“Thank you for reminding me,” said the corporal with a slight smile. “He was there a week earlier. Pulled a gun on my colleague Indy.”
“But you only know that because that’s what Indy told you, isn’t that so?” Dana was trying to inject authority into her voice, but it wasn’t working all that well.
“Yes, but he would never be untruthful about something like that.”
“I object to the last answers, m’lord,” Dana said. “It’s all based on hearsay.”
“Come on, Wittenberg. Are you going to object to your own questions now?” This produced outright guffaws from the prosecutors’ table.
“No, sir. But it’s clearly based on hearsay.”
“So it is. But you opened that door. Mr. Archambault did not. And when you open a door, Ms. Wittenberg, you take the risk as to what might be on the other side. Now carry on with your questioning, and if you go offside, I’m sure Mr. Archambault or Mr. McSheffrey will be more than happy to object.
You don’t need to do that for them.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dana, her ears again crimson, her voice shaky. The painful process went on for another hour, with Dana keeping a constant eye on the clock, willing it to hit 4:00 p.m., Judge Mordecai’s strictly enforced closing time. She had five minutes to go when she glanced down at her third computer, which she had just turned on. Instead of showing the opening screen of the Lexis database, it was displaying an unusual picture. A short black figure, wearing a Trojan helmet, with two eyes clearly visible and two feet protruding directly beneath the helmet. Beneath the Disney-like cartoon figure were the words, “Lord Shatterer of Deathrot.” The phrase was rapidly flashing on and off the screen.
Great, thought Dana to herself. Now in addition to the horrors of the courtroom, a virus had invaded her computers. It was 3:56, and Dana had just lost her place in her notes. She was clueless as to the next question. She had already forgotten the last answer. She stood entranced, lost and speechless for a good minute, shuffling through papers before she became aware of the sound of Judge Mordecai’s fingers rapping on the bench.
“Ms. Wittenberg, we have myself, twelve jurors, three alternates, four other counsel, four officers from the sheriff’s department, and the court clerk and the court reporter all waiting for your next question. Is one on the way?”
“My lord, I see the time. Is it convenient to adjourn for the day?”
“No it is not. You have three minutes of questions to ask. Don’t waste the court’s time.”
What followed was three minutes of questioning on irrelevancies. How was the weather? What was the road to the mine like? Can you describe what Lestage was wearing? The screen on the out-of-control computer changed and was replaced with a suggested question: “Ask her about her dealings with the Terrorist Threat Integration Center.” This suggested question was positioned directly above the flashing “Lord Shatterer of Deathrot” chyron. Dana stared blankly at the screen, silent seconds slowly slipping by.
“Ms. Wittenberg!” snapped the judge. “Stop wasting time or you’re in contempt. Now ask a normal, relevant, proper question.”
Her mind emptied itself. Dana was transfixed by the flashing letters on her screen. “Have you had any dealings with Lord Shatterer of Deathrot?” “Pardon?” asked Corporal Gray.
“What did she say? Lord what?” Sheff was asking Archambault, not even bothering to whisper.
“Lord who?” asked the judge.
“Lord Shatterer of Deathrot,” repeated Dana miserably.
“Lord Shatterer. Of Deathrot?” repeated the judge, slowly emphasizing each syllable. “Have you lost your mind, Wittenberg? Are you trying to get a mistrial so you can avoid your obligation to defend Mr. Lestage? Is that the deFijter strategy?”
“No, sir. It was a legitimate question. I just mis . . . misspoke.”
“A what? A legitimate question? Lord Shatterbox of Rot, or whatever? I have been on this bench for twenty years and I have never heard anything that stupid.”
“It’s four o’clock,” said the clerk, turning around and advising the court.
“Nicely done, Wittenberg,” said a caustic Judge Mordecai. “You blew the last half hour off the clock. You need to learn that you come to court prepared, that you have your questions organized ahead of time, so that you don’t pull the nonsense you just did.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Dana. Corporal Gray, from the stand, felt a little sorry for her. Leon, in the prisoner’s dock, was no longer so sure about Dana as his counsel. She seemed clueless; evidence was just rolling over her and she was delaying, fiddling, and reading a book on procedure while questioning a witness. And the Lord Deathrot question. The whole mistrial thing was becoming decidedly attractive. Maybe tomorrow he would see what he could do to mistrial the show and start fresh with someone else. This kid was going down.
Dana bowed and slouched out of the courtroom with her text, some notes, and two of the computers. She hadn’t even made it to the barristers’ room before she heard McGhee’s voice drifting down the hall behind her.
“Sheff, that last one was a screamer. Lord Death of Shatterrod? Or whatever? Wow, she needs to change pharmacists.”
“Hey, you’re too hard on the Little Puppy,” she heard McSheffrey speaking in a voice just loud enough to carry down the hallway. “Two days have gone by, and she now knows what hearsay is. Sort of.”
“And leading questions, Sheff,” came McGhee’s voice. “She figured that out, too.” The four of them howled with laughter as Dana walked as rapidly as she could to the women’s barristers’ room, quickly changed into her street clothes, and almost ran out of the courthouse toward the nearest SkyTrain station. At least there she would be a face in the crowd.
Anonymity was not to be. On the
