by Jason Rose
As a young-trial-dog, I always wondered how the old-timer attorneys, the grey hairs, could pick up a file the morning of a trial, not know hardly anything about the fact of the matter, and then live, in front of a jury, with no preparation, put on a compelling case. I was often awestruck and left feeling like I would never be able to make it as a trial attorney—like the old-timers had some special innate ability or knew a secret I didn’t. Specifically, how to put a puzzle together without even knowing what or who the pieces were.
As I seasoned, I realized that while case-specific knowledge is important, particularly in the early stages of a case when evidence is being gathered and witnesses are being identified—work often done by a less experienced attorney before a grizzled trial attorney gets involved—the art of being a lawyer, the theater, the timing, translates from case to case. The old-timers could pick up a file and question a witness with no prep because the questions were nearly always the same. Sure, a name or a theme might change from case to case, but the formula is always the same. Every story, every case has a who, a what, a where, a when, and a why—the fabled Five W’s. A lawyer’s job is to use the witnesses and evidence they’re given to paint a picture to the jury that explains the Five W’s. Each witness, each piece of evidence provides more paint, more color, more texture, more brushstrokes. It is only after all the witnesses have testified, all the evidence has been admitted, and all the paint is on the canvas, that a lawyer’s work really begins. A lawyer’s true skill is in the marshaling of the testimony and evidence into a cohesive and persuasive closing argument that compels the jury to take a prescribed action. An attorney’s skill is measured by their ability to convince a jury that the painting they're looking at is a priceless piece of art worth investing in.
Timing comes into play, and it happens in every trial, when something unexpected or authentic happens: A witness remembers something new, or recants something they’ve said during interviews; the judge excludes a key piece of evidence; an expert admits their opinion isn’t as sound as they first professed; these are the moments you can’t plan for, the moments that make or break a trial. What separates a great trial attorney from the hacks is the ability to recognize and capitalize on these unplanned moments. Knowing the file won’t help you; the only thing that can help you is experience and timing, being in the moment with the jury, experiencing what they’re experiencing, knowing what they’re thinking, and reacting so it is authentic to the jury’s way of processing and interpreting information. Sometimes this involves a timely joke, a distracting objection, an argument with the judge or opposing counsel, or even asking for a break; often this involves simply asking the right follow up question to an unanticipated answer given by a witness on the stand. The question everyone in the room wants to ask, but the hack attorney misses because they are following a script and not listening or paying attention to what’s actually going on in the courtroom.
“Cinnamon.”
“What?”
“I want to go back to something you said earlier.”
“Okay.”
“What did you mean by blind hire?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Humor me.”
“It was anonymous, through the internet. I never told the person who was hiring me my name and they never told me theirs. We never spoke. We never met in person. In other words, it was a blind hire.”
I ignore her sarcasm. “Which website?”
“The X-change.”
I pause for a second and quickly glance across the room at Joycee. She nods in my direction and types away on her laptop. The X-change is a peer-to-peer networking site popular with criminals and psychopaths. The kind of website an upstanding member of society would want nothing to do with. It makes porn sites seem pious. It’s suspected that the X-change is hosted out of Russia, but nobody really knows. The site has unhackable security, at least according to my hacker Joycee and she’s good at what she does. The only way you can get access is by becoming a member, and the only way I know to become a member is by sharing something illegal with the webmaster. I first became acquainted with this cum-stain of a website, and some unpleasant videos posted on it, a few months ago during the Lycocide werespider prosecution. We stole that now deceased arachnid’s password and were able to gain access. I hope he rots in hell.
Joycee has been bugging me to let her use Lycocide’s password to monitor the X-change for other potential cases we could get involved in. Part of my job as an Advocate is to enforce the laws of the Magna Concordat and to prosecute Concordat citizens who break that Law. The Magna Concordat is a treaty entered into by all of the intelligent races on earth—other than humans. It’s the collection of law that monsters must abide by. I am, lacking a better term, a monster prosecutor or enforcer of supernatural laws. There are twenty-four of us and, as far as I know, I am one of the few who seem to give a flying-fuck about humanity. Prosecuting supernatural crimes isn’t my entire job, but it’s an important part of it. I also defend Concordat citizens accused of crimes and/or represent them in civil disputes with other monsters. Sinn gets a little touchy when I use the word monster; apparently, it’s a derogatory term and offensive to some citizens. Apparently, not even monsters can escape millennials and the politically correct police. I told Sinn I’ll stop using it to describe citizens and start caring about their feelings when the Magna Concordat starts recognizing human rights and its citizens stop eating humans. Sinn didn’t really have a comeback to that, other than to remind me that I am a citizen and I need to start acting as if I am a part of the Concordat community rather than its enemy; otherwise, I’m probably not going to be long-lived for this world. She’s probably right. She’s always right. I have enough enemies already without pissing off every single Concordat citizen, some of which aren’t even half-bad. I mean, not every so-called monster is evil; some are just trying to make it through their lives unmolested, and it's my job to protect them just as much as I feel like it’s my job to protect humans.
Thus far, I have resisted Joycee’s requests to monitor the X-change. The stuff posted on the site creeps me out, and I didn't think it would be healthy for Joycee to be shifting through it in her recent state of mind. It might be time to rethink that position. As hard as I’ve been trying to protect her, I must admit, I’m doing a shitty job. Between the haircut, the new tattoos, the double cross-fit days, the weapons training with Wilson, and the parade of dangerous weirdos she comes into contact with because of her work here with me, Joycee is transforming herself into a different person, a stronger person, an angrier person. Maybe I should stop fighting to try and put her back the way she was before she was kidnapped and raped by my former client, Roy Silas, a member of a supernatural gang primarily made up of weak-blooded cave and sewer dwellers, creatures that have too much human blood to qualify as Concordat citizens, but not enough humanity to count as humans, nasty little cockroaches. Maybe I should instead focus on helping her become the empowered, self-sufficient, bad-ass, gun-wielding hacker that she seems dead-set on becoming. The truth is, I would be lost without her. Despite the fact that Joycee, Sinn, Wilson and I haven’t all been working together that long, we already feel like a family, and I depend on and trust each of them with my life.
“Isn’t the X-change a peer-to-peer website?” I ask Cinnamon, refocusing on the interrogation. “If it was a blind hire, how would someone wanting to hire a witch-assassin know to share a file with you?”
“It’s more than just a peer-to-peer file-sharing site. There are also message boards and chat features.”
I glance over at Joycee for confirmation; she nods in agreement with Cinnamon.
“You're telling me the X-change has a witch-assassin message board?”
“No, moron, there is a board where jobs are posted. While the job descriptions appear vague, they are easy enough to read, if you know what you are looking for.”
“Joycee, you there yet?” I glance over at Joycee again and she nods, signaling she l
ogged in as Lycocide and pulled up the jobs board on the X-change. “Read one.”
Joycee clears her throat. “Need Elphaba, to retrieve Dorothy from Munchkin village; winged monkeys and ruby slippers provided; you need only follow the yellow brick road. Found courage is YS. L6-50/-DC.” Joycee walks over and sets her laptop on the table near Cinnamon so she can read the advertisement.
“What does that mean?” I ask, pointing at the job posting. “Interpret it.”
Cinnamon exhales deeply. “Seriously?”
“Just do what he says,” commands Arianna.
I glance over at Ariana appreciatively; she responds with a suggestive wink. I quickly turn back to Cinnamon, hoping Sinn didn’t catch Ariana’s flirtation; my life is complicated enough without witches and vampires competing for my affection. That’s the type of tug-of-war where the rope gets burned.
“This is an ad looking for a witch to join a team to help rescue a human female who is being held by a small force of mixed bloods in a compound somewhere in middle America where she doesn’t want to be. The employer will provide a map of the location and all equipment necessary for the rescue. Any found cash or valuables will be split amongst the team. Pay is two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand in digital currency, half paid up front, the rest after the job is done.”
“You got all of those details from the gibberish sentence referencing the Wizard of Oz?”
“You didn’t? I thought the ad was pretty obvious.”
I don’t rise to the bait; instead, I wait. After about thirty seconds of silence, Cinnamon does exactly what I’d hoped she do; she starts explaining. “Elphaba is code for witch, it’s the name of the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“From Oz? I didn’t remember her having a name,” interrupts Adrian.
“It’s from Wicked,” answers Wilson, causing everyone’s heads to turn and stare at him questioningly. “What? I like musicals. Sue me.”
“He’s right,” agrees Cinnamon, the beginnings of a genuine smile tugging at her red lipstick-stained lips. “In the original book, written by Lyman Frank Baum, the Wicked Witch of the West was never named. Decades later, Gregory McGuire wrote a prequel titled Wicked, in which he named the Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba, as a tribute to Baum. Baum’s initials were LFB. LFB, Elphaba, it’s pretty close.”
“Okay, so Elphaba is code for witch.”
“Not always, but in this job posting, yes.”
“Okay, could you please explain the rest of the posting?”
“It’s not that complicated; you could probably figure it out yourself.”
“Explain it to me as if I was a child.”
“I was already doing that.” Cinnamon gives me a smug smile. I’m starting to see why Wilson likes her; she is his evil, opposite-sex, personality doppelganger; equally annoying, but lacking in redeeming qualities.
“Please,” I prompt.
“Fine, this posting is using The Wizard of Oz to explain the job's parameters. It’s not an exact science; still, there is enough information provided here to give any potential contractor everything they need to decide if they want to apply for the job. Here, Elphaba, a witch, is needed to retrieve Dorothy, likely a human girl, from a Munchkin village. Retrieve indicates she’s not there willingly. The Wizard of Oz took place in Kansas, so this is likely somewhere in middle America. Munchkin is probably code for mixed bloods. Village probably means compound.”
“How are you reaching those conclusions? About the village and the Munchkins?”
“The job posting is intentional. Each word is chosen carefully. For example, they specifically chose the word village; they could have said house, or castle, or Emerald City, but they chose village. That means something. To me that says it’s probably a manor. Or ranch. A collection of buildings that are defended. Also known as a compound.
“They also intentionally chose the word Munchkins. What do we know about Munchkins? They’re small, weak, non-humans, but the Munchkins in Oz were citizens of a kingdom, as opposed to tribeless nomads. The clue screams Concordat citizens to me; albeit weak ones, which probably means mixed bloods. Again, this is more art than science. I bet you a thousand dollars I’m right, though.”
“Okay, that makes sense. And, no, I’m not betting you.”
“You’re a pussy, Valentine.”
“You are what you ea—,” sings Wilson. (You’ll make your reader stop and wonder what the rest of this was going to be – e--- and interrupt the thread of their attention. Put more of the word in so they don’t have to wonder.)
“Sure,” I answer interrupting Wilson, “I’m a pussy; please explain the rest.”
“Whatever. Where was I?” asks Cinnamon.
“Winged monkeys.”
“Right. In The Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch had an army of winged monkeys, so ‘monkeys provided’ likely means an army will be provided; or, in other words, others will be assisting in the rescue. ‘Ruby slippers’ likely means equipment. Some of the magical variety will be provided; and the line about following the yellow brick road means they know where the compound is and all we need to do is follow a map. This isn’t an operation where we are trying to locate someone.”
“What about the line that says ‘found courage’ and then a bunch of letters and numbers?”
“’YS’ is yours to share or split. ‘Found Courage’ probably means found money or loot. ‘L6’ means the pay is two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand, the fifty and the backslash means half now, half upon completion; and the ‘DC’ means payment will be made in digital currency.”
“Explain how you get two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand from L6?”
“L6 means low six figures, which means two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand. If it just said 6, that would mean one-hundred-thousand. If it said M6, medium-six figures, that would mean five-hundred-thousand, if it said H6, high six, that would mean seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand. If it said 7, my favorite number, it would pay a million bucks.”
“If you wanted to take this job, how you would apply?”
“DM.”
“Direct message?”
“Yes.”
“How do you do that?”
“See how the posting is hyperlinked. You click on it—but don’t do that now—and it will open a DM chat box.”
“Does the chat box save all of your conversations? Can we read the chat you had with whoever employed you to kill Adrian?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The chat box is only active while you’re online. Once you signoff, it wipes everything.”
“So, whoever posted the Wizard of Oz job has to stay connected to get responses?”
“Yep.”
“That seems inefficient. Why not allow email?”
Cinnamon looks at me like I am truly a dunce. “People don’t want records of these types of conversations. They don’t want people like you to get a hold of them.”
While I’m letting that verbal left jab sink in, Sinn asks, “Do you have a copy of the job posting to kill Adrian?”
“No.”
“You didn’t save a copy?”
“No.”
“Did it identify who was paying for the contract?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“No.”
“Would you please describe the ad? Tell us what you do remember,” I ask, jumping in while giving Sinn a look I hope conveys that while I appreciate the help, I’d prefer that you let me handle this.
There is an art to examining or interrogating someone. As a public defender, I spent excessive time watching interrogations, mostly of my own clients. I’ve also read books, taken a class with a former FBI interrogator, and even watched internet training videos from unorthodox foreign teachers on the topic. I’d like to think I have a good understanding of the blocks needed to build an effective interrogation. An interrogation is all about creating a level of comfort with the interrogee so they lower their guard and provide answers they wo
uldn’t otherwise provide. During an interrogation, most people try to confine their responses to single word answers and once they fall into that pattern, it’s hard to get them out of it. While sometimes it’s impossible to avoid asking a question that calls for a single word response, in those instances you want to be sure not to string those types of questions together. A good interrogator builds up their interrogee’s comfort level by getting them to first talk about a topic they internally mark as safe, a topic they are familiar with, and then tries their best to only ask open-ended questions that require the interrogee to answer in full sentences. The more they talk, the more they spill. It’s also important to jump around to different topics during an interrogation to keep the interrogee off balance. You don’t want them to be able to anticipate questions and plan answers out ahead of time.
I asked Cinnamon to explain the Oz job posting, not because I specifically cared about it, although it was educational; rather, I wanted to get her talking in full sentences about something innocuous, something she had no reason to be defensive about. Sinn’s questions allowed Cinnamon to revert from answering in full sentences to defensive single word responses. Sinn was undoing all the progress we had made. I felt I had to interrupt Sinn because it became important to redirect the interrogation before a pattern formed. I doubt Sinn even realizes she did anything wrong—most people wouldn’t.
“It was the three little pigs hiring a witch to fight back against the big bad wolf in a cabin in the woods. I don’t remember the specific language of the ad.”