Chapter Ten
Day three of the trial (or four, if you counted jury selection) began, and with it, so too did my opportunity to show our side of things.
"Would the defense like to begin its case-in-chief at this time?" Judge Andrews asked, once the usual perfunctory business had been handled.
"We would, your Honor," I said, standing. "At this time, the defense would like to call to the stand Mr. Alejandro de Soto as witness for the defense."
Behind me, in the front row of the gallery, Alejandro de Soto stood. He was a wiry Cuban man, probably in his late fifties to early sixties, with close-cropped curly black hair and the makings of a handlebar mustache that he simply didn't have time to properly cultivate. Mr. de Soto wore relatively casual clothing, as opposed to a suit: a well-worn polo shirt, khakis, and somewhat scuffed brown leather wingtips. I'd asked him to present himself as a more down-to-earth person with his dress, which had the added benefit of letting him dress more comfortably.
It is blatantly obvious when somebody in a suit isn't comfortable wearing one, and it doesn't reflect well on the jury.
Once Mr. de Soto was sworn in, I got down to business: introduce him to the jury, tell them what he does for a living, and how he's relevant to the case at hand. Simply put: Mr. de Soto's bodega was the spark that set this whole thing off. If St. John hadn't gone to the bodega to buy a Coke on his way home from school, he may not have drawn attention from Mick and his fellow thugs. If he hadn't drawn their attention, he wouldn't have had to defend himself.
And if he hadn't had to defend himself… well, there was little point in focusing on that.
Instead, I had to handle the important bits. So I set the scene: the day of the incident, the afternoon, and St. John ducked in to get himself a soda on the way home. This was where the crucial information started coming into play.
"How long did it take St. John to buy the coke from your bodega?" I asked.
"Well, it don't take too long, never does," Mr. de Soto started, his accent thick enough to be noticeable, but not so heavy that he was incomprehensible. "He walks in, grabs a bottle, drops a buck on the counter, and goes. Thirty seconds, tops?"
It had taken three hours of practice to get the strength of his accent just right. Generally, accents are a problem to work around… except in certain cases. Here, Mr. de Soto came off as an immigrant, yes, but an honest and hard-working one. Wearing what was ostensibly just a newer set of work clothes, when paired with an obvious accent, made him salt of the earth.
"And how often would St. John do this quick in-and-out for a coke?" I continued, positioned near the top of the jury box.
"Oh, once a week easy," my witness said with a smile. "And when it's theater season, he bring his friends, they all do the same. Always in, grab coke, drop dollar, and out."
"So this is a common occurrence, then," I added, though it was more a statement than a question.
"Objection!" DA Young stood, and from what I was hearing he didn't even bother to button his suit jacket. "Leading."
"Sustained," Judge Andrews said. "Rephrase the question, counselor."
"Apologies; I'll withdraw the question," I said.
It had been on purpose anyway; fishing for the objection interrupted that line of questioning, and put a better capstone on it than anything else I could have done. It let me pivot to a new point without having to find the segue myself.
"Moving on. Mr. de Soto, do you know the alleged victims in this case — Micah Samuelson, James Boothe, Theodore Nielsen, and Patrick MacEahern?"
"Objection," Young said. "Leading, again."
"Question is foundational, your Honor," I said. "I'm simply establishing that the witness was aware of these four individuals prior to the events that brought us here today."
"Overruled," Judge Andrews said.
I asked the question again, and this time received an answer without being interrupted.
"I know those boys, si," Mr. de Soto said. "Known who they are for four years now."
"Now, you're a small business owner in the area," I began, walking a little closer to the witness stand, parallel to the jury box. "What sort of reputation do those four have among folks like you?"
"Objection!" Lou Young yelled out. "Defense counsel is attempting to elicit improper character evidence!"
"Your Honor, the defense is raising self-defense as an affirmative defense to the charges brought by the State," I answered, not missing a beat. "Character evidence against an alleged victim is admissible to suggest the state of mind that a defendant might reasonably have had when confronted by them."
"Objection overruled," Judge Andrews said. "Proceed, counselor."
"Again," I asked, "what sort of reputation did Samuelson, Boothe, Nielsen, and MacEahern have in the area?"
"Oh, they're some scary hombres," Mr. de Soto answered, just as planned. "Always quick to throw a punch or break a window. I watch 'em real close when they're in the bodega ever since I heard from senor Chang."
"What did you hear from Mr. Chang?" I asked, and readied myself for the objection.
"Well senor Chang told me how he caught them putting cans in their pockets, won't let them in the store no more."
"Objection!" DA Young stood, almost bellowing. "Specific acts are improper character evidence, and the witness is offering the court hearsay."
"Sustained," Judge Andrews said. "Strike the witness's last answer from the record; the jury shall disregard." No they won't, I thought to myself. They never do.
"One more question," I said, stepping towards the front of the jury box as I wound up. "Mr. de Soto, knowing what you do of the alleged victims' reputations, what advice would you offer me if I found myself cornered in an alley by those four!"
"Objection! Again, improper character evidence, and calls for speculation!"
"Your Honor, the question goes directly to the alleged victims' reputations, and how that reputation would inform a the actions of a reasonable person who was aware of such."
"I'll reserve the right to strike the answer once I hear it," Judge Andrews said. "The witness will answer the question."
"Well," Mr. de Soto said, "I'd tell you to toss your wallet to 'em, and hope they was okay with just that."
"Your Honor—"
Judge Andrews held up a hand to stop Young from renewing his objection. A hand came up to his chin as he looked between the witness stand and the jury, and eventually he came to a conclusion.
"Strike the question and the witness's answer from the record," he ordered he stenographer, who dutifully pulled out a pen and did so. "The jury shall disregard what was just said. Counselor, you may continue."
"Actually, that was it," I said, giving Mr. de Soto the barest of nods. "Nothing further for this witness."
Lou Young took his chance to stand up once I'd seated myself, received permission to enter the well, and began his cross-examination.
It was nothing particularly special. He tried to poke a bit of doubt in how well Mr. de Soto knew what St. John did in the store (which he got a bit of, but only if you squinted for it). Lou attempted to confuse the issue of how bad Mick's and company's reputations were… and pretty much failed.
But then came the pivot.
"One more thing," Lou said, pacing directly in front of where I was seated. "In the wake of the incident in the alley, did you make any changes to your business practices?"
Fuck. I'd been hoping he wouldn't ask this question.
Alright, then. Plan A it was.
"Objection your Honor," I said, rising. "Mr. de Soto's business practices have no relevance to the matter at hand. Furthermore, such information's probative value is substantially outweighed by the prejudice it could cause."
"Your Honor, the witness's store is the spark that lit the fuse!" Lou Young said, forcing his eyes open so widely that he looked manic. "Its relevance is obvious, and its probity is equivalent!"
"If you mean equivalent to zero, then—"
"Objection overruled," Judge Andrews interrupted, offering me a small glare. "The witness will answer the question."
Damn, I thought as I sat. I had a feeling I'd lose that one, but it would've been nice not to — and I knew a few judges who would've given it to me on that basis, so it clearly wasn't a baseless argument. Instead, I just had to trust in my witness's prep.
"I mean, I changed one or two things, sure," Mr. de Soto said.
"And one of those changes was moving lighters behind the counter, wasn't it?" Lou asked.
"Objection," I said, standing. "Given the facts of the case, the answer to this question would be substantially more prejudicial than probative."
"I'm pretty sure I already ruled on this very objection, Ms. Schaefer," Judge Andrews said. "So once again, overruled."
Ugh.
"I'll repeat the question," Lou Young said. "One of the changes in business practice that you made was moving lighters to behind the counter, wasn't it?"
"It was, sure," de Soto agreed.
"You moved lighters behind the counter after the alley got scorched by a mutant," Lou Young said, the smirk on his face visible from where I sat… oh, wiping that off his face would be great. "Nothing further, your Honor."
Once Lou Young sat, I stood.
"Redirect, your Honor?" I asked.
"Go ahead. You have permission to enter the well," the judge said, and so I stood, then walked all the way until I was in front of the jury.
"Mr. de Soto, why did you move lighters behind the counter?" I asked.
"Objection!" Lou Young said standing. "Counsel is—"
"Overruled," Judge Andrews said, a small smirk at the timing of his interruption just barely becoming visible on his face before his expression went stony again. "You do not get to have your cake and eat it too, District Attorney. If you asked about moving the lighters, the defense gets to ask why."
"Thank you, your Honor," I said. "I apologize for the interruption, Mr. de Soto. I'll ask again: why did you move lighters behind the counter?"
"Because they was the most shoplifted thing I got in the store!" Alejandro de Soto answered. "Some pendejo comes in the bodega, I turn around for fifteen seconds, there goes another lighter or two! I was having to restock them six times a month!" Then, a sly look came over de Soto's face. "I keep 'em with the tobacco now. Do you know how easy it is to upsell a lighter with a pack of smokes?"
Perfect. Just like we'd practiced.
"And when did you make this change?" I asked.
"Right around mid-June," he answered. "Fourth of July fireworks always meant I was gonna lose lighters."
"Smart move," I said with a smile. "Nothing further, your Honor."
Excellent. Now I just had to hope the jury listened to the redirect instead of the cross.
One witness down, three more to go.
My second witness of the day, and for whom I'd reserved the afternoon, was forensic scientist David Grissom. He was one of the analysts with the private forensic company we contracted out for litigation purposes, and who I'd had the distinct pleasure of working with on more than one occasion. That wasn't sarcasm, either: Dave is an absolute delight to have on your side in a courtroom.
The main reason for this was that Dave… well, he had a very low tolerance for bullshit. Most of the other litigators at LL&L, Lieberman himself included, could not stand having Dave testify for them for this exact reason. A lot of defense work is throwing mud, casting shade, sowing doubt, and the like. Basically, we peddled in bullshit like our lives depended on it, and Dave couldn't stand that.
And then six years ago here I came along, this dainty little thing mincing into his lab in heels and a skirt, and asked him if he could help me prove that a plaintiff was tossing out some seriously schlocky shit. Those exact words.
I may have been good at the shitslinging that fills defense work, but I always preferred muckraking. And oh, was Dave good at that. But even better?
He liked to share his work. This made him a particularly good witness, and I'd made use of that many times over the years.
Getting him to go over the bloodstain was easy. The fingerprints were easier still, especially since Dave went and made a demonstrative for me: clear plastic sheets with magnified printings of both the bottle fingerprints and Mick's sample fingerprints, which he slid directly atop one another for the jury to see.
But now that I'd gotten the shorts back out of evidence, admitted photographic evidence of several sample pairs we'd expensed for this case, and presented all of that evidence to Dave, we could go for the last major point.
"Mr. Grissom, how did you conduct your analysis of these shorts?" I asked after I'd handed the plastic evidence bag to Dave.
"Well, I did a few things," he started. "First, I cut off a few bits of fiber from the shorts: three strands from the burned section, three strands from right around it, and three from another part of the shorts. Then I went out and got three more pairs of identical shorts from the same brand, and took samples from those for comparison."
"What did you find?" I asked.
"Well, the burnt ones were burnt, obviously," Dave said. "But it's the samples from near the burn that were most telling. There was a trace of some chemical on them, one that wasn't present on the sample far from the burn or the store-bought samples. So I ran a few tests to figure out what it was."
"And what was the chemical?"
"Hairspray," Dave revealed at my prompting, and held up the bag. "There were traces of hairspray on these shorts, right around the burn, and nowhere else. Once I had that, I took my sample shorts, and did a few more tests."
"And what were these tests?" I asked. Dave was all too willing to space out his statement; it let him hammer every single individual point home, one at a time.
"Well, I took some sources of flame to approximate St. John's powers, and tried to recreate the burn pattern on the evidence shorts."
"And did you manage to do that?" I asked.
"Objection!" Lou Young stood. "Leading the witness, your Honor."
"Sustained," the judge said.
"Apologies," I said, "I'll rephrase. Mr. Grissom, what sort of results did your experiment produce?"
"Some very compelling ones," he said. "I tried welding torches, bunsen burners, and other types of directed flame that could approximate a non-napalm flamethrower, and couldn't get anything close. But! Then I remembered the hairspray, and tried to use a lighter and hairspray as a makeshift flamethrower."
"And what kind of results did that produce?" I asked.
"Pretty much an identical burn pattern," Dave said. "I even tested the fibers around the burn, and found an almost identical concentration of hairspray in those fibers as in the evidence shorts.
Perfect. Exactly what I'd wanted him to say. Which meant it was time to go in for the kill.
"Mr. Grissom. Given all of the evidence, and in your expert opinion as a forensic scientist, what is your conclusion as to the events in the alleyway and beyond?" I asked, my position making my witness face the jury directly.
"Well," David began, ticking off his fingers the same way I did. "Firstly, given that St. John Allerdyce's blood type is O+, and O+ blood is staining the label of the bottle, I would conclude that he was struck by the bottle. Second, given matching fingerprints between Micah Samuelson and the pattern of matching, upside-down fingerprints on the neck of the bottle, I would conclude that Mr. Samuelson is the one who swung said bottle at Mr. Allerdcye. And thirdly, given both the patchy burn patterns and the hairspray on Mr. Samuelson's trousers, it is unlikely that Mr. Allerdyce's mutant power was responsible for that burn, at least in the capacity that Mr. Samuelson described his use thereof."
"Thank you, Mr. Grissom," I said, offering a calculated frown at prosecution's table as I turned to exit the well of the court. "Nothing further, your Honor."
Once I sat, Lou Young stood, and walked directly in front of the judge's spot on the bench. He knew there was no real point in contesting the bottle or the fingerprints, not after Mick's own testimony put that bottle against St. John's head and in Mick's hand when that happened, so I had to wonder what he was going to try.
"Mister Grissom, you stated during your testimony that you found traces of hairspray on the victim's shorts," DA Young started.
"I did," Dave agreed, "right around where the burn was, and nowhere else."
"And you also said that your test found identical concentrations of hairspray on a sample," Young continued.
"That's correct," Dave agreed.
"So the concentration from a sample you tested weeks after the fact was indistinguishable from a fresh sample, then!" Young exclaimed.
Oh. That's what he was going for, wasn't it? My guess was he wanted to insinuate that the hairspray could've been there for however long it wanted before the burn, wasn't he?
"Yes," Dave said.
"So per your own testimony, if I were to give you two pairs of shorts, both burnt, you couldn't tell me if one had hairspray on it before it got burnt, and one didn't, could you?"
"While I'd have to wonder how and when the hairspray got on there in the first place without being used to help cause the burn, I suppose not, no," Dave answered, and I resolved to add a nice bottle of wine to his 'thank you for testifying' basket for slipping all of that in before the yes-or-no.
"So then you're saying it's possible the hairspray was already on the victim's shorts before they got burnt, is that it?" Lou Young asked.
"If it helps you sleep at night, then sure, it's possible," Dave replied.
As far as introducing doubt went, this had been, thankfully, a pretty weak source.
"Nothing further, your Honor," Lou Young said, turning to the jury and giving a nod before he reseated himself.
But given the frowns on two jurors' faces, I couldn't be sure that it didn't find its mark regardless.
Court may have adjourned for the day at three in the afternoon, but I didn't even leave the courthouse until five, nor back home until after seven. I closed the front door to my condo behind me, kicked off my heels at the entrance, set my briefcase down on the side table near the door, and retreated straight to the bedroom to slip into something more comfortable, shattering my glamour into shards of rainbow and fuzz as I went.
Off went my skirt suit. Off went the blouse. Off went the hosiery. Off went the bra.
Instead of business attire, I put on comfy sweatpants that rode low enough to not bother my tail, a tank top, and fuzzy slippers.
Once that was done, I left the bedroom, went back out into my living room, clicked on the TV, and put it to the evening news. Then, it was to the kitchen, because I was hungry and—
The refrigerator closed.
I shrieked. It wasn't a very long shriek, because I quickly brought my hands up to my mouth, but for the love of God my heart skipped a beat.
"You… you…"
Erik fucking Lehnsherr idly flicked one finger, and the cap on the lager he'd taken from my fridge flattened, crumpled into a ball, and flew over to my trash drawer… which also opened on its own.
"What is it with lawyers and working late?" Erik asked.
"Y-you, you, you ridiculous meshuggeneh!" I yelled at him, hand over my heart to try and get it to stop beating a mile a minute. "What the hell, Erik! I told you last time to at least put a damn note on the door!"
Erik paused with the beer most of the way to his lips and looked up, as if remembering something. "Ah. Yes you did. My deepest apologies Noa, it shan't happen again."
"Uh-huh," I said, arms crossed over my chest, tail thrashing angrily behind me. "Erik, of all the times to drop in—"
"Ah, I nearly forgot." Erik opened my fridge (without touching it, mind) and reached in to procure something. When he brought his arm out (and closed the fridge, good), he held an enameled casserole dish identical to my own… but that I know I didn't use, because I could smell an actual casserole in there, and I don't make casseroles. "This was at your door."
He set it down on the counter, and I walked over to see what it was. A note lay atop the casserole dish's lid, in an envelope with handwriting I recognized. Curious, I opened up the note and read it. I couldn't help but smile, with a bit of both happiness and dismay, and felt my shoulders loosen up a bit.
"Who is it from?" Erik asked.
"Rachel Rosen," I said, putting the note back in the envelope and then into a drawer before taking the lid off the casserole dish. "Ex-girlfriend. Dated for about six months. It ended on what I thought were good enough terms, but this is the first time I'm hearing from her in almost a year," I said, looking at the turkey and sweet potato casserole. I wasn't much for most casseroles, but this one was tasty.
Probably because it was basically thanksgiving dinner in casserole form, minus the cranberry sauce that goes completely untouched at the end of the night.
"… ah," Erik said, and thankfully he stopped asking. For a man of his generation, Erik was surprisingly good about gays and lesbians, which I chalked up to… several things, not the least of which was, well, sharing space with them in Auschwitz.
That said, even if he'd decided to ask, I was not about to explain how I broke off a relationship because I was… uncomfortable with a third person in my bed.
At least it wasn't a messy breakup. Not as bad as when Michelle and I broke up, but… eh.
"Yes," I said for him. "Ah." With that, I grabbed a pair of plates and silverware sets, carved off a chunk of casserole, and set that in the microwave. "You can have some if you'd like."
"I already ate," he said, waving me off.
"Fair," I said, pulling down a wine glass. "Grab the open bottle of white from the fridge for me, would you?"
Erik obliged. A few minutes later, we were at my coffee table in front of the TV, him with his beer, me with my casserole and Chardonnay.
"So," I asked after taking a bite. "Not that I don't appreciate the company, but…" I trailed off, leaving space for him to fill in.
"I simply find that for all that you are an even hand at handling the press's inquisitions," he said, gesturing at the television, "I prefer to hear your unvarnished opinion, and not the one that you have carefully crafted for the public.
Sure enough, the news was covering the case. Complete with a brief rerun of the last round of questioning I'd handled on the courthouse temps.
"Good afternoon Ma'am," I heard the reporter's recorded voice saying.
I turned to give Erik a look. "Did you actually use up one of the five blank VHS tapes I keep around? And for this?"
"You realize I can simply blank the tape with a wave of my hand," he said, at which I blinked. "Regardless, the press. Your impressions, if you would?"
Caught flat-footed as I was, I didn't actually pay much more attention to what he'd said, and just… looked at the TV.
"Uh… I mean, he was a polite enough one?" I murmured. "Actually paid attention."
"—when questioning the witness, Mr. Micah Samuelson, regarding the particulars of his account, what was it exactly that prompted you to regard his actions as vigilantism? And seeing as we're on the subject, what are your thoughts on vigilantism in general, the actions of our very own Spider-Man in particular, and how it overall reflects the current state of society?"
Erik muted the television, and gave me a pointed look.
"What?" I asked.
"We both know you were not viewing it as vigilantism," Erik said. "I will admit to wondering why you chose that angle myself."
"I knew it wasn't, and the thug knew it wasn't," I said. "But by taking that tack, it threw him off balance, and got him to say what I wanted. Which was, if you recall, lying in court," I finished with a grin.
"And the masked boy hero?" Erik added.
"What's there to say?" I asked, finishing up my bit of casserole. "Most of what Spider-Man does would classify as a citizen's arrest if it went to court. The problem is that he's still liable for property damage, and I guarantee he wasn't correct one hundred percent of the time."
"Hmm," Erik hummed. Either way, he flicked his fingers, and the TV unmuted itself.
"—respond to allegations that you are aiding and abetting mutant terrorism by using legal sophistry to shield your clients from the consequences of your actions?"
I couldn't help but laugh this time.
"Oh my god," I said around my giggles, "do you have any idea how hard it was to keep a straight face? I was this close to just laughing at her, this close!" I held two fingers up close to each other, barely a millimeter apart.
"I suppose that's reason enough to not watch channel two when I'm in New York," Erik murmured. "But truly, to call your defense sophistry?"
"I think she just pulled out a thesaurus, found the word, and wanted to use it," I said, then took a sip of my wine before continuing. "Plus, I don't think she even knows the dictionary definition of terrorism, much less the legal one."
"Perhaps not," Erik agreed. "But truly, of all the questions—ah, I must have missed a few," he said, looking back to the television.
"Two," I agreed.
"Sam Noble, with AM New York," the reporter's televised recording said. "How do you respond to the view that the sensationalisation of this trial by pro-mutant sympathisers may possibly pressure the families of the victims into letting go of charges in the face of terrorism from radical extremists? Extremists like this so-called 'Magneto' who was sighted just last month in south Jersey?"
I stared at Erik, who now looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"Say, Erik," I asked, voice all sweetness. "When you told me you flew through a tornado, like an utter idiot, where did you say that was again?"
"I don't believe I said," Erik replied, unable to meet my eyes.
"It wouldn't happen to have been southern New Jersey, would it now?" I asked. At the lack of response, I scoffed. "Erik. I told you this the last time you told me about your 'hypothetical mutant rights activist'. Tone things down. Public opinion does not look kindly upon random acts of wanton property damage, regardless of your reasoning. This 'Magneto', wherever he may be," I said, in a way that neither of us could have ever believed was genuine, "may have had a perfectly valid reason, sure. But unless that reason was immediately obvious to anybody who was looking, all it looks like is a crazy terrorist."
"And yet sometimes the destruction is the only method available," Erik pressed. "Manhunter I may be, but there are limits to my ability to infiltrate. And if—" he cut himself off. "No. Perhaps I would have been opposed regardless of whether my aim was known."
"Ahem," I prompted.
"Fine," Erik said. "There are limits to my ability to assist Magneto. And perhaps he would have been opposed regardless of the nobility of his aim."
"Better," I said. "You need to censor yourself better."
"Arguable," he said. "Regardless—"
"We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news!" The quiet of our conversation and the sudden pivot from the evening news to an emergency alert drew both of our attention. "We're receiving reports that the supervillain Sandman is currently in conflict with the criminal superhuman group, the Wrecking Crew, in front of the New York Stock Exchange!"
"The stock exchange?" Erik murmured. "A bank would have—aah. I see."
"Sources on site say that both the Crew and the Sandman arrived outside the Exchange fifteen minutes ago, and began fighting over the contents of the Wall Street building," the news anchor continued. "Spider-Man has been sighted in the area, along with Thor, one of the Avengers. Anybody in the area should evacuate immediately—"
I shut off the TV with a huff of disgust.
"Idiots," I couldn't help but mutter. "There's nothing to steal at Wall Street, the stock exchange closed four hours ago, it's just desks and pens and maybe two to five computers."
"And yet, I would not expect the average person to know this," Erik answered back after taking a sip of beer, still frowning at the now-darkened television. "Regardless, Noa. The press's questioning can only probe so deeply. Tell me, and be honest: how fares the trial?"
"It…" I trailed off, and looked down at the glass of chardonnay in my hands as I mulled the question. "Whatever Young's trying to do with his case, it can't survive an appeal. The whole thing is built on a house of cards, and that's something anyone with even a semester of law school could tell you. If this was just decided on the law and the facts, it would have been over already, and the charges dismissed. I wouldn't have had to call even a single witness."
"And what does it mean that you have called two today, and will have two more tomorrow?" Erik asked. He drained his beer with one last pull, and set it down on the coffee table. "And bear in mind, I do not know the intricacies of the courtroom. I have never so much as set foot within a courthouse."
The beer bottle he'd put down was, thankfully, on a coaster. Unlike the last time Erik deigned to stop by…
"I think he's trying to give the jury an excuse," I said, turning the whole thing over in my head. "The way his opening statement completely ignored burden of proof, made no mention of proving things beyond a reasonable doubt… that, and with how he's acting to just… throw a fog over what should be clear and consistent facts?"
I drained the rest of my half-glass of wine before I answered, enjoying the barest traces of a pleasant buzz that I could allow myself before a court day. A full glass of wine, even though it really wasn't that much alcohol, would have probably been enough to push me past tipsy and into the earliest levels of drunk. Knowing myself the way I did, that was enough to give me a hangover. Even with just this, I'd have to stay awake for at least another hour before I felt safe enough to go to sleep without risking a blinding headache in the morning.
"It's utterly despicable, but what I'm getting is he wants a conviction, no matter how dirty, so that he can campaign on it," I said to finally answer Erik, now that I'd wrapped my head around the whole thing. "It doesn't matter if the whole thing gets overturned on appeal. He'll have gotten elected already, and can work to minimize the impact of this case, even going so far as to select a patsy in the DA's office to offload most of the blame onto. He may have been lead attorney, but I know he's not the only one to work this case."
"And so another politician would rise to power on the broken backs of people like us." Erik gave a harsh exhale, and an uncomfortably large amount of objects in my apartment shook when he did.
"Erik," I warned with a glare.
"My apologies," he said. "I shan't do it again."
He did 'it' again barely three minutes later, at which point I kicked him out, and waited another ten minutes. Then, and only then, did I break out the ice cream.
Mint chip ice cream was not safe around Erik.
He could smell it.
Day four began as day three ended: with expert testimony. Which would normally have been a detriment. Why was that?
Well… let me explain.
Expert testimony is, on average, usually very hard to get a jury to pay attention to, as Dave Grissom and I had had to work around the day prior, by breaking it into bite-sized chunks. Experts tend to be very dry, technical, and difficult to understand. Worse than that, they have a tendency to drone.
All of this combines to make jurors lose interest at a record pace, which makes an expert witness's testimony a race against time to get what you want into the jury's memory before they zone out completely.
There is an exception to this, however.
"At this time, the defense would like to call Dr. Harry Michaelson to the stand," I said, and was pleased by the excited muttering of the courtroom. That muttering grew as the doctor seated himself on the stand, only to be silenced by a single slam of Judge Andrews' gavel as the doctor was sworn in. Once that was done, I got started.
The exception to losing jurors to expert testimony was, in my experience, the testimony of ER doctors. Cardiologists? Snore. Urologists? Ick. Gynecologists? Fastest way to lose about half of your jury, depending on how many males were sat.
But when you're impaneling your expert, and you mention that they're an ER doc? Well by that point, all you had to do was pace yourself properly, mind your word choice, and the jury would hang off of every word your witness said. So long as nobody was dead, juries loved the gory, gruesome details. The more talk you could get of blood and bone (and without mention of any other bodily fluid), the better.
So it was no surprise to me that even I could hear how much faster the jury's breathing came as the doctor spoke. They were riveted.
Which meant it was time to drive the point home.
"Dr. Michaelson," I said, pacing in front of the jury box. "We've been over your account of treating St. John in the emergency room, and heard your impressions. Now, given all of that information, I would like to ask: in your expert opinion, what conclusion would you draw about the nature of the attack that sent my client into your care?"
"Well—"
"Objection!" DA Young rose to his feet. "Counsel is clearly leading the witness!"
"Your Honor," I spoke, voice level, "leading questions are, to a limited extent, allowed on direct testimony of an expert testimony. One of those classic questions is asking what conclusion an expert witness would draw from available information, as the District Attorney did himself yesterday."
Both of us knew this objection was just to break up the flow between learning about two things: one, how badly hurt St. John was when he entered the emergency room; and two, what a doctor could guess as to what put them in that condition. The two logically flow from one to another: X is hurt a certain way, Y could cause it, therefore Z evidence that I already know about did cause it.
But sometimes, something so small as dropping an objection in the middle of things was enough to completely disrupt that chain of logic. I had to hope that this wouldn't be the case, otherwise hours of prep and over an hour of testimony was all moot.
"Objection overruled," Judge Andrews said. "Please proceed, Doctor."
"As I was going to say," Dr. Michaelson said, with a put-upon frustration that I only wish I'd coached him into doing, "I would conclude that the threat Mr. Allerdyce faced was nothing less than a threat to his life."
I let that statement hang for about two seconds, during which I could hear significant murmuring in the gallery. I did not turn to look at the jury behind me; that was a rookie move, and would speak to a severe lack of confidence in what I was trying to prove.
"What led you to characterize this as a threat to St. John's life?" I asked.
"It's largely the location of the injury," Dr. Michaelson said. "As I mentioned, St. John was struck at the very left edge of his forehead." The doctor raised his index finger to point where the wound would be on his own head, just above his left eyebrow. "Now, if I move that back an inch towards the side of the head," he continued, moving his finger as he spoke, "we wind up at the temple."
"And why is that significant?" I asked, my own left hand having followed the doctor as he gestured. From what I was hearing, and the picture that sound made for me, at least four members of the jury had followed suit, and had their own index fingers tapping at their temples.
"It's significant because the temple is one of the thinnest parts of the skull," Dr. Michaelson explained. "A blow to the forehead is actually one of the safest to take, just because of how sturdy the front of your skull is. But the temple?" He shook his head, and let his hand fall. "I've seen wounds to the temple that killed a grown man."
"If that's the case, let's take St. John's wound and shift it to his temple" I started. "Given your expertise as a trauma surgeon, if St. John had been struck just that one inch further back, what kind of result would we be looking at?"
"Objection!" DA Young roared to his feet again. "Calls for speculation on the part of the witness!"
"The good doctor is offering a conclusion drawn from his expert opinion," Judge Andrews said. "Objection overruled. Continue, Doctor."
"Thank you," Dr. Michaelson said. "If we take St. John's wound, and move it to the temple…" The doctor sighed, and raised his hands in a half-hearted gesture. "I see three outcomes. One, he's in the hospital with a traumatic brain injury. Two, he's in a persistent vegetative state. Or three… St. John never makes it to a hospital because he dies in that alleyway, right then and there."
"So… dead, braindead, or crippled," I said. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Michaelson. Nothing further for this witness."
I sat down, and Lou Young stood. I readied myself to take notes here, because however he tried to cross-examine Dr. Michaelson, I'd have to be ready to address that in closing, or even redirect here and now.
"Dr. Michaelson," Lou Young started, buttoning his coat with one hand as he spoke. "When you treated the defendant at the ER, were you aware that he is a mutant?"
"Objection," I said, standing. "Your Honor, whether a trauma surgeon knew about an imperceptible genetic difference is irrelevant to the matter at hand."
"Your Honor, it's a key part of medical history," Lou Young said. "Just like a doctor wouldn't ignore a club foot, they wouldn't ignore mutantness."
"I find myself agreeing with the District Attorney here," Judge Andrews said. "Objection overruled. The witness will answer the question."
"No," Dr. Michaelson said, not allowing Lou to reinforce his question by repeating it. "At the time of treatment, I did not know that Mr. Allerdyce is a mutant, nor did it ever become relevant to my assessment or his treatment."
Good, I thought. That was a good answer, and would hopefully preempt whatever Lou wanted to ask.
"Had you known that the defendant was a mutant when you treated him," Lou Young said, pacing towards the witness stand, "you would have treated him differently, wouldn't you have?"
Or maybe it wouldn't.
"Objection," I said as I stood. "Question calls for speculation on the part of the witness."
"What speculation?" Lou asked. "I'm merely suggesting he would have needed to treat his patient differently if he knew he was a mutant!"
"Your Honor, the DA may as well have just explicitly said that he was asking the witness to speculate."
"Be that as it may, I allowed you some leeway on this earlier," Judge Andrews said, "and so I'm going to allow the same here. Objection overruled, the witness will answer the question."
"Well, doctor?" Lou Young asked, voice almost smarmy. "You would have treated him differently, wouldn't you?"
I looked to my witness in worry. Dr. Michaelson's expression was… well, it was getting close to apopleptic, is what I would say. From the way his elbows were, I could tell his hands were flat on the witness stand, and his suit jacket was stretched taut across his shoulders.
"I don't know what kind of ethics you lawyers may follow," he started, "but in my profession, and at my emergency department, we take an oath that says we treat everyone, and we treat them fairly."
Dr. Michaelson punctuated his points with thumps of the flat of his right hand down onto the witness stand, drawing winces from the jury with every hit.
"Regardless of race, sex, or mutant status. Frankly, Mr. district attorney, I am insulted that you thought otherwise of me long enough to ask that question! You, sir, have just lost my vote this fall, and the votes of anyone else at my hospital who's willing to listen!"
Shit. Welcome to one of the greatest risks of trial lawyering: once a witness is up on the stand, you lose all control over them. I'd prepared Dr. Michaelson as best I could, but even I didn't think the DA would be so gauche as to ask the doctor if he'd betray the Hippocratic Oath.
I looked to Lou Young, worried that he was about to use this outburst to try and strike large swathes of the doctor's testimony, only to pause. I… why was he laughing?
"My apologies, doctor, my apologies! You seem to have misunderstood the question!" Lou collected himself after pacing back and forth in the well. "Let me rephrase. If you had known the defendant was a mutant, that would have changed the standard of care you had to use, wouldn't it have?"
Uh-oh. Of all the tacks that the DA could have taken, this was the one most likely to sway any bigots.
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow," Dr. Michaelson said. "Mutant or not, the standard of care for patients at the ER doesn't change."
"Ah, but some mutants' bodies are very different from normal peoples', in ways that change how you have to treat them, aren't they?" Lou asked… and damn him, but he had a point.
"Objection," I said, standing.
"Overruled," Judge Andrews said, before I could even offer a reason. Granted, there was no valid objection here… but it meant my interruption was minimized.
After all, I was literally a walking example of exactly what he was suggesting. Not that he knew that, of course, but still.
"I can't deny that, no," Dr. Michaelson said.
"And not all of these differences are immediately apparent to the naked eye, are they?" Lou pressed.
"Not necessarily, no," the doctor answered.
"Dr. Michaelson." Lou set himself in front of the judge's position on the bench. "You did not perform the type of comprehensive imaging that would have revealed if the defendant's physiology grossly differed from the human baseline."
"No," he agreed.
"Then, you cannot say that the defendant's mutation didn't also give him an altered physiology that would make a wound to the head substantially less dangerous than it would for an average person, can you?"
"Objection!" I yelled it this time as I rose. "Counsel is asking a question beyond the scope of the direct examination! Furthermore, counsel's question assumes facts not in evidence!"
"Your Honor, the defendant's treating physician states that he—"
"I don't care what the justification for your question is, DA Young," Judge Andrews interrupted. "The fact remains that the defense is correct, and it was an improper question. Strike it from the record, and the jury shall disregard that it was asked."
No, I thought bitterly, no they wouldn't.
"In that case," Lou said, "nothing further for this witness, your Honor."
"Does the defense wish to redirect?" Judge Andrews asked.
"Yes, your Honor," I said. "Permission to approach?"
"Granted."
I stepped into the well of the court, and stood between Dr. Michaelson and the jury.
"Dr. Michaelson," I asked, "in your experience, what level of apparent physical differences would prompt a changed standard of care for a mutant?"
"Just off the top of my head?" Dr. Michaelson hummed, drumming his fingers on the witness stand as he thought. "Additional limbs, irregular heartbeat, visibly irregular skin and organs."
"And according to your observation, which of these traits did St. John Allerdyce possess?" I asked.
"None of them," he answered. "If I hadn't been told after the fact that my patient is a mutant, I would never have been able to tell. Apart from his mutant power, he is physically indistinguishable from any regular old human off the street."
"Thank you for your time, Dr. Michaelson," I said, glad that I'd gotten the answer I did. "Nothing further for this witness, your Honor."
"Very well," Judge Andrews said. "Dr. Michaelson, the Court would like to thank you for your time in coming down here today. You are excused." Once the doctor stepped down from the stand, the judge addressed the courtroom again. "We shall now recess for lunch; court will resume in an hour and a half, at one in the afternoon."
The gavel came down, and we were on the home stretch.
I stood up from my chair, reached into my briefcase to get my wallet, and passed a hundred to Jonathan Allerdyce to go run out and grab lunch for everyone as the gallery filed out of the courtroom. We'd retreat to the conference room for the duration of the court's recess; there we would eat, get some last minute prep in, and I'd pump Matt for his impressions of the jury. With that, we'd be able to make modifications to the last bit we had left, pinpoint our target audience.
Regardless, the whole affair was almost done. We'd put on our case as best we could, and it was one hell of a case. The facts were in our favor, and while the law was still iffy, I felt like there was a chance it would come down on our side. We just had the last little bit to go.
One more witness. And, with a bit of luck, our chance to get St. John's side of the story into the record, ready for me to run with during closing arguments.
I hope you're ready for your turn at bat, Katherine. I'll pitch it to you straight down the center.
You just need to knock it out of the park.