SWORN TESTIMONY
Everything said under oath, on the record, in open court, by people who really should have had better things to do. The cat was present. The cat said "meow." The cat was, as ever, just a cat.
[The court is called to order. A cat sits on the defendant's lap. The cat does not rise. The cat will never rise.]
[The defense approaches the bench with a single printout. It is the profile picture. It is, as advertised, a cat.]
[A man in a lanyard approaches the stand. He carries a clipboard, a laser pointer, and the air of someone who has been waiting his whole life to be asked exactly one question.]
[The prosecution wheels in an easel. On it is a single, large swatch of green. The prosecution gestures at it as though it will testify.]
[Both counsel approach the bench. The microphone is meant to be off. It is not off. The stenographer records everything, because the stenographer is a professional and also enjoys gossip.]
[An INTERPRETER, certified in fluent Cat, is seated beside the witness stand. The cat is sworn. The cat is unbothered.]
[The clerk produces the sworn affidavit. The defense requests it be read aloud, in full, with feeling. The court allows feeling.]
EXPERT TESTIMONY
Sworn statements from credentialed professionals, entered into the record at considerable expense to the People, every one of whom arrived to help the prosecution and left having helped the cat.
CHARACTER WITNESSES
Sworn statements collected from individuals of impeccable standing and at least one cat. Each rated five stars by the Department, which does not give out four.
CLOSING ARGUMENTS
[The prosecution rises. The prosecution shuffles a stack of paper that turns out to be one page, photocopied for volume.]
Members of the imaginary jury. I will be honest with you, because at this point it is all I have left.
The People came into this courtroom with a theory. The theory was that the defendant is a furry, and the proof of this was that his profile picture is a cat. It was, I felt at the time, a strong start.
Since then, we have lost the easel. We have lost our own expert, who arrived to convict and stayed to compliment the cat. We have lost the bench conference, which was recorded against my wishes and my dignity. We presented the color green, and the color green was excused before I was.
I would like to point out that the cat called the defendant "staff," and I submit that no innocent man is bossed around by his own profile picture. That is my best remaining point. I am aware of how it sounds.
The People do not, in conclusion, have a fursuit. Or a tail. Or a sona. Or, if I am being fully candid, a case. But we have a vibe, Your Honor, and we have come too far to admit it was only ever a vibe. The People rest. The People are tired. The People should have stayed home.
[The defense rises. The defense buttons one button. The defense means it.]
Ladies and gentlemen of a jury that does not technically exist: let us be clear about what we have actually heard today.
We heard that my client owns a cat. We heard that he finds the cat cute. We heard that the cat is green, has glasses, and sits where it likes. And from this avalanche of the ordinary, the People have built a tower of accusation so flimsy a single "meow" toppled it.
The prosecution's entire case is, and I cannot stress this enough, "but the pfp is a cat." That is it. That is the whole thing. By that logic, every person who has ever loved a golden retriever is a fugitive, and the Egyptians built the pyramids as a furry convention.
Consider the People's own evidence, which has spent the day defecting. Their expert took the stand and pronounced the exhibit a cat. Their color was excused. Their easel was wheeled out in disgrace. Even their bench conference, recorded against everyone's wishes, contained no case, only longing. When your own laser-pointer expert hands the verdict to the defense, the matter is, I would argue, settled.
My client is a man. A man who likes a cat. A man whose cat, under oath, called him "staff." There is no fursuit in evidence. There is no tail in evidence. There is a notarized affidavit, a stamp of unimpeachable standing, and the sworn word of the cat itself. There is only a green cat in round glasses, a man who loves it, and a courtroom that has, somehow, devoted an entire day to this.
So I ask the court, plainly: find what every honest soul, every defected expert, and one extremely confident cat already knows. The cat is just a cat. And the defendant is, has always been, and shall forever remain, not a furry.
READY FOR THE RULING?
The testimony is on the record. The cat has been excused. All that remains is the inevitable. Read the verdict, or revisit how this whole mess began.