or: The People vs. Johann Georg Faust (God is taking notes)
The courtroom is already tired.
Not physically. Existentially.
The judge looks like he has aged three years in the last ten minutes. The bailiff has stopped making eye contact with anyone. The stenographer is typing with the resigned rhythm of someone documenting a historical mistake.
At the defense table sits Dr. Johann Georg Faust, immaculate and composed, green eyes faintly disinterested, as though he were here to observe the concept of law rather than participate in it.
Beside him sits Saul Goodman.
Leaning back. Tie loud. Smile louder. Already making the room feel slightly less stable.
Saul rises with the confidence of a man who has never once mistaken shame for a useful emotion.
“Alright, Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let’s talk about what we’ve got here.”
He gestures broadly to Faust like he’s presenting a slightly illegal luxury item.
“The prosecution says my client is dangerous. Disturbing. Possibly supernatural. I say…”
“…that’s just a man with hobbies.”
Faust turns his head slightly.
“…Hobbies,” he repeats, flat.
Saul nods at once. “See? Humble.”
The prosecutor is on his feet immediately.
“Your Honor, the defendant is charged with unlawful corpse theft, intimidation, harassment, and multiple counts of emotional coercion.”
Saul whips around. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. ‘Theft’ is a loaded word.”
The prosecutor blinks. “He stole a body.”
“Allegedly,” Saul says. “And also, context matters. Was the body using it? No. Was it busy? Also no. My client identified an underutilized resource and made a questionable academic decision.”
The courtroom goes still.
Faust speaks without looking at him.
“I would not phrase it that way.”
Saul points at him. “Exactly. That’s why I’m billing by the hour.”
The judge pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Mr. Goodman, try to resemble a relevant defense.”
Saul places a hand over his chest. “Your Honor, I am doing relevance at a very high level.”
Something small and traitorous escapes the gallery. It might have been a laugh. It might have been someone losing faith in institutions.
“Now let’s take another charge. ‘Weaponized eye contact.’”
He lets the phrase hang in the air long enough for everyone to suffer.
Then he turns to the jury.
Saul folds his hands. “We are in a court of law, and somebody wrote down ‘weaponized eye contact’ with a straight face.”
One juror shifts in their seat.
Saul catches it instantly.
“You ever meet somebody who looks at you a little too long and suddenly you’re reevaluating your life choices? Your haircut? Your moral center?”
For a moment, the room holds.
Then, reluctantly, one juror nods.
Saul snaps his fingers. “Exactly. That is not a felony. That is called Tuesday.”
From the defense table, Faust exhales softly through his nose. It is not approval, but it is close enough to make the distinction academic.
The prosecutor tries again, visibly fraying around the edges.
“He emotionally destabilized multiple individuals.”
Saul turns at once. “Objection. Vague.”
“It is not vague. We have witness statements.”
“We have feelings,” Saul corrects. “And if producing feelings is criminal now, I would like a full count of charges against everybody in this room.”
“Quick show of hands. Who here has not emotionally destabilized another human being?”
Saul nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
He gestures toward Faust.
“My client is not unique. He is just efficient.”
Faust murmurs, almost to himself, “Optimization is not inherently unethical.”
Saul spins toward him and points again. “You hear that? That is a man using vocabulary instead of violence. Society is supposed to reward that.”
The prosecutor slams a file onto the table.
“He claimed love is an illusion and caused public distress.”
Saul freezes for a moment.
“…Your Honor, are we prosecuting philosophy now?”
The judge hesitates, which is already a terrible sign.
Saul presses forward, relentless.
“Because if that’s where we are, I need a list. We putting Nietzsche in cuffs? Plato? My ex-wife?”
A laugh breaks loose somewhere in the gallery before it can be strangled.
Saul spreads his hands toward the jury.
“What we have here is a man misunderstood by lesser minds, punished for intellect, and frankly, persecuted for having a face that unsettles the weak.”
He turns, flashing Faust a quick, confident smile.
“Doctor, you don’t frighten people on purpose, do you?”
It is meant to be a softball. A nice, safe little humanizing moment.
Then, with calm precision:
“Though in fairness, many people only become truthful once frightened.”
The courtroom goes still all over again.
Saul’s smile does not disappear.
It does, however, become unemployed.
From the bench, the judge closes his eyes briefly. The prosecutor looks as though Christmas has arrived early and carrying a weapon.
Saul clears his throat and turns back to the jury with admirable speed.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we in the profession call an inside thought.”
A few people laugh despite themselves.
Faust, now fully attentive, seems almost pleased.
Saul takes the opening and keeps moving.
“Is he difficult? Absolutely. Is he weird? Deeply. Probably in ways we do not yet have the paperwork to describe.”
The bailiff stares into the middle distance with the expression of a man filing an internal complaint against reality.
“This guy doesn’t even break rules the normal way. He argues with them first.”
Faust says quietly, “They are often poorly constructed.”
Saul points sideways without taking his eyes off the jury. “Exactly. He’s not a criminal mastermind. He’s an exhausting critic with boundary issues.”
The prosecutor is desperate now.
“He debated the judge during sentencing.”
Saul shrugs. “Frankly, Your Honor, if nobody’s arguing with you, that’s when you should be worried.”
Saul walks back to the defense table and places a hand on it.
He gestures lightly toward Faust.
“Is he weird? Yeah. Absolutely. No argument.”
Saul leans in just enough to let the line land.
“But weird isn’t illegal.”
He gives the room a moment to sit with that.
“And if it is, then half the men history insists on calling geniuses should be under active surveillance.”
Silence settles over the courtroom, heavy now and unwillingly thoughtful. The jury shifts. The judge exhales slowly, like a man realizing the law has failed to prepare for this exact flavor of defendant.
Saul smiles, just a little.
Beside him, Faust finally speaks.
“Your rhetorical structure is imprecise,” he murmurs.
Saul glances sideways. “Yeah?”
A faint tilt touches Faust’s lips.
Saul grins. “I’ll take it.”
Across the room, the prosecutor sits down looking defeated, confused, and somewhat less certain about both law and language.
The judge taps his gavel once.
Papers shuffle. Chairs scrape. Somebody in the back says “Jesus Christ” under their breath with the soft conviction of a man not expecting Him to intervene.
As people begin to stand, Saul leans closer to Faust.
“Alright, Doc. I gotta ask.”
Faust turns his head slightly.
“…Did the corpse really volunteer?”
For one suspended second, Faust says nothing.
Then he adjusts his cuff.
Saul studies him for a long moment.
“…I’m gonna work with that.”
CUT TO: OUTSIDE THE COURTHOUSE
Saul and Faust step out into sunlight that immediately regrets being involved.
Reporters shout. Cameras flash.
Saul adjusts his tie, satisfied. “See? Not so bad. Little rough in the middle, but we stuck the landing.”
Faust walks beside him, composed. “I would not classify that as a clean outcome.”
Saul shrugs. “Nobody got convicted, nobody got possessed, and the judge didn’t quit on the spot. That’s a win in my book.”
For a second, neither speaks.
Then Faust glances at him. “Your methods lack precision.”
Saul grins. “Yeah? Your face lacks approachability. We all got something.”
Faust considers this and does not argue, which is concerning.
Saul lowers his voice slightly, more casual now. “You know, I gotta say… you’re a weird guy, Doc.”
“That has been established.”
Saul nods. “But I’ve worked with weird before. Chemistry guys. Real intense. Real ‘I’m doing this for a higher purpose’ type.”
“Guy I knew once. Real quiet, real smart. Total nightmare.”
Faust’s interest sharpens just a fraction.
“And what was his field?”
Saul smirks. “Let’s just say… he also liked to cook.”
For a moment, the air seems to tilt.
Faust adjusts his cuff. “I prefer controlled environments.”
Saul chuckles. “Oh, you two would either get along great…”
“…or the city would need a new zip code.”
Which, in his case, is not reassurance.
Saul pauses, one hand still resting on the car door.
Faust is no longer looking at him. His gaze has gone distant and thoughtful, as if some internal mechanism has already begun turning behind the glass.
Possibly already designing the lab.
Saul watches him for a second longer.
He slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, and mutters to no one,
“That’s about what I was afraid of.”
📁 For further evidence against the defendant, see his partial arrest record here.
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