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November 26, 1969. The Chicago 7 file into the courtroom. Some squinting, some meawning. It's been 63 days since the trial began. They really begrudge getting up this early, especially to face Trumped up charges brought forth by Nixon's federal government.

Abbey Hoffman grins as he nears his favorite courthouse prop, the defense table. There are two main tables here, of course, one for Abbey's side and one for the government's side. They're not as far apart as you'd think.

The prosecution's table is varnished and gleaming. The defense's table isn't even really a table. It's four small, four micatop desks shoved together, like something you'd see in a study hall during finals week.

Abbey catches the eye of his enemy, government attorney Thomas Forean. Forean offers no more than a curt frown, turns his attention back to important prosecutorial documents.

Forean distracted looks up. Abbey Hoffman stares straight back at him. Hoffman, the communist hippie clown scum is smirking. Smirking as he empties his pants and jacket pockets.

His six co-defendants do the same. By the time they're done, their table is positively covered with debris.

Dog-earred paperbacks, a pair of boots, nutritional supplement bottles, mail, newspapers, pens, pencils, Hershey wrappers, a copy of the latest Mad Magazine.

Forean seeing this thinks these men clearly have no respect for this court, no respect for the law. He would love to march over there right now and deck one of them flat. But he restrains himself.

Someone has to maintain a sense of decency and decorum after all, right? Besides, Hoffman can do all the smirking he likes. When this trial is over, the world will see who got the last laugh.

Of course, at that moment, Abbey Hoffman is thinking the very same thing. He intends to win this trial and go free. But while he's stuck in this fluorescent lit hellscape he's nicknamed the neon oven.

He wants everyone to see the contrast. The contrast between the Chicago Seven and the prosecutors persecuting an entire generation.

The stuff on the table isn't just random clutter, it's personality, it's resistance. Primarily resistance to the man, the bailiff is about to introduce.

All rise for the honorable judge Julius Hoffman.

Thomas Forean and his co-counsel Richard Schultz, dutifully rise along with everyone else in the courtroom. Everyone else that is, accept the defendants.

Please rise. They ignore him. Arms folded. Abbey giggles at a crack from Jerry Rubin. Lee Weiner, the quietest of the Chicago Seven, is literally reading.

He casually licks his finger and turns the page of Philip K. Dick's latest paperback.

Judge Hoffman barks. Get all the defendants to rise. Mr. Hayden, will you please rise?

Hayden just shakes his head. He can sit here all day.

Forean heard they might try a stunt like this. Something about protesting the treatment of that black radical just got severed from the case.

What was Judge Hoffman supposed to do? The thug wouldn't shut up. Forean wishes he could have tied the gag around Bobby Seale's mouth himself.

The Seven defendants surround their messy table. Their expressions stoic. They do believe that what happened to Bobby Seale was wrong.

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