“Some of the pencil necks at ONI have done that calculation, sir. It is possible that the Allegro Star could have left Karachi when we know it did, gone to Vancouver, dropped off Kumar, together I guess with Richard Lawrence and Zak Goldberg, and be at the point that she is now, traveling away from the mainland at about the speed that she is in fact traveling.”
“Are you telling me it’s possible that Kumar Hanaman is in Vancouver right now?”
“Sir, it’s possible. Turbee is definitely there. He’s on TV. That means it’s likely that George and Khasha are there. And it is possible that Kumar, Richard, and Zak are also in Vancouver as we speak.”
There was another long, uncomfortable span of dead air as the president stared directly at CJ, absorbing what he had just heard. “Everybody out,” he ordered. “Tyra, you stay. Dan, you stick around, too.”
40
“Step forward, please, Mr. Turbee,” ordered the judge. “Let the clerk swear you in and take the stand.”
A pale, shaking, mop-haired young man with a crumpled shirt and dark circles around both eyes stepped out from behind George and walked toward the clerk, was sworn in, and trepidatiously took the stand.
Dana now found herself in the position that every counsel with enough experience has encountered. She had absolutely no idea what would occur next or what the witness might say. She started with the basics. “What is your name, sir?”
Turbee looked across the courtroom at Dana, and the jury, and up at the judge whose beakish features and dark, threatening eyes were disquieting in the extreme. Turbee looked down and said nothing.
“I am sorry, sir, you need to answer the question. What is your name?” Snickers from the prosecutors’ table were starting up again.
Turbee was on many medications—antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds to deal with the PTSD he had acquired when he was attacked by DC thugs and ultimately thrown into a hospital for the criminally insane. This was on top of the cocktail of other meds he took to channel and focus his brain and make him functional. All these medications had side effects. One of those side effects was an extremely dry mouth, a problem made worse by stress. And Turbee, a fugitive and moving ever further into the arena of rogue-dom, was under extreme stress.
“Water,” he croaked.
The judge motioned to the clerk, who poured a glass of water and placed it on the edge of the witness box. George, who had taken a seat behind Dana, shook his head. A glass of water? Turbee? A drop-off? Bad combo. The judge repeated the question. “What is your name?”
Turbee took a long draft of the cool water and in a quavering, raspy voice answered the question. “Hamilton Turbee Junior.”
“Young man, you may never have been in a courtroom before, but when I ask a question, I expect the person answering to look me dead in the eyes. Got it?”
“I can’t.”
“What? Wittenberg, what have we got here? Some guy who looks like the cat dragged him in and he says he can’t look me in the eyes. Is he just going to lie his head off? And,” he said darkly, “what drugs is he on? He looks a bit like a crack addict to me.”
“Maybe we should ask him why, sir.”
“Okay. I’ll bite,” said Judge Mordecai. “Why can’t you look me in the eye?”
“I just can’t, sir.”
“You’ve got some kind of head problem, is it?” “Yes,” said Turbee, turning crimson.
“So do you understand the meaning and the nature of the oath you just took?”
Turbee screwed up his forehead. “Meaning and nature? What does that mean?”
Sheff guffawed. “She put a drugger on the stand and he doesn’t even understand the nature and meaning of an oath,” he said to Archambault. He didn’t even bother to keep his voice down.
McGhee added to it. “Did you find him in the dumpster, Little Puppy? Or in cells when you were there, maybe?”
“That’s not the crazy part,” said Danson. “She has never even interviewed him. She has no idea what he’s going to say. She’s gone totally random.”
“Wittenberg,” groused the judge, “have you just put someone on the stand who is incompetent to testify? Is this yet another stalling tactic? Is he like retarded or something?”
“You bastard!” yelled George from behind Dana. “Where’s the kangaroo?”
“You may have some kind of issue, Mr. Lexia, but you’re not going to vent in my courtroom. That’ll be a thousand dollar fine. Once more, and it will be a $10,000 fine. Got it?”
“Ten thousand?” asked George, who has successfully headed several high-flying Silicon Valley start-ups.
“Yes, $10,000. Payable immediately.”
“Well then, here’s a check for $11,000. I hope you use it to acquire some manners so you can turn this goat fuck of a trial around.” He whipped out a checkbook, scrawled one out for $11,000, and handed it to a sheriff.
“Twenty thousand dollars. You can’t use words like that in here.”
“Sorry, I meant rhino fuck.”
“Thirty thousand dollars.”
George could not think of anything wilder than a rhinoceros mating at that moment, so he wrote a check for $30,000.
“Thank you. The next outburst like that will get you a douce less, okay?”
“What’s a douce less?” he asked sotto voce of an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair beside him.
“Two years less a day, asshole,” said Lee Penn-Garrett. “And that beak on the bench will do it, too. You’d best shut up and listen.”
“No,” said Dana angrily. “He is not retarded and that was an awful thing to say.” The teenage years that haunted her resurfaced. She intuitively knew that Turbee’s high school years had been like hers.
