Dana tried once more. “Corporal Gray, as a result of conversations that you had with TTIC individuals, did you form the impression that the emails found on the perpetrators’ computers could possibly have been planted there?”
Sheff was on his feet again, but before anyone could say anything the corporal said, “Possibly.”
“Move to strike,” said Sheff. “Irrelevant, based on hearsay, and I don’t know how many other reasons.”
“But, but m’lord, yesterday you said that hearsay could be, could—” “Totally different, Judge,” said McSheffrey. “The question is improper. And this TTIC thing is getting stale.”
“Yes,” said Judge Mordecai. “It kind of sounds like you’re up to your eyebrows in conspiracy theories now. Did aliens build the pyramids? Did the CIA destroy the Twin Towers? This is a courtroom. A Canadian courtroom. Not the National Enquirer. The jury will disregard that last answer. And that last question.”
The seed, however, had been planted, and Wittenberg did not need her computer to ask the next question. “You know that a substantial portion of this case is based on emails found on Lestage’s various computers?”
“Yes.”
“And did you have some doubts about the reliability of that evidence?”
Again Sheff was on his feet, but again, before he could object, Corporal Gray answered in the affirmative.
“M’lord,” began Sheff with vexation. “There is no foundation for that question and answer. The corporal does not have the expertise to answer such a question, so again, this is based on hearsay. And she is giving an opinion, which is not permitted unless she is qualified as an expert.”
“Anything to say, Ms. Wittenberg?”
“Umm, she can testify as to umm, her, you know, her state of mind. If she’s not sure about the emails how can the jury be?” Not bad for an answer drawn out of the air, in the midst of a sea of panic, or at least Dana thought so.
“That’s just nonsense. These are emails from various people in different organizations. None of them are sent to her or by her. If the other emails are an issue, we’ll hear from experts. The jury will disregard the last answer.”
“But m’lord,” Dana protested, “there is no computer expert on the prosecution witness list.”
“Maybe they don’t need one. Maybe this issue is a figment of your imagination. Are the hard drives available, Mr. McSheffrey?”
“Sure. If she wants them, all she needs to do is ask.”
“I’m asking,” replied Dana. “People at TTIC felt that—”
“Objection, objection, m’lord. She’s trying to plant this TTIC conspiracy nonsense in the jury’s mind, when it’s clearly based on hearsay and irrelevancy. And speculation. Defense counsel is way off track here.”
“Do you have any evidence that the computers have been fiddled with?” asked the judge.
Dana thought for a minute and decided she had nothing left to lose by sticking her neck out a little further. She was going to go to med school anyway. “The defense does not need to disclose that. The prosecution has to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. I don’t need to disclose my evidence.”
“Okay,” muttered Judge Mordecai. “But if you’re stringing us all along here with some half-baked conspiracy theory with no evidence, things are going to end badly for you. Understand?” “Yes, sir,” Dana said.
At that point, one of the sheriffs tapped Dana on her shoulder and passed her a note.
“Who’s this from?” she asked quietly.
“The old guy in the wheelchair,” said the sheriff, pointing to an ancient gentleman with impressively bushy eyebrows, a sharp nose, and intense eyes.
Dana shrugged and asked the question. “Were there communications between TTIC and the RCMP about my client’s involvement in the attack?” “Yes there were,” answered the corporal.
“Emails, texts, things like that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Dana. “I move to strike the indictments.”
“Aww, Jesus Christ,” said the judge, throwing his pen into the air. “Did you get your legal education by watching American lawyer shows on TV? Or did you have to send 200 Wheaties box tops to some online law school?”
“No, my lord. There must be communications between TTIC and the RCMP dealing with my client’s involvement in the conspiracy, and I don’t have them.”
“I see. A point. You actually made a point, Wittenberg. What about that Mr. McSheffrey? Why have you not given those documents to Ms. Wittenberg?”
“We didn’t know that such documentation existed. My learned friend seems to be flirting with conspiracy theories here. Next thing you know, she’s going to ask about the second gunman behind the grassy knoll.” Dana bristled at the comment; everyone knew the phrase “learned friend” was Canadian lawyer code for “loon.”
“Maybe,” replied Judge Mordecai. “But you go to whoever at the RCMP is giving you instructions and get them to produce those documents. Got it? And get those documents to your colleague over there,” he added, motioning to Dana.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“I note the time,” muttered the judge, who couldn’t wait to get out of this nuthouse of a courtroom and back to his chambers where he kept a few bottles of rare, very expensive single malt Scotches. It was time for a couple of doubles.
As Dana was packing up her computers, she heard a rasping voice behind her. It was the old man in the wheelchair. “I’m Lee Penn-Garrett,” he said in a very soft voice. “You and I need to have a little chat.”
It was then that Dana recognized the man. Lee Penn-Garrett. The Sage of Smithe Street. He had spent fifty years in the courts as a lawyer, a trial judge, and an appellate judge. After he was forced to retire at age eighty-two, he simply hung around the courtrooms to watch. He couldn’t let it go.
“Sure. Cup of coffee in the cafeteria?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s fine. Let’s go there now. You push.”
McSheffrey and Archambault saw them leave together. “That’s trouble, Sheff,” said Archambault. “We don’t need to have that old fart elbowing his way into the trial.”
“No we don’t,” replied McSheffrey. “No we don’t.”
16
An hour after Liam’s arrest, the highly connected Daniel Alexander hailed a cab. “Ronald Reagan National Airport,” he said. “Private terminal.”
He relaxed in the anonymous comfort
