"Ready?" asks the director from the front row of empty chairs, a whiskery-faced man with spectacles and a vague expression. You could lose him in a crowd.

Dale Weathers, a hearty grinner, flexes his fingers and taps the microphone in his hand, which gives a faint ping. "Ready."

The director signals a cameraman near a side curtain. Electronic music with a tiska-tiska beat seeps from offstage.

"Here we are," Weathers grins around each word. "America's favorite show of the decade-Justice in Minutes bringing you what every decent American citizen wants to see."

Cameras focus in. Weathers, the lawyers, and Mrs. Prue all flash radiant smiles.

Offstage, voices croon, "Just-a-minute-just-a-minute…"

"Stop!" The director checks his watch, shaking his head. "Too long. And try to give it a little more punch?"

They begin again.

"Here we are! Decent America's favorite show! Justice In Minutes!"

"Yes, that's it."

The prosecuting attorney comes around the table and gives Mrs. Prue a hard stare, angling his chiseled profile for the cameras.

"Isn't it true," he asks, "that you shot June Mayhew, the hostess for The Morning After Show on February 4, 2003?"

Mrs. Prue presses her lips together and looks down, as if consulting her folded hands. "You have to understand," she says.

"Shouldn't she swear on the Bible first?" asks the judge.

The director waves his hand. "No time. This is Justice in Minutes." He steps closer to the stage. "I assume you took care of the jury selection?"

Everyone glances at the stall of men and women. Judge Branston nods. "They all swear they never saw the show."

"You have to understand," Mrs. Prue repeats.

"Your Honor, I'd like to call my first witness," says the prosecutor.

The director checks his watch. "No time."

"But…"

"Yes, I shot June Mayhew," says Mrs. Prue in a quavering voice. Gasps explode from the jury box.

"She was giving away my minutes," Mrs. Prue explains.

"I rest my case!" The prosecutor preens on the way back to the table.

"That's good. Keep that," says the director.

The defense attorney rises in her power red suit, pausing a moment to lean on fingertips toward the camera.

"You'll have to speed that up," suggests the director.

They try it again, the attorney doing a quicker lean, then walking briskly around the table. Her voice is clear and resonant as she addresses her client and hypothetical home viewers. "You have stated that June Mayhew was giving away your minutes."

Ernestine Prue nods. "Eleven of them." Her wrinkled face seems to crinkle even more from her distress. "Andy Warhol promised fifteen."

"Can you explain that further?" asks her attorney.

"Make it fast," says the director. "The public can't handle too much information. Keep it in small chunks."

"Andy Warhol promised everyone would have fifteen minutes of fame in their lifetime," says Mrs. Prue. "I had waited all my life for this! The Morning After Show was my big chance."

She breaks off, weeping quietly, then dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief, regaining self-control. "I was four minutes into the interview. It was a panel of, let's see: mothers of daughters whose husbands were safecrackers."

She taps her forefinger against the table with each word. "At that time my son-in-law was a safecracker. But the marriage broke up, you know. It broke up after the show, in fact."

"Too long," calls the director. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "Let's take it from 'fifteen minutes of fame', shall we?"

Mrs. Prue sits straighter. "Fifteen minutes of fame! Warhol promised! My only chance! Mothers-in-law of safecrackers! I was four minutes into the interview, when this other woman cut in!" Mrs. Prue is panting. Her gray hair curls in wisps around her face.

"And June Mayhew let her," she adds, raggedly. "She was cheating me out of eleven minutes!"

"You shot her for eleven minutes?" asks Weathers. He'd confused Ernestine Prue with another case, but now his eyes widen. He places a hand over his tie (which happens to be over his heart) and wonders uneasily about the handbag under the table-a pouchy affair that could have any number of things in it.

"Actually," the director says, "the FCC amended that in 2007 to five minutes, due to the limited attention span of the typical viewer in a random poll conducted. So you were only losing one minute."

Ernestine Prue gives him a pained stare. "Oh dear," she says, "I don't think I would have done it for one minute."

"It's the responsibility of the participants to know the regulations," the judge quickly points out.

The director turns to Weathers. "This is probably a good place for a little audience participation."

Weathers nods, gets up, and strides to the edge of the stage, down the stairs and up the aisles and vacant rows.

"This woman, Ernestine Prue, shot her interviewer for giving away one minute of her celebrity," he says to an empty seat. "What do you think of that?"

"We'll assume he, or she, keeps it short," says the director. "One thousand, two thousand, three thousand," he counts in a soft voice as Dale Weathers smiles broadly and listens to the imaginary answer. "Okay, now back up to the podium."

"Nice talking with you," Weathers tells the air, and he returns to the stage to fix the Honorable Hugh Branston with a grin.

"Your Honor," he says, "you've heard both sides to this case…"

The judge gives his head a half turn so that his left and best side will be accessible. "I believe I've heard one side to this case. But, as a prime interpreter of the laws of this wonderful land, it is incumbent on me to listen and guide the legal process through to a reasoned consideration of all points. Although, really, in all my years on the court, I have to admit…"

"Jesus!" exclaims the director. "Can you shorten that?"

"There's just one side to this case," says the judge.

"Good! That's good!"

"And now," The judge turns to the jury, keeping his head slightly tilted for the cameras. "If you'll give us your verdict."

The men and women in the jury box go into quick, murmuring huddle. No one writes anything, but the lead juror, a woman somewhere in her thirties, steps forward and reads from a blank paper in a bright, lilting voice.

"We find the defendant, Ernestine Prue, due to the stress and confusion over time constraints, to be not guilty by reason of…"

"Too lo-o-o-ng!" moans the director.

"Not guilty."

The defendant gives a relieved sigh.

Weathers' whole face becomes mobile, his mouth shifting up and down. "Not guilty?" His voice cracks. "She shot a panel-show hostess? And admits it? And you say she's not guilty?"

The lead juror's expression wavers.

Weathers breathes deeply to calm himself, then smiles. "Can you shorten that?"

She glances at her colleagues in the jury box and, seeing small nods, says "Guilty."

"There you are!" Weathers clears his throat. "And now, to all our decent American viewers out there who believe in speedy trials, you've just seen justice in action! You've just seen Justice In Minutes!"

Rhythm effects float out from behind the curtain: "tiska-tiska-tiska-tiska…"

Weathers sits next to the prosecutor at the tale, beaming at the cameras.

"And now," he says, "a word from our sponsors about the drink all America is drinking: It's not a cola; it's not an uncola. It's everybody's favorite semi-cola!"

The tiska-tiska grows stronger.

"Wait right there," Weathers advises. "We'll be back for the next segment of Justice In Minutes!"

He hunkers down in conversation with the group at the table as the camera moves in. Voices offstage sing, "Just-a-minute-just-a-minute."

Ernestine Prue, her mouth shriveled into a moue of discontent, refuses his attempts to engage her in small talk, picking at her fingernail instead. She looks up, then, straight into one of the cameras.

"I know I had eleven minutes coming," she says and reaches for the handbag at her feet.