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It was half past twelve.

Down the hallway of the courthouse, the only living figures were a couple of attendants and a lawyer that was walking in a hurry, a briefcase in his hand and documents under his arm. All the doors of the courtrooms were closed and guards in uniform waited on the threshold, looking around with bored expressions. Judging by the number of guards and closed doors, there had to be several trials scheduled for that day. Maybe Martin had already finished. If he hurried, he might find him still inside.

He reached the staircase and went down. Halfway, he saw two guards open the double doors of one of the courtrooms on the lower floor: a stream of coats, canes, monocles, hats and overlapping voices came out of the room, breaking the silence of the courthouse. The audience flowed to the right and only a small group took the stairs from which he was coming. On the right there was the canteen, if he remembered right: so, if everyone went there, it meant the process was not over yet.

Once the crowd dispersed, prosecutors and defense attorneys went out of the courtroom: they were recognizable even from a distance, thanks to their ties and briefcases, and all of them were involved in a four-way speech. Two lawyers per side? It had to be a pretty important case.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, the four lawyers were already far away, heading for the canteen. The last to come out of the courtroom was a familiar figure, with an open briefcase in one hand and a messy bundle of sheets in the other. He was trying to close his case, although his hands were both full, without success.

He reached him, with a broad smile.

“Want some help?”

Martin raised his eye, recognized him and his gaze brightened.

“Hey there!” Martin tried to give him a pat on the back, but with both hands occupied, he only managed to drop a couple of sheets on the ground. They bent down together to pick the papers up, organized them and finally placed all documents safely inside the briefcase.

“Thanks.” Martin closed the lock and stood up first. With his hands finally free, Martin grabbed his arm and lead him down the hallway, away from the empty courtroom. “You haven’t been around here that much! How are things going?”

“Good,” he replied, with a nervous laugh. “I’m a little behind with mortgage payments, but it could be worse.”

Martin friendly nudged him with his elbow.

“But now you’re here.” He gloated. His eye was half-closed in a knowing smile. “That means you have a pretty big case on your hands.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t entirely choose it,” he admitted, shrugging. “It was given to me.”

Martin raised his eyebrow.

“Uh?“

"By Judge Beckenrohe.”

“By Beckenrohe?” He repeated.

“A criminal case.” He raised the folder he was carrying under his arm. “He chose me as the court-appointed attorney for the prisoner.”

The gloated expression disappeared from Martin’s eye.

“Oh.”

“I know.” He gestured at himself. "But as I am, it’s enough that they let me work and the judge entrusts me with some cases.”

“Don’t say that,” Martin retorted. “You’re a great attorney.”

“Whether I’m good or not, it doesn’t matter if I don’t have any clients.” He rubbed himself over the eye. “Sorry. I’m having a bit of a tough time.”

“We need a drink,” Martin said. “Tonight, at the usual pub, at nine. My treat.”

"Thank you, but not tonight.” He waved the folder. “I want to talk to the accused.”

“Who is it?” he asked, curious.

“A mythomaniac, according to the judge.” He opened the folder. “Equilateral Family for fifteen generations, no mental problems. Parents in order, children in order: everything normal, in short. Until, a year ago, the middle child disappears into nothingness and, when he comes back, he raves, makes up stories and speaks nonsense.”

“The guy’s basically doomed already.”

"Exactly.” He closed the folder. “But the law states that even psychos should have an attorney. At least the judge thought of me for this job.”

“You need a real case,” Martin replied. “A feasible one. A case you can win.”

“I know,“ he sighed, “But I still don’t have any other clients.” he tried to smile. "At least I have this case now and I want to do my best.”

“You can’t win it.” Martin reminded him.

“I know.” He put the folder under his arm again. “But, if I talk to the accused and it comes out he’s completely crazy, I can always ask for a reduced sentence, by reason of insanity.”

Martin laughed and patted him on the back.

"That’s the spirit.” His eye bent into a smile. “You are a great attorney and, sooner or later, everyone will know.”

“I doubt it, but thank you for trusting me so much.” He raised a hand. “I’ll go to the penitentiary. See you later.”

“We’re set for tomorrow,” Martin answered. “Good luck with your madman.”

 

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"Our Women are Straight Lines.

Our Soldiers and Lowest Classes of Workmen are Triangles (…) called Isosceles.

Our Middle Class consists of Equilateral or Equal-Sided Triangles.

Our Professional Men and Gentlemen are Squares and Pentagons.

Next above these come the Nobility, of whom there are several degrees, beginning at Six-Sided Figures, or Hexagons, and from thence rising in the number of their sides till they receive the honorable title of Polygonal, or many-sided. Finally when the number of the sides becomes so numerous, and the sides themselves so small, that the figure cannot be distinguished from a circle, he is included in the Circular or Priestly order; and this is the highest class of all.”

 

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As he approached the metal door of the penitentiary, the two Isosceles guards at the entrance blocked his way.

"Who are you?”

“I’m an attorney.” He reached into his pocket and took out his badge. “I’m here to see a prisoner.”

The guards eyed him from top to toe, turned their gazes on the badge, exchanged a look and finally let him pass. One of them lowered his spear, slid the door open and moved away, giving way to him.

Crossed the threshold, he found himself in the search and identification office. There were other two Isosceles inside: one was standing in front of a closed door that led to the cells, while the other was sitting behind a desk, surrounded by files and documents. Both wore a band around their arm that showed their rank, and both their gaze fell on him, as soon as he stepped inside the room.

“Name?” Asked the Isosceles behind the desk, in a brisk tone. The other crossed his arms, eyeing him shamelessly from top to toe.

He tried to ignore that insistent stare and focused on the seated Isosceles. He walked over to his desk and pulled out his identification card once more.

“Attorney Kryptos Langley,” he introduced himself, with a firm tone. “I’m here to see the inmate Yipnon.”

The Isosceles behind the desk ran his gaze from the badge to him, examining his shape as if to make sure he was indeed an attorney. Kryptos held his gaze, the badge still stretched forward. It was not the first time he visited the penitentiary and it was so annoying that, every time he set foot inside, everyone stared at his tilted shape or his mouth detached from the eye, as if they never saw him before. What, they forget about him every darn time? He came to the penitentiary only one year ago!

And in the meantime, I haven’t had any other cases.

A wave from the Isosceles turned him away from that dark thought: the other guard approached, his hands outstretched.

“Security checks, sir.”

“I know the procedure, I’ve already been here.” The words slipped out, with a bit too much arrogance. Kryptos bit his tongue. He silently took off his coat and passed it to the guard, along with his briefcase. He only kept the folder with him.

The guard put his belongings in the locker and closed it. He took the detector from his belt: Kryptos raised his arms and let the guard do his job.

“Clean,” he stated.

“Excellent,” remarked the other Isosceles. He got up and took a bunch of keys from the bulletin board behind his desk. “Escort the attorney on the second floor, cell 618.”

“Got it.” The guard took the keys and opened the door that led to the cells. He turned to Kryptos. “Follow me, sir.”

The Isosceles led him up a flight of stairs and along a corridor, flanked by metal doors. Not a sound came from the cells, not a voice broke the rhythmic beat of their steps and the clinking of the guard’s keys: every time Kryptos entered there, it seemed like going underwater. Even light was muffled, within the dark gray walls.

The guard stopped in front of cell 618. He removed all locks and opened the door just a crack, enough to look inside.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he announced, dryly. He pulled back, turned to Kryptos and showed him to go.

Kryptos entered.

The cell was a gray square, with walls, floor and ceiling of the same gray shade. There was a small window with bars in front of the door and a bed on the right: the accused was sitting on it, with one leg raised and one arm resting on the knee.

Upon entering, the Triangle looked at him and Kryptos froze on the spot.

He read that the Equilateral was young, but he didn’t expect him to be so young. The Shape in front of him could have been in his twenties, maybe even his age. His eye was not distressed or wide open with fear, he was not shaking, nor spacing out. He was focused, aware, driven by a lively intelligence that made his whole shape shine. The pupil looked at him with disarming clarity, did not pretend to ignore his oddities, nor stared at them with annoying insistence as the guards did. On the contrary: he looked at them with scientific interest, examined them, looked for information, stroked them with pure curiosity.

It was a gaze he had never seen. It was not like the gazes of the other clients he had worked with. It was not even close. That was the eye of a tradesman facing a rarity, of a scientist who examined a discovery, of a curious child who looked at the world.

But not the eye of a fool.

The Equilateral finally looked away, closed his eye and gave a deep sigh.

“Great, just what I needed. The court-appointed attorney.”

Kryptos blinked, taken by surprise. The tone of his voice seemed even younger than his appearance: nasal, arrogant and whimsical like the voice of a child. He didn’t look like a prisoner accused of insanity; he looked like an annoyed boy, as if Kryptos was nothing but a nuisance, with which he had to deal.

He wasn’t acting like any other madmen he had seen before.

Kryptos cleared his throat. Fine, maybe he was a little different than Kryptos imagined, but he was still the client and Kryptos his court-appointed attorney. So he tried to regain a certain composure: he gave a reassuring smile to the young Triangle, approached him and held out his hand.

“Lelx Yipnon, I assume,” he greeted him. “I am Kryptos Langley. Judge Beckenrohe chose me as your court-appointed attorney…”

“So they didn’t believe me,” the Triangle interrupted him. “Not that I expected anything else, but I hoped I sowed some doubts, at least in that stupid Circle.”

Kryptos blinked, caught off guard once again. Had he just heard that Triangle call a Circle “stupid”? He hoped the guard was not still outside the cell and had not heard that heresy.

“Ehm…” Kryptos tried to get back to the conversation. “So, as I was saying: I’ll be your attorney and I will do my best to defend you…”

“I’m not an idiot,” the Equilateral interrupted him again, with a bored tone. “I got it. They’ve already decided to get rid of me and they just want to make my execution look legal. But, at the same time, they want to be sure they have a clear path, so they gave me the attorney with the lowest chance to win.“

Kryptos stepped back, the Triangle’s words hitting a sore point. He ignored that and opened his folder.

"Let’s talk about your family.” He invited him.

“I don’t have a family,” answered the Equilateral, diverting his gaze from him.

“According to the documents, it seems you have one.”

"What do you hope to gain by this?” The Triangle snapped, giving him a cold side look. “You can’t win this cause.”

“There’s always something we can do,” Kryptos replied, with his best encouraging tone. He approached the Triangle and sat on the edge of the bed. “Let’s start in general. Tell me: has your family always been normal? Have you ever noticed anything strange?”

The Triangle’s eye suddenly pointed at him, wide open, the pupil thin as a line. The raised arm fell back and even the bent leg slid off the bed. Kryptos stayed still, breathless, not moving a single muscle to not break that fragile balance. Maybe he made it, maybe he found a foothold to get closer to that T…

The Equilateral grabbed his own top and burst into laughter: a high-pitched, loud laugh that filled the cell and increased in volume, out of control. Kryptos clung to the edge of the bed with his fingernails, frozen by that unnatural sound. That laugh was poison, claws scratching against the walls, against the Triangle itself, against him and any sanity.

In a fraction of a second, he had gone from normal to a complete madman.

“ANYTHING STRANGE!” The Equilateral screamed, hysterical. He put a hand on his own shape. “It’s right here! I am the strange thing in my family! I am the one who didn’t fit! Do you think others asked the questions I did? I was the only one to ask questions! I was the one who wanted answers! I asked why it always rains from the north and never from the south! I asked why the laws of nature work like this! I asked why my sisters didn’t come to school with me!”

He laughed again, intoxicated by sick joy.

“They are all pathetic, normal, law-abiding Shapes!” He continued. “My older brother? We’re lucky if he comes to visit us three times a year, busy as he is in his perfectly normal life as a tradesman, with his perfectly normal wife and his perfectly normal son! And when he comes, he only talks with dad, because the rest of the family isn’t Triangle enough for him!” He laughed again, with a shrill voice. “And my sisters? Do you want me to tell you about my sisters? Born as slaves, they will die as slaves, because in this filthy world, a Line is worth less than an Isosceles!”

He leaned towards him and Kryptos leaned back, the open folder trembling in his hand. The Equilateral did not even notice: his eye was focused on him, the pupil thin as a blade.

“Or do you want me to tell you about my parents?” His voice lowered, his tone suddenly serious, poison overflowing from each word. “Do you want me to tell you about my mother, who has gone along with this regime like her mother before her and who taught her daughters to go along with it, just like her? She’s been a slave all of her life and she prefers to remain ignorant, rather than learn. Or do you want me to talk about my father, that considers social climbing and being a tradesman the only important things in the world? Or do you want me to talk about how both of them thought it was much more important to follow the laws, rather than believing ME?”

A new laugh interrupted him and he let himself be overwhelmed by that toxic fun, grabbing his top with both hands, as if he were about to shatter and that was the only way to hold himself together.

"There’s NOTHING wrong with them!” He screamed, the tone rising again hysterically. “They are PERFECT! Perfect slaves, in line with the rules of this world! Never a question, never a doubt! If things happen in a certain way, it’s because the Circles say so! And if the Circles say it, it’s law! And if the laws say that the world is just this, then you must accept it! And if you wonder why these are these laws, and if you even ask yourself the right questions…”

“Which ones?”

The Equilateral interrupted his mad monologue and turned back to look at him. His eye was still wide open and his pupil thin, his arms raised to hold the top. Kryptos, on the other hand, pressed his own arms against the sides, intimidated by that penetrating gaze and surprised by his own courage.

Slowly, the Triangle lowered his arms.

“What?”

“Which are the right questions?” Asked Kryptos, trying to keep his voice steady.

The Equilateral looked at him again from top to toe. His gaze seemed less smug and annoyed than before: he looked like he was considering him.

“How are you with calculations?”

Kryptos blinked. Calculations and geometry were the last topics he had ever talked about with an accused, whether sane or mad. Not that, apart from that, the rest of the conversation they were having had something normal.

“Uhm… pretty good.”

“Of course, yes.” He gave him an ironic look. “You’re a Square, you must have studied to become an attorney. So, do you know how to find the area of a Square?”

“O… of course: raise the size of the side to the power of two.”

“So if the side is three, three to the power of two is the area. Right?”

“Right.”

“And which geometric figure is three to the power of three?”

Kryptos blinked again.

“Three to the third power?” He rubbed under his eye. “I’m sorry, but… I’m afraid there’s no c-corresponding figure in geometry.”

He would have expected the Equilateral to start another mad monologue, laughing hysterically and insulting him. Instead, he just sighed.

"I’ll give you a problem,” he told him, changing the subject. “You have six equal segments, with the same length and width. Make four identical equilateral triangles, by joining them only by their ends.”

Kryptos raised an eyebrow. It didn’t seem like a complicated problem: on the contrary, it looked like one of the typical logic games for small Shapes. But he didn’t remember a similar game. Where did he get it from?

"Does it have a solution?”

“Of course it has,” the Equilateral replied as if it were obvious. He jumped down off the bed and approached him.

Kryptos stepped back to the edge of the bed and squeezed his legs against him, all senses awake. The Triangle just bent over on his knees, picked up the folder that had slipped to the ground and held it out to him.

“Have fun solving it, attorney,” he said, his tone halfway between scorn and bitterness. “So far, no one has been able to understand.”