by Ryk E. Spoor
I glanced at Judge Freeman, then turned towards the courtroom, still speaking to the jury, continuing to turn so that I once more faced them. “The prosecutor has emphasized that Angela is not human, and implied that this means she is not entitled to proper justice. That sentiment has been uttered before, in settings that many of us are all too familiar with.” I saw a flicker of understanding in the dark eyes of Kovalsky, a slight sad smile on the seamed, kindly face of old Alle. “We, the defense, will show that Angela McIntyre did not plan Delacroix’s death, that she killed in self-defense to prevent a violent and repulsive assault, and that whatever her true nature, she is here, in this courtroom, a defendant like any other, entitled to fair judgement and justice, not only for herself but for many others.”
Angela looked at them out of wide eyes. She had chosen her look carefully today; there was nothing sexy about her outfit. Instead, she’d chosen a blouse and skirt of subdued and modest design, making her look even younger, a frightened, innocent schoolgirl caught in something far beyond her depth. I had to admire the effect, though it made me wince inwardly at the cognitive dissonance. I kept on. “Angela and I are trusting in you to make the right decision. She has chosen to trust me—a sworn enemy of her people, a man responsible for the deaths of hundreds of her people—because she believes I understand why she must be defended. And she will accept your finding; she knows that if you convict her, she will be imprisoned, perhaps even executed, and for the sake of the justice she seeks, she cannot use her abilities to fight or escape. Here, today, she is as vulnerable as any of you would be in her place. Her life—and perhaps much more—are in your hands. I am putting my trust in all of you.”
I bowed to the jury—it seemed the right thing to do, at least for me—and returned to my seat. It was time for the trial to begin.
“A good speech, Mr. Wood,” Angela whispered. “I hope we have enough material to back it up.”
“So do I. Your account of your fight—if we can call it that—with Frederic—should give us a good chance, if the evidence bears you out. But even with the best work and evidence, you know this is anything but a sure thing.”
She nodded, her eyes momentarily mirroring a real awareness of the danger she was in. “Yes, Mr. Wood. I know.”
Chapter 95: Testimony and Tactics
The prosecution’s case was good. Not that I doubted it would be, and to be honest not that it needed to be, at least at this point. The rest of the day had been devoted to the prosecution, starting with a description of the bare facts of the case and then calling Lieutenant Ferrin to the stand. After establishing Ferrin’s name, rank, and relation to the case, the prosecutor asked him to describe the events of the night in question, and then began his examination. “Now, Lieutenant, how did you know for sure that you were facing a werewolf?”
“Well, me and Jack had seen it,” Ferrin replied.
“By your own words, ‘only for a split second, almost like,’ what was it…‘a flash of shadow.’ That was why you arrested the monster rather than—”
I was on my feet. “Objection, Your Honor!”
“What is it, Mr. Wood?”
“I didn’t object during the opening statements, because they’re not considered evidence, but the prosecutor cannot refer to my client as ‘the monster’ or ‘a monster.’ The term, and similar terms, are prejudicial and shouldn’t be used in this context.”
One thing I had going for me here was that Judge Freeman was black; I was hoping he would be sensitive due to his likely experience with similarly insulting and prejudicial terms. “Objection sustained. Mr. Hume, unless the term is being used in an evidentiary context, you will refrain from using such terms for the defendant. You will use her name or the term ‘the defendant.’”
“Yes, sir.” Hume’s quick glance at me was something of a minor salute; I’d noticed the tactic and countered it, which as a lawyer he respected. He clearly wasn’t worried though. “As I was saying, Lieutenant, by your own report, it was the fact that you had not clearly seen the werewolf—that she had resumed human form—that kept you from gunning down the defendant, and instead arresting her?”
The lieutenant nodded. “CryWolf devices don’t work at long range, and shooting down a five-foot-tall woman instead of an eight-foot monster…well, sir, the department doesn’t encourage that level of judgment.”
“Understandable, Lieutenant. Still, if you weren’t certain enough to shoot, how were you certain enough to take the precautions you did?”
“The condition of the body, sir.”
Hume turned to the judge. “Exhibits four-A through four-G show various angles of the body of Frederic Delacroix as the officers found it.” A display visible to the jury—but not easily viewable by the audience—appeared on the exhibit screen. Some of the jurors paled; one, Alfred Flint, looked away, clearly nauseated. I knew they were seeing what looked like a man who’d gone through a paper shredder; sliced by four straight bloody lines that had cut through him like a wire through cheese, leaving five almost-aligned pieces. “Did you verify that she was a werewolf, Lieutenant?”
“Not at that time, sir. But later at the station we did; she didn’t deny it at any time.”
“Did she appear upset in any way, Lieutenant?”
“Not really, sir. Calm and clear-headed was my impression, even with the scratches and blood.”
“Not exactly like a woman who’d almost been raped and killed her attacker, then?”
“No, sir, definitely not as I’d expect someone in that situation to be.”
It continued like that for some time. Hume established how they’d arrested Angela, her call to me, and subsequent police work. He then called the medical examiner for testimony regrding the wounds and cause of death. No surprises there: Frederic had been killed by a werewolf, from in front, in a single strike. I had no direct questions for the ME; what I needed I had found in his report after an examination was performed of certain items found on the deceased. I wanted to bring those points up during the defense. Once I’d explained my reasoning, Mr. Opal (of Rosenfeld, Opal, and O’Brien) had agreed. He was the legal representative of the firm who was sitting with me to provide on-the-spot legal advice. He would also, hopefully, help me catch any tactical lapses or openings on the part of our opposition.
I spent some time during the ME interview examining the crowd. While they weren’t participants in the trial, it was not impossible that any large-scale reaction could influence the jury. And, more importantly, anyone with an axe to grind—or an intention to murder my client—might be in that group.
A lined, tanned face with rough-hewn angles and a narrow, sharp gaze stood out. James Achernar gave me an almost imperceptible nod as our eyes met. Agent and, I sometimes suspected, leader of the secret UN intelligence taskforce Project Pantheon, Achernar had not only been assisting in the verification of Angela’s background but had applied some level of pressure to ensure that a trial actually happened. I was hoping to find out why he was interested in doing this, but for now it was a good thing he was on our side.
Many news reporters were scattered through the audience. I also recognized several other faces—politicians, pillars of the local business community, and others—from the list of clients Angela had given us. Those, and their associates, were worth studying. They had good reason to be afraid of this trial, in more ways than one.
One other face rang a faint bell. I couldn’t place it, though. A pretty woman, maybe about thirty, with very long red hair, serving as an assistant to one of the clients. I made a mental note to find out who she was. I didn’t see anyone else of significance, so I returned my attention to the stand where the ME was just standing down.
Hume then called other witnesses who, through various chains of evidence, established what type of business Frederic was involved in (while avoiding the details of how far the “escorts” went in their escort duties). The first real surprise was the next witness: Patricia Shire, or Trisha, another escort and the one Ang
ela suspected of pointing Frederic in her direction that night. “Miss Shire, you worked for the deceased?”
Trisha wasn’t quite as cute as Angela, at least from my point of view, but she did make a good impression on the stand. She was about three inches taller than Angela and more buxom, with long brown hair and eyes which, Angela informed me, were a very attractive green. She wore a subdued business suit and looked forlorn. “Yes, sir.”
“Did the defendant also work for the deceased?”
“Yes.” She shot a look of horrified venom at Angela, who barely restrained a taunting smile; I saw the corner of her mouth curl.
“So you knew both the defendant and the deceased well?”
“Well…I knew Freddie well. I thought I knew Angela, but obviously I didn’t. I mean, I knew she was hunting him, I just didn’t…”
I saw where this was going. And it went there quickly. Trisha testified that Frederic had become increasingly focused on Angela since she began working for him, and that Angela continuously teased him. Trisha said that Angela kept stringing Frederic along until he pursued her to a location where there were no witnesses, leaving her free to kill him. By this theory, it was the fact that the police just happened on the scene that screwed up her plans; after all, in just another few seconds, she’d have been gone. Or possibly, Hume pointed out, as it was known that the wolves could rather efficiently dispose of a body if they were so inclined, she’d have returned…as Frederic Delacroix. Either way, the fortunate arrival of the police forced her to try this desperate stunt to keep from being gunned down where she stood.
I wondered why they weren’t taking it to the next level. While I hadn’t thought of the use the wolves were making of Angela’s position, it did surprise me that the prosecution hadn’t either. There must be some reason they weren’t bringing it up. Unless…I had another question to ask Angela.
Hume brought up a few other witnesses from Frederic’s agency, confirming his increasing focus on Angela, and then describing her behavior during the night in question. She’d embarrassed him, got him angry while drunk, and then led him out of the building. Angela indicated which one I should cross-examine. “That’s Kitty,” she said as Hume swore in Kimberley Carronada. Angela and Kitty had been friends, they had confided in each other and traded favors from time to time. Kitty was not part of Trisha’s clique.
I got up and walked over to the witness stand. “Kimberley, until that night, you considered Angela a friend, didn’t you?”
She nodded, looking uncertain. “Yes.”
“Did you see Angela leave the party?”
“Yes. She told me she was leaving.”
“Did she say why?”
Kimberley was silent.
“Kimberley, I know the situation is difficult, but remember back to that night. Is it true that she told you that Frederic had tried to take advantage of her?”
I thought for a minute she might simply refuse to answer, given that she now knew Angela was a monster, but it really is hard to believe a friend has changed that much. I remembered trying to argue Elias Klein out of killing me, even when I knew he wasn’t human and was transforming right in front of me. I counted on that gut-level disbelief.
“Yes,” she said finally. “She did.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Oh, yes. Freddie was like that when he got drunk, especially when he was mad at one of us for…well, for not…”
I passed over the implication. The expressions on the jurors’s faces showed that I probably didn’t need to; they’d already figured out the score. “Did you see the deceased, Frederic Delacroix, after Angela left?”
“Yes. Just after she left.”
“And what was he doing at that time?”
Kimberley hesitated. “He…he looked really mad. His hair was mussed, and so was his suit, and he was asking for Angela.”
“Did he ask you where Angela was?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him?”
A pause. “No.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where she was?” I asked. When there was no answer, I sighed. “Kimberley, your close friends call you ‘Kitty,’ don’t they?”
She nodded.
“Did Angela call you ‘Kitty’?”
Keeping her eyes averted from Angela, she answered, “Y-yes.”
“Then, Kimberley, isn’t it the truth that you told Frederic that Angela had gone off with someone else, one of the other guests at the party, because you were afraid of what would happen if he caught her?”
Very quietly, she said, “Yes.”
“You heard some of your other friends try to do the same thing, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear Trisha tell Frederic that she’d actually just left, alone?”
A momentary flicker of anger. “Yes.”
“And Frederic then left quickly?”
“He ran out the door after Angela, yes.”
I looked her in the eyes. “And at that time, when Frederic ran out in pursuit of your friend, Angela, did you think Angela was in danger?”
“Y-yes. Yes, I did. I thought Freddie was going to…well, hurt her bad.”
“Did you have reason to believe this? Had you ever seen Frederic Delacroix hurt someone, or heard convincing evidence that he had done so?”
Her eyes wide, she just nodded her head. A moment later she said, “Yes.”
“Your Honor,” Hume said, “the dead man is not on trial here.”
“True, Your Honor,” I agreed, “but establishing the character of the dead man is an important element of the defense. I have no more questions at this time, but I may need to call this witness or some of the others from the prosecution to the stand for the defense.”
Judge Freeman nodded. “You’re done with this witness for now?” He glanced at Hume. “Any redirect? No? You may stand down, Ms. Carronada.”
I saw Angela flash a grateful, relieved smile at Kimberley, who hesitantly returned it. Damn, Angela was good. Very, very good. We could—if we were really lucky—actually win this one.
How I wished I could feel good about that.
Chapter 96: Connect the Dots
I sat down in my fuzzy bathrobe and pulled my laptop to me. I’d rather be pulling Syl to me, I thought, but she couldn’t also afford to be spending weeks here in California rather than working on her business (and filtering the nutcases from mine). Syl’s psychic friend, Samantha Prince, was visiting, so at least she wasn’t alone. I had a computer for company; the best thing I could say about that was that the machine was pretty undemanding.
I’d managed to get one nagging worry cleared up—although the clearing up simply caused me more heartburn. After that day’s trial proceedings, I’d had another private conversation with Angela. “The prosecuting attorney in this isn’t stupid,” I pointed out. “I find it hard to believe that he, or at least some of his investigative staff, don’t have any suspicion that you might have had an ulterior motive in working for Freddie. If they figure that out, it won’t take very long to discover that someone had screwed with all of the CryWolf units owned by your clients.”
Angela laughed. “Oh, certainly, that wouldn’t have been good, would it? But don’t worry. The first thing my…pack, I suppose you could say…was to do if any of us were compromised in such a way was to go back and restore the functionality of the systems, immediately. This is obviously a terrible setback for us, a year’s worth of work totally gone, and we’ll have to be even more careful for the next few years to make sure no one catches on. But you don’t need to worry about them bringing that up at trial.” She smiled sweetly. “See? All taken care of.”
I winced at the memory. Ugh. And as I took my confidentiality seriously, I couldn’t tell anyone about the situation. The best my conscience would allow me to do—some time well after the trial—would be to hint about the possible approach used by the wolves to circumvent security. Sometimes, having a professional conscience is a pain in
the ass.
Right now, I wanted to do some work that didn’t threaten me with Pyrrhic victories. I opened my notes on Kevin Ferrin’s problem cases, which posed a challenge I could feel better about than the ambivalent hell I had just gone through.
I had—in a way—managed to find a common thread among all the victims, but I didn’t know if it was a significant common thread. In his original narration of the problem, Kevin had mentioned that both the Roquettes and Buckley had recently attended a party. A quick investigation turned up the fact that all of the victims had attended a big bash within a few days of their deaths. Of course, given the higher-society nature of the neighborhood, parties were probably common. And after reviewing the guest lists, we hadn’t found any guests in common with the majority of the victims. There were plenty of names that showed up on three or four guest lists, but none that showed up on all of them or even a majority. This again was not a big surprise; people in the same neighborhood with similar interests, or employed by the same or related organizations could be invited to more than one or a couple of parties, but not all of them.
I studied the evidence gathered in each case. Ferrin hadn’t exaggerated about the variety of killing methods. Knives, poison, strangulation; one victim just dropped dead somehow, and one death involved homemade explosives. That one hadn’t left much to examine in the way of intact body parts. I found the pictures in that case to be even worse than those of the not-too-lamented Frederic. Still, there was almost too much evidence. I agreed with the lieutenant; individually any of these cases was…okay, but all of them had something just slightly not quite right in the evidence. The bomb guy, for instance; there wasn’t any good evidence he’d had any skill in that direction, just a couple mentions by people that he’d recently mentioned something about how easy it was to make them, and some evidence that he’d hit some webpages on the subject. The bomb used was awfully, awfully good for someone who hadn’t been doing this stuff long. Then again, maybe he was just a natural at bomb-making and really, really bad at bomb safety.