Dana didn’t flinch. Her ears didn’t even turn red. Another wayward order from another cantankerous judge. Dana awkwardly bounced her two-wheeled briefcases down the stairs along the magnificent concourse of the Smithe Street Courthouse and made her way back to what was becoming her personal torture chamber, Courtroom 401. She opened the door and slouched and stumbled toward counsel table. With her computer bags and wheeled cases she looked more like a pack mule than an attorney.
Sheff had apparently texted McGhee and Danson, advising them of the dressing down Dana had received from the Court of Appeal. “Hey, Little Puppy, I hear you had a good time in appeals. Fined another five grand. Wow, you’re going backwards.”
“Fuck off,” said Dana, loud enough for the clerk, the court reporter, and other court staff and counsel to hear. It was the first time she’d used such language in a courtroom, but she didn’t care. Maybe she should pull the pin on this idiocy: deliberately mistrial the case or pretend to have lost her mind. In fact, the way things were going, she probably had lost her mind. Maybe feign a cardiac event of some kind and connect with Penn-Garrett in St. Paul’s. This was getting ridiculous. Life was too short for this. She dropped her three computer bags on the table and began to set up. This would be her first and last trial, and when it was over, she would take the MCAT. Or maybe apply to vet school. Or pharmaceuticals. Had she known there were in fact thirtyseven documents locked away in McSheffrey’s office, she would have been far less tranquil.
“Ooh, Dana Dana. Be careful with that language,” McGhee smirked. “That’s conduct unbecoming, you know. That’s a Law Society thing. We might have to report you for that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dana snapped. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please, please, fuck off.”
McSheffrey leaned over and whispered to Archambault, “She’s losing it. Why don’t we hasten the process and screw her up some more?”
“How so, Sheff?”
“That was conduct unbecoming. That’s Law Society stuff.”
Archambault’s face lit up in a grin as the judge strode in. “You’re the master, Sheff,” he said.
“Order in the court,” bellowed the clerk in her now-familiar lusty tones.
Mordecai came in looking unhappy as usual. Before any evidence was called, and before the jury was let back into the courtroom, Sheff proudly stood up and advised the judge of the proceedings earlier in the morning at the Court of Appeal.
“So when it was actually a fair contest, when you were actually there, and could argue all the issues, the Court of Appeal vacated the ex parte order, did they?”
“Yes, with costs against my learned friend personally.”
“Oh, Ms. Wittenberg. Tsk, tsk,” crowed the judge, shaking his head. “You need to be more careful when you do nutty things like that. Anyway, bring in the jury, and I will advise them that they are to ignore all evidence or submissions about alleged missing documents.”
The jury came in and the judge advised them of the Court of Appeal ruling and how it affected the evidence of the case. Then he turned to Mr.
McSheffrey. “Your next witness, please.”
The rest of the day was boring and uneventful. The prosecution put a computer expert, Malcolm McKillum, on the stand. McKillum was a recent addition to the witness list, called primarily because Dana had challenged the veracity of the emails. McKillum had analyzed the hard drives of Leon’s computer, and compared them to the computers the FBI had seized from the four members of the Los Angeles terrorist cell. While it was painfully boring, the message was coming across clearly in spite of Dana’s various objections, every one of which the judge overruled. There was no doubt Lestage had been communicating with Afghan drug lords, with various dirty cops of the Pakistani Drug Interdiction Police, and with the four members of the Los Angeles cell. The evidence was deadly, because it showed intent and an agreement to perform a criminal act. The emails were very clear that the target was the Glen Canyon Dam, and that for $25 million, Leon would permit the terrorists to use Devil’s Anvil as a point of entry for the Semtex.
Cross-examination of Mr. McKillum proved tricky. Dana started with the obvious. “Is it not possible, sir,” she began, “that someone placed those emails on Lestage’s hard drive?”
“What do you mean?”
“That someone broke into his home, got into his computer, and loaded those messages onto the hard drive to make it appear as though Leon Lestage had sent them, although he had nothing to do with the conspiracy?”
“Well, sure, Ms. Wittenberg. I suppose anything is possible, but that would mean that whoever the person was, he would have had to break into Mr. Lestage’s computer on twenty-two, no twenty-three, umm, let me count, twenty-five, yes, on twenty-five separate days. Twenty-five separate breakins over a two-month period. That would be like breaking in every second day to put another one of the emails on his computer. I guess conceptually that’s possible, but practically, I just don’t see it.”
McKillum was a professional, careful witness and knew well the nuances of a courtroom. He was looking directly at the jury, shaking his head while he answered the question with an erudite English accent. When he paused to wait for the next question, there was absolutely no doubt in any juror’s mind that it was hopelessly improbable someone had loaded the emails onton Lestage’s computer.
“I will put the question to you directly, sir,” said Dana, trying to sound like someone who knew what she was doing. “Is it possible for there to have been one break in, and in one session, make it look like all of those emails were sent and received on the dates and times indicated on them?”
“Well, it is possible, yes, but so remotely possible as to just totally defy reason and common sense.”
“Did you look for evidence of that possibility?”
“Yes,
