“You put down the paintball rifle …”
“Correct.”
“… took off the gloves …”
“Yes.”
“… picked up the M-24, aimed it, shot.”
“That's right.”
“All in a manner of seconds?”
“As I said, I'm quite speedy. Practice makes perfect.”
Pop, snap, pop? Weese is no Ceepak. He's not that fast.
“How tall are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“How tall?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
Ceepak digs through a stack of folders piled on the table near his elbow, finds what he's looking for, slips it out, flips over Weese's booking shot, the one where you stand in front of a scale marked off in feet and inches.
“Six feet, three inches,” Ceepak says.
“Can I see that?” The lawyer says it like he's in court and needs to examine State Exhibit A or whatever. Ceepak doesn't care. He slides the photo over. The lawyer pulls out his reading glasses. “Let the record show-”
Ceepak cuts him off. “Tell me, George. How did you shoot your weapons?”
“Let's see … oh, I remember. I pulled the triggers.”
“How were you set up?”
“Excuse me?”
“Were you prone? Standing? Did you use the bipod on the SWS?”
The look on Weese's face? I'm not sure he knows what a bipod is, that it's the little leg thingie up front to steady the nose of the rifle.
“Yes. I used a bipod.”
“Where did you shoot from?”
“Different locations.”
“The minivan?”
“Obviously.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Out the front windshield?”
“No, I did not shoot out the front window. The glass would be shattered if I did. Imbecile.”
Ceepak smiles. “Where then? I know you didn't use the sliding door when you killed Harley Mook. If you did, all you would have hit is a garage wall and some gardening supplies.”
“Brilliantly deduced, detective.”
“So, when you shot from the minivan, how did you do it?”
Weese hesitates before answering. “I stepped outside the van, propped my weapon-”
“You mean weapons.”
“That's right. I stand corrected. I propped my
“So you positioned your bipod on the driver-side window?”
“That's right.”
“Did you have the paintball rifle in one hand, the M-24 in the other?”
“Maybe.”
“So you were only wearing one glove? Right or left hand?”
“Both. Then I took them off.”
The lawyer and I? We're both trying to imagine how Weese would look doing what he's telling us he did: juggling two rifles, balancing them on a car door, removing gloves. Playing Twister is less complicated.
“Was the window rolled down?”
“Of course.”
“All the way?”
“Yes. I wanted to position my bipod on the crack where the glass goes down into the door. There's a rubber sealing-strip there. Good support surface for my bipod.”
“I see.”
Ceepak stops. Waits. Starts in again.
“How tall is the bottom edge of the window on your minivan?”
“I haven't a clue. Do you? Did you, perchance, take a mug shot of my minivan?” Weese seems pleased with this little zinger.
“We can.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Would you agree that the driver-side window ledge is shorter than you?”
“Well, obviously.”
“So you crouched down? While you balanced the two rifles?”
“Yes. I practiced at the gym. Did squats with weighted poles balanced upon my shoulders.”
“Your quadriceps didn't cramp up?”
“No.” Weese eyes dart left then right while he tries to remember what quadriceps are. “My thighs were fine. I did fifty squats every morning.”
“Fifty?” Ceepak curls his lips and raises his eyebrows like he's mightily impressed.
“Sometimes I'd do a hundred.”
Ceepak nods. Pauses. Weese smiles. He figures he's won this round, maybe the whole bout.
Ceepak finds a manila file folder in the pile of papers. Looks inside. Closes the folder.
“Mr. Weese,” Ceepak says, “I try to conduct my life guided by certain principles.”
“Really? I'm impressed.”
“I will not lie, nor will I tolerate those who do.”
“Then we should get along just fine.” Weese smirks some more. “I am not a liar. And I've answered each and every one of your questions, no matter how insipid.”
“I would concur,” the lawyer says. “My client has been very frank and forthcoming.”
“Bullshit.”
I have never heard Ceepak use those two words together like that.
“Excuse me?” The lawyer is acting offended, like his dainty tanned ears aren't used to hearing such coarse language.
Ceepak stands and leans his considerable weight on his balled-up fists. He's mad enough to drill holes through the table with his knuckles.
“Everything you have told me thus far is a bald-faced lie.”
“Is not,” Weese says, sounding like he's six years old.
“Danny, do you know how you can tell when George Weese is lying?”
“His lips are moving.” I give Ceepak the punch line to the old lawyer joke so the lawyer doesn't have to.
“I am not lying!”
“Of course you are.”
“Prove it!”
Ceepak opens the folder.
“We know from trajectory analysis done at Schooner's Landing and the Oak Street location that the M-24 weapon was fired from a height between six and a half and seven feet.”
“So? You just said I was six three.”
