at Fisher.

 

            The courtroom was silent. Even the judge, a man who had seen a lot in his day, sat stunned. No one was expecting the truth from a man who had abandoned four thousand. Fisher’s lawyer sat slumped in his seat. The case was over. Fisher was going to jail for the rest of his life, incarcerated for thirty-two counts of manslaughter.

The silence stretched on and Fisher knew he had to do something that would prove to be even more difficult than reliving his cowardice in open court. He had to face the eyes again. Slowly, he looked up and focused in on individual faces with the same intensity that greeted him.

 

A week later Fisher found himself in that same courtroom, listening to the jury announce their ruling. Unlike other cases, upon hearing the guilty verdict this newly named criminal did not sob involuntary. He did not place his head in his hands or fight the approaching restraints of the handcuffs, chains that would bind him forever. Instead, Fisher was calm, at peace, for he remembered the tear-stained looks on all those faces a week prior. He only thought of eyes that held a hint of sympathy, of thankfulness, for finally being the hero.

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Dutch Jr.]

Gripping, from the introduction to the conclusion. Extremely well written, and as the reader I can very easily place myself amidst the tension of both scenes - the courtroom itself and the retold tale of the sinking ship.

A tale about shame, regret, and abandonment of the duties placed upon the most important person among this floating vessel. But we find peace in the end, vicariously through Captain Fisher, as he comes to the realization that the guilt he would have to live with -regardless of whether or not he would be able to convince the members of the jury of his innocence - would be much greater a burden if he'd have to live with it knowing that he had lied his way out of it. The truth shall set us free, and we see a prime testiment of this in Fisher's reluctant decision to remove the clouds of shame, guilt, and regret to allow the rays of truth to beam into the courtroom.

Although I like to read short stories, I would love to see more lengthened prose from a writer of your caliber.