“In the story of the killing of Jesus, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups – the Church, which has historically blamed the Jews for the killing – and the Church, which has persecuted them for it. These are their stories.”
“Objection! Your honor. I mean, your Holiness! Mr. McCoy can’t be allowed to keep making statements that are totally irrelevant. Either he has the facts to back up his case or he doesn’t.”
“Irrelevant? Your honor. I mean, your Holiness. This is about motive. It goes straight to the heart of our case. Detective Torquemada is trying to explain why the Jews wanted Jesus dead.”
“Your honor. I mean, your Holiness. This is exactly what I’m saying. Detective Torquemada might be a member of The Church’s Finest but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t even born yet.”
(The Pope mutters something in German with a little bit of Latin thrown in)
“Thank you, your Honor. I mean, your Holiness.”
McCoy walks back to his desk and shuffles through some papers. He looks up at the witness stand. “Detective, thank you very much. You are dismissed. I would like to call the ghost of Lenny Bruce.”
The ghost of the stand-up comic takes the stand.
“Mr. Bruce, if you would kindly put the morphine and needle down. Thank you.”
The ghost does as told.
“Now, Mr. Bruce. When you were alive, you frequently take to the stage and talk about finding a note in your basement concerning the killing of Jesus. Is that right?”
“Yes or no, Mr. Bruce?”
“And what did this note say?”
“We killed him.”
“And who was him?”
“And who was we?”
“And who signed the note?”
“My Uncle Morty.”
“A Jew. No further questions, your honor. I mean, your Holiness.”
Morty Moskowitz, the defense lawyer, leaps to his feet.
“Mr. Bruce. Thank you so much for being here. I know it must have been quite a journey from the afterlife.”
Bruce shrugs his shoulders.
“Mr. Bruce. Just a couple of quick questions. When you would talk about finding a note, what were you doing?”
“I was performing a stand-up comedy routine.”
“So, there was never really a note?”
“No. I made it up for comedic value.”
“Did you even have an Uncle Morty?”
“Your honor, I mean, your Holiness. Mr. McCoy has thrown everything at the Jews but the kitchen sink, the kitchen sink and facts. Not once has he shown this court directly tying my client to the murder. An individual, maybe. But collective responsibility? Not even close.”
(The Pope again mutters something in German and Latin)
McCoy jumps up. “What about, His blood be—“
Moskowitz cuts him off. “Objection! Again, your honor, I mean, your Holiness, has already ruled that to be hearsay and even if it wasn’t. We have established that without a verb there is no way to determine the actual meaning of what Jesus was saying in that regard.”
(The Pope speaks in a combination of German and Latin before switching to English).
“Mr. McCoy. You just have not proved your case. I do not see how the whole people could have been present at this moment to clamor for Jesus’s death. Case dismissed.”
On their way out of the courtroom, Moskowitz goes up to McCoy.
“You know, Jack. No hard feelings. You did your best. I will tell you something, though.”
“It means the real killer is still out there.”