Oliver: A Dickensian Fanfiction Tale.

Oliver Twist had had a first class education, and had grown up to study and read law.
In his years on the bench all manner of scoundrels, vagabonds, villains and tyrants had appeared before him. His brand of justice was eminently fair, sometimes sympathetic because of his own strange upbringing. Defence teams tended to like bringing cases before him, although prosecutors were a bit more wary. Still, he had on occasion sent men to the gallows.
It wasn't a part of the job that he particularly liked, but there was a responsibility on his broad shoulders to administer justice fairly, impartially. His shoulders were broad, because as a young man just setting out on his path in life, he had played rugby for Cambridge. He had also taken part in the famous boat race on the Thames. He'd also played a bit of cricket.
It was a far cry from the days when he'd run around with Fagin, Sikes, Nancy, the Artful Dodger and all the other young lads under Fagin. Brownlow had arranged counselling for him to help him over any psychological issues.
He'd married at twenty three after a whirlwind romance with a girl who had been studying art in Cambridge. They had met when she was doing outdoor sketches of the river. He still remembered the day as if it had been yesterday. She hadn't noticed his approach, being too engrossed in her work.
Oliver had been strolling along the riverbank when he had spotted her. She had raven like dark hair, flowing over her slender shoulders, a flawless complexion, and long fingers which she kept using to measure distances in comparison to her sketch. Her beauty took his breath away. He glanced over her shoulder at the sketch.
"Good likeness," he praised, smiling at her as she looked up.
"Oh, hi," she replied. "Thank you."
"I'm Oliver Twist," he said, holding out his hand. "Oliver Twist Brownlow."
She took his hand briefly and then released it. "Elizabeth Wise," she said. "My friends call me Liz."
Oliver nodded his head towards the sketch. "Do you only work in charcoal?"
"Oils," she explained. "I do the sketch first, either in pencil or charcoal, and then I'll paint it up later."

.....

"All stand," the bailiff ordered. "Judge Oliver Brownlow residing."
The courtroom stood to a man, and then resumed their seats. A man was brought up from the cells, in chains.
The judge barely glanced at him. He was looking at paperwork on his bench.
"Charge?" he said, barely looking up.
"Robbery, your Honour," the prosecutor stated flatly.
"How does he plead?"
"Guilty, your Honour. He was caught red-handed."
"Does he have a name?" Brownlow finally looked at the prisoner, and immediately bit down on an exclamation of surprise. He didn't hear the prosecutor's answer.
"Did you ever pick a pocket or two?" the judge asked the prisoner.
The prisoner looked up sharply, puzzlement in his eyes. The puzzlement disappeared with the judge's next words. "Otherwise known as the Artful Dodger?"
"Oh, God," said the Dodger.
"How's Fagin, Dodger?"
"Good God," the prisoner exclaimed in astonishment. "It's Oliver!"
Oliver Twist Brownlow smiled. "It's been a long time, Dodger?"
"Yes, your Honour."
"And Fagin?"
"Dead, your Honour."
The prosecutor, and indeed all of the court, were following this exchange of words with no little puzzlement. A peeler came forward to be sworn in.
".....to tell the truth and nothing but the truth."
The judge snapped his attention back to the proceedings. He wondered should he discharge himself from the proceedings and then he announced to the court that he was doing so. The barristers moved towards him puzzled. The prosecutor, a man by the name of Scott spoke for both of them. "Your Honour, why don't you want to hear the case?"
0liver smiled at their puzzlement. " It wouldn't be ethical," he announced. "I happen to know the gentleman."
"My client?" queried the defence barrister, a man by the name of Holm. "You know my client? May I ask in what capacity?"
"We're old friends."
"Friends?" queried Holm, raising his dark eyebrows in query to Ian Scott who smiled back and shrugged his shoulders. Sure didn't everyone know Oliver could be a little strange? There were all sort of stories about him. Some said he had once been a street urchin and that was why he was so merciful in his judgements. Others said he'd been found in the streets and had been raised as a gentleman.
For his part, Oliver looked at the two barristers in front of him - Holm and Scott - and nodded his head in confirmation. "Yes, gentlemen. He's an old friend. He saved me when I was a boy, but I'm unable to judge him on such serious charges. I'm surprised he's even here. He used to be so artful in getting out of these situations."
"Artful, your Honour?" A puzzled look had deepened on the face of Holm.
Oliver smiled, wondering whether to reveal a final truth. "We used to call him the Artful Dodger."