The SCP Experience - Innocent Until Proven Guilty | SCP-141

Episode Date: December 29, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-141: Innocent Until Proven Guilty This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-141 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

A court of law is a many-eyed beast. 24 eyes from the jury dart to my bench with a mix of contempt, curiosity, and boredom. Two eyes from the bailiff constantly flicking through the courtroom for any sign of trouble, making me cringe every time they land on me. Four more eyes from my partners behind me. I don't have to turn around to see them glaring into my back, one with utter contempt and the other with indifference and certainty that I'll fit. Although I can't see them, I look away and find myself staring into my client's eyes,

smiling confidently, making my job all the more challenging. No one likes a cocky criminal, especially one with this much evidence indicating his guilt. It's worse in moments like this. It's one of the few times during a trial when I can feel every eye focused exclusively on me. adrenaline spikes from the back of my mind, making my heart pound like an overworked drummer in the battle for the bands. Sweat rushes from every pore, threatening to stain my suit. I focus on breathing, trying to keep myself calm and measured.

I can't let them see how nervous I am. A nervous attorney means a guilty client. It's one of the few lessons I remember from law school, but also the most difficult to master. master, especially when the ringing starts in my ears, blocking out the sound of the witness testifying. Something wobbles against the high-pierced wine, trying to be heard over it, but failing until Mr. Sawyer, the judge roars, popping the ringing in my ears like a bubble and making me drop my notebook.

It's your witness, counselor. Of course, Your Honor, my voice barely carries across the room. The elderly judge scrunches up his face and leans ever so slightly over his bench, barely improving his hearing, but making his hostility crystal clear. I clear my throat and try again. Thank you, Your Honor. My apologies to the court. My brother doesn't try to hide his snickering. He does it quietly enough not to anger my father, but it carries across the gallery. His laughter is contagious, and the others about it.

Observing the trial chuckled quietly as I stroll toward the witness. The jury's eyes bore into me again, but not nearly as much as Dylan McCoy's. It's easy to be sympathetic to Mr. McCoy. As the eldest heir to a prestigious New England manufacturing magnate, he had done everything right. He studied hard, was a natural athlete, and went on to attend college before starting in one of his father's factories. He started at the bottom and worked his way to the top without any special privileges or intervention from his father. In short, he was the stark contrast to my client, his younger brother Connor.

While Dylan worked hard to improve the family fortune, Connor did the opposite. A drunk and a loafer, Connor poured all of his being into his band, which never accomplished anything greater than headlining a few college bars. Their father had grown so disgusted with Connor that he was going to ride him out of the will. Before he could do that, Connor flew into a rage and slit his throat before fleeing the scene. Or so they would have you believe.

It doesn't matter what anyone knows in a court of law, only what you can prove. That's not something I learned in law school, but from my grandfather, the former prestigious head of Sawyer, Sawyer and Sawyer. I meet Dylan's resentful glare and picture the one man I hate more than anyone else. It isn't hard.

Dylan looks a lot like my brother Eddie, the too pricey yet simple haircut, the naturally athletic body making the suit tight against his shoulders, and the arrogant dismissal of me with a glance. In that moment, Dylan McCoy and Eddie Sawyer are one and the same. Mr. McCoy, I meet his game. and swallow, doing my best not to shrink under his hatred. Do you think your brother killed your father?

Dylan doesn't hesitate as he leans toward the small microphone. No. His eyes widen as exclamations erupt across the gallery and the jury. The district attorney, nearly asleep, rears up in his chair, knocking over his cup of coffee. The judge bangs as gavels several times, calling for order, as the district attorney exclaiming. Exclaims. Objection, Your Honor. Relevance. Mr. McCoy's opinion on his brother's guilt is hardly evidence.

I called for order, Counselor. The judge levels his gavel at the DA. That goes for the people as well. Your Honor. My confidence is bolstered by Dylan McCoy's shock. My question goes toward establishing my client's character. The people have spent the last hour questioning Mr. McCoy about his brother's motives for wanting their father dead. Is it to be assumed that Mr. McCoy is only a reliable judge of his brother's character

if it pertains to his guilt and not his innocence? The judge mauls my words over before nodding. Objection overruled. You may proceed with your questions, Mr. Sawyer. Thank you, Your Honor. I can feel all the eyes of the court on me again, but it no longer fills me with dread. Fighting to contain my smile, I turned back to Dylan McCoy.

Mr. McCoy, why don't you think your brother killed your father? McCoy works his jaw several times, like someone punched him in the face. He closes his eyes, scrunching them tight. It looks like he's taking a dump. The thought is so ludicrous but accurate, I have to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing. Instead, I sit and wait patiently, letting the silence build until Dylan McCoy leans toward the microphone again to answer my question. Because I killed the rotten old bastard.

Connor whoops loudly and slams his hands on the table before clapping them in broad applause. The brief noise from before is nothing compared to the raucous activity now. Reporters re-wrepe in their chairs, typing frantically into their phones. The detectives assigned to the case exchange worried expressions and step outside. Spit broths from the red-faced judge as he hammers his gavel over and over again. Your Honor, the district attorney waits for calm to be restored, but there's still an eager energy in the air.

The people request a 15-minute recess in light of... Is your witness, counselor? The judge shakes his head in scowls. You should have prepped him better for this. Do you have any other questions, Mr. Sawyer? Just one, Your Honor. This time, I do smile. Mr. McCoy, earlier today, you testified that you and your wife were how

having dinner at your house together during the time of the murder. Was that a lie? Yes. Dylan's eyes are wide, and he looks down at his open palms. His body's shaking, but the words flowing from his mouth without hesitation. My wife lied to cover for me. I did it. I slit that son of a bitch's throat.

I nod. Thank you, Mr. McCoy. No further questions, Your Honor. Confidence bolsters my every step. as I walk back to our bench and slide in beside Connor McCoy. He's brimming with energy, shaking me by the shoulder and offering me a discreet, low five beneath the table. I accept it quietly and turn around to the galley.

My father, the head of Sawyer, Sawyer and Sawyer, doesn't say a word. But his bushy mustache twitches ever so subtly, his equivalent of a smile. My brother stares at me, his suspicion and hate, forcing me to turn back around. No! Dylan bolts up from the witness stand, heedless of the judge's threats to hold him in contempt of court.

It isn't true. He did it. He hated Dad. He always did. I'd never do that to him. I don't know why I said those things. I don't... That's enough.

The judge roars. Mr. McCoy, for your own sake, I am holding you in contempt of court. I remind you that everything you have said and will say is being documented and can be used against you in future. charges. Vailiff, remove Mr. McCoy from the courtroom. The bailiff snaps to attention and takes the handcuffs from his belt.

Most of the time, their job is fairly mundane. During most trials, they don't do anything more than announce the judge's arrival and departure from the chambers. He's unprepared for McCoy's fist slamming into his face. It takes two more bailiffs and a stun gun to subdue McCoy, and nearly half an hour to clear the room after that. The judge agrees to the people's request for a recess. There's no getting this circus back under control today.

Not that it matters anymore. The case is all but settled. Oh man! Connor slaps my back as we walk out of the courthouse and onto its steps. The reporters had expected today to be another day of routine procedure, so there are only a few of them talking into their phones, trying to get camera crews down before we leave. Holy shit!

Did you see the look on Dylan's face? I can't believe you pulled that off, man. I mean, I gutted that old Mr. McCoy. I grabbed my client by the wrist, cutting off the rest of his words. You're still on trial for your father's murder. Neither the judge nor the jury have made a final decision yet. As your attorney, I still advise you not to say anything related to your father's untimely demise.

Quite right. My father's stern voice makes my body go ramrod straight as he stalks behind us. My brother Eddie trailing in his wake. You would do well to listen to my son. My heart swells with pride as my father places a hand on my shoulder, nodding his approval. Connor chuckles louder, shakes my father's hand, then reaches for Eddie. My brother hesitates, but reluctantly offers his hand. Connor pumps it several times in rapid succession.

And you were right. I thought you were blowing smoke up my ass when you said your brother specialized in cases like mine. I can see the gears turning behind Eddie's cold eyes as he fixes his gaze on me. Eddie has always been more accomplished than me. He's better looking, a better public speaker, and, well, he's better than me at just about everything. I know he didn't assign me the McCoy case because of his faith in me. He knew a stinker when he smelled one and handed the case off to me in hopes that I would lose. How'd you know, Eugene?

Eddie fakes his smile. How'd you know Dylan was lying? A magician never reveals his secret. My father nods in approval, bolstering my resolve. But I can't stop the cold sweat from forming at my neck. I clutch at my briefcase closer to my side, hoping my brother never finds out about the gift our grandfather left me. I never wanted to be a lawyer.

I don't remember what I wanted to be when I was a child. I'm sure my dreams weren't so different from any other. other boy growing up. A policeman, a fireman, a pilot, or an astronaut maybe. I'm sure I wanted to be one of those things when I was younger. But my father stomped those dreams out of me a long time ago. I was a Sawyer, and that meant I would follow in the family's footsteps. Sawyer, Sawyer and Sawyer, has been home to the state's premier criminal defense attorneys for three generations. Do you read the papers. Have you ever read a story about a scumbag getting off on a technicality because of some slick lawyer? If so, then you've read about my family. I was always expected to go into the family

business out of obligation, if nothing else. I was always shorter and heavier than most children my age. My father accepted my presence with a tolerance, always peppered with open hostility. He paid for my college and law school with the explicit expectation that I would join the family's law firm, even though I graduated near the bottom of my class. My father assigned me a murder case for my first trial. I spent the night before running back and forth from the toilet to my desk. Stress had coiled around my stomach and twisted it upward and downward at the same time. My father saw this and took pity on me.

While he was married to a former Hollywood starlet, Grandpa looked a lot like me, short and dumpy. Still, he had a reputation for winning challenging cases, but always asked his questions calmly and meticulously. His specialty was chipping away at a witness's story until only Ezra Sawyer's version of events remained. I found my grandfather waiting in my study. Well, I tried to sputter an apology.

Grandpa slid a tiny book across my desk. It looked fragile. The title was so faded and ancient, I could barely make out the words. Codex Damnatio. I flipped through the first few pages, which felt rough and coarse, far different from the contents in the legal books lining my shelves. The tiny book's first dozen pages were its table of contents detailing various legal cases throughout time.

But the pages were blank. halfway through. That case you have coming up, Grandpa Ezra's words cut through my confusion. Think of what you need to win it. Visualize how you want the trial to go. Then, write everything down on those blank pages. Slowly, meticulously, don't leave anything to chance.

Detail everything you need to obliterate the prosecution. I don't understand. He smiled. Humor and old man. Pretend it's a visualization exercise. See success, and you will be given success, or something like that. It felt ridiculous. But I did as I was told.

Nobody questioned Grandpa Ezra, not even my father. I was up all night detailing the evidence I would need to win the trial. What witness I would need to recant their confessions and what mistakes the prosecution needed to make. By the time I was finished, my frayed nerves had calmed considerably. I thought maybe the exercise was just grandpa's way of keeping me calm before the court. By the end of the trial, I knew there was something more to the book. Everything played out exactly as I envisioned it.

My wonder increased tenfold when I discovered my handwriting vanished from the book. In its place was a new summary of my trial, written in the same slow and precise style as the rest of the book. That's when I realized what Grandpa Ezra gave me. Every case was mine to win, so long as I took my time and detailed the outcome in the Codex-Demnadio. The little book never got bigger, but my winning streak did. As far as I know, Grandpa never told anyone. And with him gone, the book's secrets belong only to me. And nothing is going to stand in my way.

Nothing except for paperwork, apparently. Even after winning several high-profile cases, I still don't have enough interns or paralegals to manage most of my grunt work. I know that's Eddie's doing as well. He can't damage my reputation, not thanks to grandpa. But that doesn't stop him from making my work as difficult as possible. By the time I'm finished, the sun is going down, and the city skyline has blazed to life. Still riding the wave of jubilation for my earlier victory, I stop at a little bit of the little. liquor store and pick up a bottle of champagne for myself and Tara. I met Tara shortly after

winning my first case. Normally, I would have been too intimidated to talk to a woman as stunning as her, but I had a couple of old fashions in me, and the outcome of the case left me feeling confident. We spent the first evening talking, making an instant connection, and we got engaged earlier this year. I can feel everyone's eyes on me whenever I'm with Tara, but unless unlike the courtroom, their looks are nothing but jealousy. It's a quick drive from the liquor store to my condo. I hum along with the music as the elevator raises me to the top floor. My eyes drift to the glass walls and I admire the skyline, alighting the night like a miniature

galaxy. It's like our own little kingdom up here, and I can't wait to share it with my queen. I unlock the door and step inside, but the sound of moans drops the smile from my face. With a bottle of champagne still in hand, I creep toward my room, still open a crack. Eddie is on top of Terra. His back is to me, but I recognize that expensive haircut anywhere. A thrust for my brother brings out a prolonged moan for my fiancé as I retreat into the darkness of the living room. I never felt rage like this before. It encompasses my whole body, overriding my desire to rush in and pummel my brother.

Instead, my rage carries me on quiet footsteps, leaving the bottle on the kitchen table on the way to my study. I unlock my desk and pull out the handgun. Eddie bought me for my birthday. I never owned a gun before. When I opened the package for the first time, and it fell into my lap, I led out a shrill scream and jumped back like it was a venomous snake.

Eddie led the party in a chorus of laughter before picking the gun from the floor and offering it to me. Saw it and thought of you, little bro. The big new hot shot at Sawyer, Sawyer and Sawyer. A cruel joke. It's the only thing Eddie has ever given me. I checked the gun, making sure it's loaded, and that the safety is off.

The walk back through the kitchen as slow and methodical as the notes I leave in Grandpa's book. My rage has tapped into some primal force within me like a jungle cat. stalking my prey. Every breath I take is calm and measured, even as I open the door, ignoring the cries of ecstasy.

My pace doesn't change as I creep up behind Eddie, raise the gun to his head, and pull the trigger. The shot is deafening and fills my ears with a sharp ringing. Deafness dissipates my anger, leaving me confused and directionless as I try to make sense of the spray of red and gray coating my walls and sheets.

Eddie's body is crumpled like a puppet with no strings. His shattered skull pouring blood and brains, while his bare ass sticks up awkwardly in the air. The ringing continues in my ears, and I realize it's Tara. She's screaming. Her lingerie stained with blood as she jabs her thumbs frantically into her phone. Don't! She's never heard me raise my voice before.

Tara freezes and looks at me, her eyes as wide and confused as mine. Put down the phone, baby. I can make this right. She stopped screaming, and I could hear her breaths, quick and short, accompanied by the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her thumb hovers over the phone until a tiny voice comes through the speaker. It breaks Tara from her spell. Help, he has a...

The gunshot cuts off the rest of her words. I didn't even realize I pulled the trigger until the stench of burned gunpowder filled my nostrils. Tara drops her phone and stumbles back to the wall. She raises her hand to her hand to her. stomach, cupping the hole there. She says something to me, but I can't hear her as I squeeze the trigger again and again. Mr. Sawyer, this is the police. Open up right now. Just a moment. I shout back, glancing at the book on my desk. After, after Terra, I dropped the gun on the floor

and rushed here. I locked the door and immediately pulled out Grandpa's book and started scribbling. It's no good though. I need to be calm and collected. and write down everything. I'll need to win when the case goes to trial. The book is worthless if my handwriting is illegible. But the adrenaline has spiked through my body. It makes it hard to think and sends a constant quivering through my hands, smearing every word, making the lines nothing but uneven chicken scratch. I take a deep breath and try to calm down. Everything's going to be okay. Slow, methodical, one word, edda. The door cracks. and four police officers swarm into the room. Two take a position on the door's corners

and raise their guns, shouting orders and threats. I ignore them and keep writing in the book, even as one of the cops rushes my chair and hurls me to the floor. No! I scream and reach for the book. I'm not finished yet.

I'm not. A jolt of pain cuts me off as the officer wrenches my arm behind my back. Cold metal wraps around my wrists. I can hear them read my rights from a distance, but I can't stop staring at the book. So close, and yet so far. I stare at the gray mush slopped into the styrofoam tray.

It smells as disgusting as it looks, but I need to keep my strength up. Taking my food, I joined the line of other men in orange jumpsuits and sit at a table by myself. Rumor has it that my father is in seclusion. Whether that's out of grief for Eddie or out of shame for what I did to our law firm's reputation, I can't be sure. but I know which I would place money on. He's not returning my calls and has cut me off from the family funds. I'm on my own inside here. Well, that's not entirely true.

I have the overworked public defender assigned to my case, but he's about as useful as an 11th toe. He ignores my insistence on getting the book from my condo to subpoena it as evidence for my upcoming trial. The idiot doesn't realize our entire case hinges on the code. Next, Amnario. Luckily, lawyers can be pretty popular in prison. I've helped many inmates file appeals and motions

to challenge their convictions. It's been enough to buy me protection and privacy. My open table serves as a makeshift office, which I keep open until my attorney finally proves his worth and gets my book. I smile at the man approaching my table. He's over six feet tall, his arms decorated with several gang tattoos. Perfect, another member to add to my protection crew. Glancing over my shoulder, I realized the man looks somewhat familiar.

My mouth goes dry as I recognize him. He's the one I made confess to negligently making an over-the-counter replacement for riddle and addictive. It saved the company and made our firm millions. More movement across the cafeteria draws my attention to other people. There's the man I framed for the murder of his wife, and another that I got to confess in a fatal hit and run. I stand from my chair and turn to flee, crashing right into Dylan McCoy.

A flash of pain cuts across my stomach, and I push him away. The shiv in his hand is stained with my blood. I rush in the opposite direction, only to come in contact with another of my victims and his crudely fashioned weapon. I stumble back, blood pouring for my wounds, but everywhere I look is someone I faced in court. They close in on me, boxing me in, and cutting me over and over.

Before I can scream for help, a hot slash of pain cuts across my throat, pouring blood from my throat. SCP-141 is a small leather-bound codex dating back to Roman times, easily carried in one hand. Despite its great age, it never acquires any additional signs of wear and tear beyond a somewhat aged-looking cover. Its thin papyrus pages are always crisp. and so far have proven difficult to tear from the Codex's binding. All attempts at radiocarbon dating have failed. The judgment of SCP-141 as being Roman in origin was initially based upon its appearance, but later confirmed through extensive research using SCP-141 corroborated by historical records.

The title is apparently Codex Demnodio, based upon the text on its spine. The book is a detailed description of notes and summations for a wide range. of legal trials. This first half contains a series of historic trials from throughout history. The earliest trial appears to be from the prescriptions of the late Roman Republic, while the most recent case took place in 2022. Each case summary is extensive, with precise witness quotations, exact physical descriptions of evidence, and their importance to the case, and so on. The Codex actually contains far more legal cases than its 150 pages could possibly allow. A reader must make a detailed reference to a range or specific case

to discover if it is listed inside. If it is, the pages will transform into those relating to the specified case. This requires specific mentions of historical context surrounding the cases. Research with SCP 141 has revealed that SCP 141 has apparently been employed in, among other important periods. A wide variety of Roman. Prisons, Erretical trials of the Catholic Church, the Spanish Inquisition, the witch hunts of the 17th century, and the red scare of the mid-20th century. The latter half of the book is blank and can be written in with any pen with black ink. A user of SCP 141 must provide detailed information about a criminal proceeding, including victim, evidence, witness statements, and suspects. Later readings of the book will reveal these new cases in the first half of the book,

written in the same handwriting as the rest, a very precise, careful hand. When this information is provided to SCP 141, the particulars of the case described in SCP 141 appear to become true in regards to memory and evidence surrounding the case. Witnesses' memories and testimony will correspond to the information written in SCP 141. Falsified evidence springs into existence in accordance with its description, usually appearing in the court record or the crime scene where it can easily be discovered. This has included murder weapons, suspicious traces of the subject such as fluids or fingerprints, stolen items, or incriminating documents.

Care must be taken by all users to ensure as many loopholes are closed as possible. SCP 141's falsifications will stand up to all but the most critical of examinations. But it will only produce precisely the memories and evidence written inside it. While it appears to prejudice the court against the guilty party, this is not foolproof. Nonetheless, successfully employed, SCP 141 is an almost surefire conviction. Lazzang sur-gillet, power-moyance-molyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo. Prere to play.

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