10

Chapter Nine

"Is the prosecution ready to call its next witness?" Judge Andrews asked as everybody finished filing back into the courtroom.

"Your Honor," Lou Young started as he stood. "In light of his friend's testimony, Mr. James Boothe has refused to testify. As the majority of his substantive testimony has already been entered into the record, the prosecution sees no reason to not grant this request. We ask that Mr. Boothe be removed from the witness list, and that court be adjourned, as our other witnesses are expert witnesses whose schedules do not have the flexibility to let us call them this afternoon."

I felt a wave of contentment at this pronouncement. The DA had all but announced to the jury that he wasn't sure how much of what he'd been told by his witnesses was true. Rather than risk letting me tear strips out of the other man's hide, Lou Young had apparently decided to cut his losses.

"Any objections?"

"None, your Honor," I told the judge, standing as I answered.

"Very well. We shall resume once more at ten am tomorrow; I shall entertain any new motions and housekeeping in chambers at nine. Court is adjourned."

Judge Andrews' gavel came down, and much like yesterday, the gallery was the first to stand and leave, and I noted several interesting personages watching us, including one of the tallest men I had ever seen in my life. He had to be, what, almost seven feet tall? And he was probably about half again as broad as the average man. Oddly enough, despite appearing to be my age at the oldest, he wore a suit that resembled the one I'd seen Erik in for Rosh Hashanah services last year, which spoke to some interesting fashion sensibilities. I couldn't get a good look at him, given the hat he pulled down low over his eyes, so I put him out of mind.

As for the rest of the gallery, the media filed out of the courtroom as quickly as they could, and I wagered they were all retreating to the phone rooms to call their editors and let them know what had happened. I shuddered a bit at the thought, and realized I'd need to have Matthew join the Allerdyces on their way out the back, to keep them away from the media circus. That much I would face alone; it wasn't my first time fielding reporters, and it wouldn't be the last.

"So what happens now?" Linda Allerdyce asked the moment the door closed behind us in the courthouse conference room. Jonathan and St. John were hugging each other, manic smiles on both of their faces at what had happened in the courtroom. "That has to be it, right? There's no bloody way anybody would keep trying to put my boy away when that cretin clearly lied about everything!"

"See?" I overheard the elder Allerdyce whisper. "I told you, I told you it would work out!"

The optimism was plain to see: they were assured that that was it, that we'd just won. The light at the end of the tunnel was in front of them now, and this whole nightmare would be over. But unfortunately, while they saw a light, I saw an oncoming train. So did Matt, by the tension in his posture, and the way I could tell he was trying to hide his frown.

And this made the next things I had to say all the more painful.

"Now, we keep going," I said, "and pray to whichever God you prefer that that was enough. But odds are, it wasn't."

The Allerdyces, all three of them, turned to look at me. Matt, despite not being the focus of their attention, shuffled.

"But, but that can't be right!" St. John burst out. "The whole thing was built on a lie, and we proved it! There's nothing else they can even do, right!?"

"If only it worked that way," I said with a wistful sigh. "St. John. Real court isn't like 'Matlock'. What you saw in court today, with a witness getting caught in a lie and basically imploding on the stand?"

I set my briefcase down on the conference room table, and turned to face my young client.

"First of all? That is rare. I've been practicing law for eight years, and go to trial multiple times a year. This is only the second time I've seen it, and even when it did happen, the trial kept going because that is how things go. And second? Even something as big as this, which you would think completely kneecaps the prosecution's case? All it does is muddy the waters a bit. Take things from 'definitely' to 'maybe'."

"But he was lying to the judge!" St. John protested, arms practically flailing in his disbelief. "He lied to the jury! A-and, plus, this means you can put me up there and I can tell them my side of things, wouldn't that be it? I mean, they'd have to know I was telling the truth!"

"No, they do not," I corrected. "All the jury knows is that, for whatever reason, Micah Samuelson felt the need to wildly exaggerate his account of what actually happened in that alleyway. They do not know how much of what he said was true, and how much was false. All they know is that those parts that were false painted him in a bad enough light that both he and the prosecution would rather not speak any further on it. With any luck, that is all they need to know, but we are not going to hedge our bets on that. And lastly," I added at the end, "it will be a cold day in hell before I feel so backed into a corner that I need to put a teenage defendant on the stand."

"But what about—"

"No, St. John," I interrupted him. "None of this changes what I've said multiple times now. I am not putting you on that stand. You could be hooked up to a polygraph, and half of that jury would completely ignore everything you said because you're a mutant. That, and because I have zero doubts that if I did, the DA would waste no time in making you out to be the most vile monster this side of the Mississippi. Believe me, this is an area where experience and treachery win out against your youth and enthusiasm."

"So, what's that mean?" St. John asked, hands clenched now. "I don't get to tell my side of the story?"

"Your side of the story will have its day, St. John," I reassured him, pulling aside the screen so he could step behind it and get ready for the corrections officer to take him back to juvie for the night. "It may not be from the horse's mouth, but they will know what it is you said about what happened there."

"Please, St. John," Matt said, face pointed in the young mutant's relative direction. "We've been putting in a lot of work to make sure your story can get heard. You will get past this," he assured the teen. "You just need to have faith."

"Yeah, well," St. John scoffed from his side of the screen. He draped his suit over the top, at which point Linda took the clothes and put them on hangers. "Faith's in a bit of short supply right now."

I couldn't help but agree with St. John's sentiment. If it had been me in his shoes, I would absolutely have been feeling the same way.

By the time we finished up in the conference room, and the corrections officer had taken custody of St. John to return him to juvie for the night, the press corps had managed to array itself out on the courthouse steps in truly absurd numbers. I counted no less than thirty reporters there, and even as I walked up to the exit (Matt and the Allerdyces had, thankfully, taken my suggestion to go out the back without any real prodding), the clamour grew louder.

I didn't see Lou Young anywhere nearby, which was… entertaining, to say the least. The man was a fan of the spotlight, and I would have expected him to be soaking up the attention from the media.

Then I remembered that he had been utterly eviscerated in court today, and was likely still on the phone with his campaign staff and PR people, trying to figure out how he'd spin all of this to not come out shit-stained and smelling of rotten eggs.

What this meant, though, is that I would need to brave the crowd of reporters without any kind of buffer. They had questions, I (maybe) had answers… and to be completely honest? I wanted them to put my take in the headlines.

Jurors aren't supposed to read the paper, no… but they generally do anyway. And if they happened to see a headline that swayed their opinions towards mine… all the better.

And so, I descended the courthouse steps, making sure to stop while I was still high enough above the reporters that I could actually look most of them in the eye. A single raised hand was enough to get the clamour to quiet down a little bit, even as twenty-odd dictaphones and microphones were all shoved far closer to my face than I was comfortable with.

"I understand that all of you are incredibly curious to ask about my client's case," I said, the press corps all murmuring in assent. "As I mentioned yesterday, there are myriad details that I am quite simply not allowed to talk about. However, I will take this time to answer a few questions, so long as you people don't try to shout them all at me," I threw in at the end, raising my voice to get over the clamour.

Reporters, I swear. You think a dog with a bone is persistent? A reporter with a question is several dozen times worse.

"If you have a question, raise a hand with a pen, dictaphone, something, and I'll make some selections from the crowd." An instant later, two dozen hands all went up, most bearing dictaphones, but three or four with pens or pencils… which instantly swayed me towards them. "You, with the fountain pen," I said, pointing at the writing implement in question.

The man, seeing his opportunity, stepped forward out of the crowd, and I got a good look at him.

The man wore a nondescript grey three(!)-button suit, a modern choice that immediately made my impression of him tick upwards. Most of his personal grooming was clearly saved for his face, as he had a perfectly sculpted mustache, an utterly expert coiffure, and a set of aviator sunglasses that were too large for his face… which sort of ruined the rest of the work he did on his appearance.

"Ms. Schaefer," he said, fountain pen and notepad at the ready. "Louis Jensen, from Pacific Monthly. In light of recent trends towards harsher penalties for young offenders, and commentary from the White House during this past week, do you feel your client's situation has been unfairly politicized because of his minority status? And additionally," Mr. Jensen continued, cutting off my attempt to answer, "would you support legislation to prevent gratuitous removal of juvenile mutant defendants to adult courts?"

"I am going to give you the classic lawyer's answer to this one," I started, even as I thought through my answer.

This was a question that covered a very wide range of issues — and truth be told, there were a fair few cases where juveniles did need to be tried as adults. The biggest issue here, though, was twofold: who was making that decision, and the reasoning behind the eventual choice they made.

"It depends on a number of factors," I continued, speaking as vaguely as I could about a very sensitive topic. "Any such legislation would, in my opinion, need substantial enough carve-outs for those times where one truly should try a minor as an adult. But it also needs to be careful that those carve-outs aren't abused to completely gut the purpose of such legislation. And so that you have me on record as actually answering the question," I remembered to add at the end, "my answer regarding such legislation is a conditional yes.

"Now, next question?"

Thankfully, the reporter was gracious enough to recognize that he had been dismissed, which left me to select yet another reporter.

"Let's see," I said, searching the crowd. "You, in the blue and the glasses."

For the next question, I settled on a tall, muscular man in a blue suit, who was possibly the only one in the crowd not jockeying for position. He had round glasses, black hair that clearly wanted to curl, and a shockingly unremarkable face. The one thing I did pick up was a familiar accent; this man was also from somewhere in the Midwest, though I couldn't quite place where. Kansas City, maybe?

"Ms. Schaefer," he said, his meek, almost shy voice still somehow projecting for everybody to hear, "Clark Kent, with the Daily Star. What do you have to say about allegations that the case against Mr. Allerdyce is just a sham, and that he's facing trumped up charges meant to trample on the civil liberties of a section of the populace?"

"Keep in mind that there is a lot I'm not allowed to share here, especially with regards to your specific question," I started, looking the man straight in the eye. "However, I will say that if those allegations are accurate, then it would hardly be a first, even for Manhattan. I'm sure many present remember the ridiculous pretenses under which the police assaulted the Stonewall Inn."

Ah yes, the Stonewall Riots. There was a major difference between the ones that happened in my original timeline, and those that occurred here. In my original timeline, the fighting at the Stonewall broke out when a woman, who was being escorted out in handcuffs, yelled to the crowd, "Why don't you guys do something?", stirring the crowd.

In this world's history, she said something else, about ten seconds later: "Well if you won't, I will."

Though the police were keen to scrub the name of Stormé DeLarverie from history, those of us in the know remember her as the mutant whose sacrifice meant everybody else went free that night. Because of her, the Stonewall remained standing to this day, never changing hands, never losing its status as a safe haven to just be who you were.

Those events also helped serve my narrative – because once again, we had a person that nobody knew was a mutant until they had to defend themselves.

Ah, but look at me on my soapbox. I had best answer a few more questions before losing the spotlight.

"Next question," I said, looking out at the crowd. "You, over there."

The man I'd pointed at pushed his way forward out of the crowd. And once I got a closer look at him, the only thing I could think of was that he looked like a dead ringer for an overweight Don Draper.

"Miss Schaefer," he started, and I couldn't help the slight frown at the way he said it. "Jack Joyce, Dartmouth Review. Depending on the outcome, what do you think are the potential… ramifications of this trial's verdict?"

Oh, I didn't like this man already.

"In all honesty, that depends on whether the people of New York City deserve their reputation, or if I have to appeal," I told him, not bothering to elaborate any further. Let him take whatever meaning he wanted to from it, because from that question alone, I could tell that there was nothing I could say or do that would ever win points with him.

That, and the last time I saw anything from the Dartmouth Review, it was proudly advertising the merits of conversion therapy.

"Next question," I said, searching for someone visibly different from the last few reporters. My eyes stumbled upon a head of long blonde hair, and I pointed at her. "You."

Once the rest of the reporters parted to let her through, however, I began to regret that decision.

"Sarah Sampson, New York Magazine." The woman who said this wore something that I wouldn't be caught dead in, even if I was specifically going for a Saturday on the town. Her dress had a deep, plunging neckline, and cut off far too high above her knees for my taste. Sheer hose and heels that she visibly tottered on completed an ensemble that just screamed 'I'll wear anything for the ratings'. "How do you feel about accusations that you're using your feminine wiles to influence the judge and jury in this case?"

Oh yes. Instant regret.

"Whoever made those accusations should turn off their television, go down to the local Blockbuster, and go to the section behind the curtain," I answered, before immediately blocking her out of my mind. "Next question… you."

Ugh. Right as I pointed at a perfectly presentable middle-aged woman in formal wear, a weasely-looking man in an unkempt suit slid in front of her. By the outrage on her face, this was very much not something that had been planned, so I readied to ask the man to step aside—

"Marvin Mackert with the Villager!" Unfortunately, the weasel started speaking and inserted himself into the center of attention before I had the opportunity. "Given the highly lethal mutant powers of the defendant and what he's already done, how can you not worry for your own safety while in the mutant's presence?"

Ugh. Well, if ever I needed a signal to cut things off, this was it.

"Rather easily, actually: I just treat my fellow person with common dignity and respect, because that's what anyone should do anyway," I snapped at the reporter, who I saw turn off his dictaphone before I could finish speaking, of course. "Now, given these last few questions, I can tell I've overstayed my welcome, so if you will excuse me—"

"Just gonna walk away before I can get a shot, huh? And right when somebody finally gets what I've been saying about the web-head this whole time! That's cold of you, Schaefer."

The crowd of reporters went almost dead silent before parting like the Red Sea. There, standing five steps below the rest of us, was John Jonah Jameson, Jr. Editor-in-Chief for the Daily Bugle, winner of seventeen Pulitzer Prizes, possibly the best investigative journalist in the entire country… and the man whose love of his job meant that I had spent a good five months being utterly miserable at mine.

"Mr. Jameson," I said, blanking out my expression as best I could. "Here to smear my name on your front page again?"

"Oh come now, it was never like that and you know it, Schaefer. Like I told you last time we met," JJJ said, walking up the steps, dictaphone in his hand, "it was just business."

"And I suppose your particular brand of purple prose was purely for the purpose of pushing papers?" I asked with an arched eyebrow, the hand not holding my briefcase now resting squarely on my hip.

"Ha!" JJJ barked a laugh, and gave a grand smile. "Alliterating like a reporter yourself, I see."

"Just ask your question and get on with it," I told him, unable to hold back my scowl any longer.

"If you insist," he said, and flicked on his dictaphone with the press of a button. "John Jonah Jameson, with the Daily Bugle. So, Schaefer. I read you people's ethics rules on my way down here. Couldn't help but see this interesting little bit, says you're supposed to step down if you think you can't be professional, or give them good, unbiased lawyering."

JJJ had just massively paraphrased one of the New York Rules of Professional Conduct at me, so much so that I'd had to look it up later to see how badly he'd butchered it. Rule 1.7, the conflict of interest rule, has a carve-out in it for ideological conflicts and personal beliefs, such as religion or politics. It could be a hard rule of conduct to sue or cite an attorney under, given how hard it was to prove improper assistance of counsel on an ideological basis.

That being said, I'd heard from Lieberman that it happened back in the 60's… with an idiot Jewish lawyer who didn't step back from representing a Nazi sympathizer.

"And your point?" I asked, staring JJJ straight in the eye. Though I was mildly irked that I still had to look up ever so slightly to meet his gaze, even with his having stopped two steps below me on the court's front steps.

"Well, Schaefer. Why haven't you stepped down from the case?"

Silence. I had to admit, I was utterly gobsmacked. The sheer, utter gall it took to walk up to somebody and accuse them, to their face, of being incapable of maintaining a professional demeanor? I knew that if anybody had it, John Jonah Jameson did, yes.

But it's one thing to know it, and another entirely to be on the receiving end.

"That boy in there?" JJJ nodded at the courthouse behind us, taking advantage of my silence to keep talking. "He deserves a fair shake, a good, proper fighting chance. What makes you think you can give him that?"

I took a deep breath to compose myself, making sure I didn't answer while angry. There were many things I could accidentally let slip if I answered this question while I was riled up, and none of those boded well for my future, personal or professional.

"I know I can give him that," I said, keeping my voice at a steady, talking volume. "Any attorney's personal beliefs factor into whether they can adequately represent a client, you are correct on that front. So believe me when I tell you that everything I stand for, everything I believe in, stands behind Mr. Allerdyce. And quite frankly?" I added, leaning into his dictaphone. "I am genuinely offended that you felt the need to imply otherwise, Mr. Jameson. I'd thought better of a consummate professional like you."

For a moment, JJJ just looked at me. Then, with a click, he stopped the recording, and offered me a smile.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," I said, walking around him. At the same time, DA Young took his chance to start down the courthouse steps, hoping that John Jonah Jameson and I had drawn enough attention that he could slip by unmolested.

But there was blood in the water, and the media does so adore a feeding frenzy. So of course, the throng of reporters moved on from me in an instant, and descended upon the okay-lawyer-turned-scummy-politician like a pod of orcas on a shark's liver.

"Schaefer! Before you go." I paused as I was one step down from JJJ (who had not yet joined the rest of his peers in accosting the utterly-deserving District Attorney), closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I was not going to snap at J. Jonah Jameson, I repeated in my head as a mantra. I was not going to snap at J. Jonah Jameson. "One last question. Off the record."

Wait. Off the record? That was… odd, for a reporter of his caliber and dedication.

I blinked in surprise before turning, and saw JJJ with an unusually somber expression on his face. The handheld tape recorder he'd had in his hand just a moment ago had probably been put away into his jacket pocket. In its place he held a cigar, the other retrieving a cigar cutter from his pants pocket, and a moment later his hands went through the clearly familiar motions of prepping his tobacco, all without watching.

"Off the record," I said in agreement, having to raise my voice slightly to be heard over the yelling behind us.

"How's the kid holding up?" JJJ asked, trading his cigar cutter for a box of matches. "I know how I would be handling things, and how my boy would be doing, but we're not mutants. We don't have to suffer the kind of ridiculous bullshit that young man of yours is dealing with."

Oh, John Jonah Jameson, if only you knew… the field day I could see you having with that revelation was part of the reason I kept it under wraps.

"He's…" I trailed off with a sigh, thinking over what I want to say. "No matter how things end up here, St. John is going to have problems trusting governmental authority. He has me backing him up, but he – and mutants in general," I added, "could use more people in their corner."

"Hmm…"

JJJ hummed in thought as he lit up his cigar, extricating a single match, closing the matchbox, and igniting it in one smooth motion before he brought the flame to his cigar's freshly-cut tip. A couple of puffs got the thing going, and I wrinkled my nose at the unpleasant stink of burning tobacco (though, in fairness, it was less harsh than cigarette smoke).

"I can give you this much: mutants deserve a fair shake, and we need to give it to them. From all of us, to all of them. I'll see what I can do with the Bugle, but at the end of the day?" He waved his cigar around, gesturing behind us and towards the throngs of reporters who'd descended on Lou Young, smelling a story on his lips. "No matter how loud I yell it from the rooftops, it's gonna be up to the people to get their heads out of their asses about this."

"So it is," I agreed with a nod. "Have a good day, Mr. Jameson. And please," I added, "don't put me on the cover just for validating your opinion in court. My boss would have conniptions."

"Don't worry!" John Jonah Jameson yelled after me as I resumed walking down the courthouse steps. "I'll send your boss a nice cognac before I do!"

"Given the utter lunacy that has surrounded this case so far," Judge Andrews began, leaning back in his chair, "I figure it would be best to start off the day with any additional housekeeping matters. DA Young, do I need to order a continuance so you can interview and prepare another witness, now that one of yours has oh so graciously bowed out?"

This next day of court was to start off with even more of a bang than the morning headlines, it seemed. The last time I'd heard Judge Andrews take that kind of tone, it had been when he threatened me with contempt of court, adjourned for the day, and publicly stated that he expected me to leave the monologuing at home or else. It was honestly nice to not be on the receiving end, for once.

That said, Judge Andrews had a very good reason for his current unpleasantness. The headlines may not have included the judge, but articles were quick to point out that this case could be over if the judge so wished.

Lou Young, however… oh, boy had JJJ come through on this one.

YOUNG IS RECKLESS: UNHINGED DA BULLIES TEEN ARTIST

My copy of the Daily Bugle was still sitting on my dining table in my condo, ready to be cut, framed, and hung on my wall.

As for the headline itself, and the accompanying article? Perhaps it was a bit of a stretch to class St. John as an artist just for doing lighting design on high school theater productions. But the play on 'young and reckless' was something that would stick in peoples' minds quickly, and not come unstuck without some serious shenanigans to overwrite it.

Regardless, it was glorious.

Which brought us to today: I stood alongside Matt on the left side of Judge Andrews' desk, while Lou Young took position on the right. The court reporter sat at the desk, stenotype machine with its absurd quantity of paper poised and ready to take down every word said in here.

"No continuance will be necessary, your Honor," Lou Young said, answering Judge Andrews' question about witnesses. "We intend to carry on with the rest of our case; even with the, ahem, slight unrest caused by Mr. Samuelson's testimony, the prosecution still believes it has a strong enough case to meet the burden of proof."

Well, one: slight my left buttock. And two, the lack of specificity regarding the actual burden of proof worried me a bit.

"Well in that case," the judge turned to me. "Does the defense have anything to offer?"

"Your Honor," I said, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out a neatly-typed motion. "At this time, the Defense moves for a mistrial."

"On what grounds?" Judge Andrews asked, raising a hand to keep Lou Young from blurting out some inanity for the court reporter to have to try and take down at the same time as the judge spoke.

"The prosecution's star witness and alleged victim of the greater charge of first degree assault clearly offering perjured testimony to the court casts serious doubts as to the merits of this case, and to the overall question of whether an act or action that merits bringing such charges against my client occurred in the first place," I said.

Because if you are bringing charges of assault in the first degree, and there wasn't even an assault in the first place, then how exactly are you supposed to be able to prove that case at all? You can't just magic up evidence out of thin air and expect it to not be exposed as such in court.

"We know that Mr. Samuelson lied about the order of events, and there is a genuine question whether any of his wounds were actually caused-in-fact by my client, as opposed to the victims' own haste. Given that, combined with everything else we've seen and other evidence already on the record, the defense moves to declare this case a mistrial, so that the prosecution can reexamine whether there even is a case to begin with."

"Hmm…"

The judge picked up my motion and read it. Then he flipped back to the start and read it again, frowning.

"You raise a decent enough argument. Personally, however, I see no reason to declare a mistrial here," Judge Andrews said, removing his reading glasses as he let my motion drop to his desk. "If your client is convicted despite everything that the jury has already seen, no amount of Mulligans and mistrials was going to help him."

Somehow, I knew that this was going to be the expected result. Both Andrews and Young had enough political eggs in this basket that they couldn't just toss it out on its ear. Even if a mistrial were granted, Lou would just bring the charges again, even if there was no way to guarantee that he'd go before a favorable judge.

That, or he would just burn political favors to ensure that he got a judge that was sympathetic to his cause, or more willing to listen to him as opposed to anyone else.

This being said, though, the biggest indicator that a mistrial motion wasn't going to actually work is that the campaign season for local elections was coming soon. Both of them needed this case.

The mistrial motion was just so that it was in the record, and preserved the issue for appeal. I knew it, Lou Young knew it, Judge Andrews knew it… heck, even Matt had figured that out, and he was just a rising 2L.

Welcome to the legal profession: even if you know something isn't going to work, you still occasionally have to try it just so you could say you did.

"Your Honor," I started, but cut myself off, acting as though I was gathering my thoughts before I resumed speaking. I somewhat doubted it would work, but there was always the chance that the DA would actually believe I was banking on the mistrial going through, and get cocky with how he handled the rest of his case-in-chief. "Nevermind, your Honor. My apologies for speaking out of turn." Even if I knew it was a lost cause, there was still some theater here… and I was never one for ignoring a good show.

"It's about time you displayed a little common courtesy and respect, Ms. Schaefer," Judge Andrews said, and this time I couldn't hide the frown. That was a bridge too far from him, in my opinion… and would be noted for the future. "I'd prefer to see more of it, but something tells me that this is once in a blue moon."

Well, I thought to myself, if that's how you're going to react to it, then it damn well would be.

"Now, let's all return to the courtroom. Lou, I assume your witnesses are both ready and waiting."

"We'll have the good doctor in the afternoon," DA Young said, putting away a pocket watch into his jacket pocket. "He's doing follow-ups on his surgical cases in the morning. Let's get the detective done and back out on the beat first."

"Understood." Judge Andrews pushed himself up from his chair, and retrieved the black robe from a hook just off to his left. "Now, shall we?"

And so we all left chambers, to return to the courtroom proper. Because when a judge asks if you shall, you shall.

The trial continued with the Prosecution's initially-third, now-second witness: Detective Vincent Ruscoli, a long-time veteran with the NYPD. Detective Ruscoli looked… well, about as stereotypical as you'd expect. Large, more than a little overweight, graying at the temples… if the dictionary had visual aides, Vinny Ruscoli could be found under 'new Italian-American Grandpa'.

His history spoke for itself: twenty-five years with the NYPD, and even after becoming a detective, he continued earning certifications in everything he could think of. The most recent one was getting certified as an arson investigator, which suddenly made sense of why he'd been assigned to this case.

His testimony was fairly cookie-cutter: he detailed his background, work history, credentials, etcetera, then Lou Young impaneled him as an expert witness in the fields of criminal investigation, criminal assault, and arson. He testified as to how he found St. John: he talked to Mr. de Soto asking about the neighborhood kid who regularly bought a coke at his bodega), got a picture, used that picture to ID St. John… at which point he got an arrest warrant and broke down the Allerdyce's door on a Sunday night.

At no point in his testimony did he mention investigating any part of the crime scene save for the alleyway. And that would be my opening.

But before that, I had to wait for his testimony to finish… and ready the objection I just knew I would need to make.

"Detective Ruscoli, the defendant in this case claims he acted in self-defense. In your capacity as an expert on criminal assault, could you give the court your professional opinion as to the validity of this claim?"

"Truth be told?" Detective Ruscoli wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief, which he returned to his inside jacket pocket a moment later. "Over the fifteen years I've been a detective, I've seen probably a thousand perps claiming self-defense, and gotten a feel for when it really is just 'fighting back' or not. Most of the time I tell whichever prosecutor's on my case to not even bother looking further if it's cut-and-dry self-defense. This?"

The detective shook his head.

"The big thing to remember is you gotta keep things proportional." The detective raised his hands, keeping them flat, like the pans of a scale. "They hit, you can hit back. They shoot, you can shoot back. But in fifteen years, I ain't seen nothing," he raised one hand, pointer finger extended, to punctuate his point, "that makes lighting the whole damn alleyway on fire proportional."

"Objection!" I almost yelled, rising to my feet. "The witness's offering of his opinion exceeds the bounds of allowed testimony, your Honor."

"Your Honor," Lou said, facing Judge Andrews. "Detective Ruscoli is offering his professional opinion here, born from fifteen years as a police detective, during which time he's seen hundreds of self-defense cases. The opinion he's offered here was put forth solely under his purview as an expert on criminal assault and self-defense."

"Your Honor, while the witness has been impaneled an expert in criminal assault, he is not an expert in assault with the sort of weapon alleged to have been used here," I fired back. "Were we talking about a gun, or a knife, or a beer bottle to the head," I snuck in at the end, mainly to keep that detail fresh in the jury's mind, "then perhaps the detective's opinion would have full merit. But he does not have the knowledge necessary to conclude that the manner in which my client used his abilities was not proportional. The only people who can make that conclusion are those who intimately know the abilities' full extent, and the detective is not one of them, nor did the course of his investigation ever so much as consider trying to learn this information."

"In this matter, I'm going to have to side with the defense," Judge Andrews said. "While Detective Ruscoli is an expert in the use of all standard implements that one could use in a criminal assault case, the fact remains that in the case at hand, the defendant is alleged to have used a very much nonstandard weapon. The question and its answer shall be stricken from the record, and the jury shall disregard."

No they won't, I thought bitterly. The moment he told the jury to disregard the answer, that sealed it in their minds forevermore.

I could only hope that what I had to say next stuck around more strongly.

"Thank you for your time, Detective Ruscoli," Lou Young said. "No further questions."

"At this time, does the defense wish to cross-examine this witness?" Judge Andrews asked.

"It would, your Honor," I said, standing up. "Permission to approach?"

"Granted."

With that, I moved around the table and into the well, turning over my options as I went. There was very little about the detective's actual legwork that I could attack. His i's were dotted, his t's were crossed, his adherence to chain of custody was sacrosanct, and his respect for procedure was plain to see. Moreover, Detective Ruscoli wasn't actually present in the alleyway until several hours after things happened, which was after the first set of rains came and started washing away evidence.

There was really only one area in which I could attack his actual methodology, and it was thankfully the one I had prepared. However, my argument was more than a little repetitive and would fall back on some of the same points I had made yesterday, if by necessity.

Which meant I would be running the very real chance of beating a dead horse with a jury.

So I had to make it quick… and make it memorable.

"Detective Ruscoli," I started, staying well away from the witness stand. "Are you familiar with Defense Exhibit A, marked as 'Stained Beer Bottle with Micah R. Samuelson's Fingerprints'?"

"I am," he confirmed. "I was here in the courtroom yesterday when you entered it into evidence."

"Excellent," I said. "Now, are you aware that the bottle was discovered in the construction site across the street from the alleyway?"

"Yeah, I am," the detective answered. "Not sure if you saw it, but my name's on the chain o' custody form."

Ah, trying to phrase things such that it seemed I was ignorant of a basic fact. Classic.

"I saw it," I replied. "Which you would know, since my name was both above and below yours on the chain of custody document. But moving on: to confirm for the jury, you, the lead detective involved in this case, did not find this piece of evidence."

"No, I didn't," he admitted.

"You did not search the construction site across the street from the alleyway," I said, beginning to walk closer to the witness stand.

"Well, it weren't the scene of the crime, so no," Detective Ruscoli said.

"You did not search beyond the alleyway." I continued in this vein, even as I took another slow step towards the stand.

"Well like I said," the detective reiterated, "the alleyway was the scene of the crime, so there wasn't much reason to search elsewhere."

"Even though in his interview, Mr. Samuelson mentioned having fallen into a construction site?"

"He also didn't say nothing to me about holding a bottle," the detective revealed to the court; I knew this, of course, because I'd read the transcript of his interview with Mick Samuelson, but the jury didn't. "And I don't blame him; if I just fell thirty feet, I think I'd have more important things to worry about."

"And you only became aware of the bottle's existence over a week after you had already declared your investigation complete."

"Bit embarrassing when you put it that way, but that's the long and short of it, yeah."

"Thank you, detective. One last question." I stalked towards the witness stand, plastering on the fakest pleasant smile I could manage. "When taking a minor into custody, do you always have a full SWAT break down their door and drag them out at gunpoint?"

"Objection!" Lou Young shouted, stomping as he rose.

"Sustained!" Judge Andrews agreed with a shout of his own.

"My deepest apologies, your Honor," I said. "Nothing further for this witness."

"At this time, the prosecution calls David James McConnell, M.D."

Dr. David McConnell, a ginger man with short-cut red hair and a smattering of freckles across his face and hands, stood from the gallery of the court and was brought before the bar. This man's testimony was overall… not very important to my case anymore, if I'm being honest. I had the records from Mick Samuelson's stay in the hospital, and I had the doctor's dictated notes.

There was nothing here that I would be able to learn that wasn't in there. All he had to do was tell the jury that Mick fell thirty feet, broke his leg in three places, required surgery to repair the leg, and even post-recovery he would likely walk with a limp for the rest of his life just due to the nature of the damage.

Which meant that my one job was to obstruct, object, stall, and overall make a nuisance of myself as much as possible. Rule number one of opposing counsel's expert testimony: you want to interrupt it early, and interrupt it often. Experts tend to be educated persons who consider their time to be quite valuable. If you 'waste' that time, and make them spend longer on the stand, they become easier to fluster and slip things past.

And so, when Lou Young finished with his direct of the doctor, Matt was able to confirm for me that the man was getting annoyed with this whole thing.

Thankfully, my cross would be easy.

"Permission to enter the well?" I asked, once it was my turn with the witness.

"Granted," Judge Andrews said, and I was off.

"Dr. McConnell," I started, holding my copy of the medical records that had been entered into evidence as Prosecution Exhibit 4. "On page three of Mr. Samuelson's chart, you note that when the patient arrived at the hospital, he was not wearing any trousers, correct?"

"He was not, correct," the doctor agreed.

"During the entirety of his hospital stay," I continued, staying near counsel's table, "Mr. Samuelson did not volunteer any explanation for what happened to his trousers, did he?"

"No," Dr. McConnell said.

"But you are aware of Mr. Samuelson's testimony in court yesterday, that he removed his trousers prior to or during the fall that broke his leg, because they were on fire," I pressed.

"I am, yes," the doctor said.

"Excellent. Now, I'm looking through his file here," I said, flipping through the pages one by one as I walked closer to the doctor. "And forgive me, but can you point me to where you treated Mr. Samuelson's burns?"

"I can't."

"You can't?" I asked, looking up in (mock) surprise.

"Objection!" Lou Young said, rising to his feet. "Asked and answered, your Honor."

"Sustained," Judge Andrews said. "Strike the question, counsel will rephrase."

"Of course, your Honor," I said. "Now, Dr. McConnell, would the reason you cannot point me to where you treated Mr. Samuelson's burns happen to be because he had no burns?"

"When the patient presented to the hospital, the only injury of note was the compound fracture of his right leg," Dr. McConnel said. "There were no lacerations, no contusions, and no burns."

"And this is despite having, as Mr. Samuelson said yesterday, on-fire trousers directly touching his skin?" I asked.

"Objection!" Lou Young rose. "The question is outside the scope of direct, and the question is argumentative.

"I will withdraw the question," I said, preempting the judge's sustaining the objection. "Nothing further for this witness, your Honor."

"Thank you," the judge said. "Does the prosecution wish to redirect the witness at this time?"

"No, your Honor," Lou Young said. "The prosecution has no further questions for this witness."

"In that case; Dr. McConnell, the court thanks you for your time and excuses you." Dr. McConnell stood from the witness stand and let the bailiff escort him from the courtroom, a scowl on his face the whole time he walked out. "Does the prosecution intend to call any more witnesses?"

"No your Honor," the DA said. "The prosecution rests."

Which meant that tomorrow, it was game time. Mr. de Soto was ready, and the forensic tech from the private lab we used was practically chomping at the bit to testify. And if Lou could get two days for his case-in-chief, I could probably swing having Katherine's and Dr. Michaleson's testimonies on Friday as the last word before we went into closing arguments on Monday.

Hopefully those would be enough to drown out that proportionality answer Detective Ruscoli gave from the jury's mind, given that it wasn't on the transcript anymore for them to remember. The weekend was going to be crucial here, especially if I got lucky with continuing helping hands from the news cycle.

It all depended on if I could slow things down, spread them out, and make sure not to rush through my case. I had the stronger fact pattern here, I knew it. I just needed to present it in a way that it was the lion's share of what the jury saw and paid attention to when it came time for deliberations.

"Very well," Judge Andrews said, taking his gavel in hand. "The defense shall begin its case-in-chief tomorrow morning at ten in the morning. Court is adjourned."

The gavel came down, and with it, the ball landed on my side of the Court.