The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  Makki grins and returns the squeeze, her sharp claws digging into the soft flesh of my white-collar-working hand. She is strong, her vise-like grip is starting to hurt. I can feel speckles of warm blood spurting through our mated fingers as she forcefully squeezes the skin around the areas where her razor nails have broken my skin. Pulling my hand back would show fear, and you should never show weakness to a predator. Just when I think I can’t stand another second of her crushing clutch, she flings my hand away like it’s radioactive and steps back, generating distance between us. Her eyes are fixated on the dragon-headed sword strapped across my back. I don’t think it is fear I see in those large sunken-in black eyes—I am not sure a creature like her can even feel frightened. It’s more likely disbelief or maybe shock. Whatever it is, the sword has thrown her off balance. When this is over, I must find someone who can tell me about the sword’s history and powers. I just know it’s cursed. I’m tempted to ask Makki what she knows, even though doing so would clue her in that I have no idea what I have, what it’s doing to me, or even what it can do to others—other than knowing it can cut through werewolf bones as easily as a Hollywood parent can buy their undeserving kid into college.

  Wanting to capitalize on the momentum shift, I reach back over my head with my right hand and draw the sword from its shoulder harness. It slides smoothly out of the custom fit soft black leather. To an observer, it might even look like I’ve done this before, and it isn’t my first time drawing a sword from a shoulder harness. A surge of confidence rushes through me while I hold the shimmering blade.

  John Paul Prestegard yells out from the bench, “Mr. Valentine, is there a problem?”

  The curves of my mouth retract into a smile. I turn the blade so it’s no longer pointed at Makki and grasp the sword on either end, holding it perpendicular to my body, out in front of me, to give Makki a good view of its entire deadly length. “No problem, Judge. Advocate Makki expressed some interest in my sword. I thought she might appreciate a closer look.”

  Advocate Makki glances up angrily at Judge Prestegard and through clenched teeth says, “I’m fine.”

  She does not think of herself as a damsel in distress, nor do I think she appreciated his intrusion into our pre-game meet and greet. I was always taught to press every advantage. If your opponent shows weakness, bear down on their neck and finish them. I step towards Makki, the blade still outstretched before me. “Would you like a closer look?”

  I realize there’s a risk in this approach. Makki may feel like I’m backing her into a corner and she may lash out like a wild animal. Ironically, and assuming I survive her reprisal, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened to me this year, and it would be my quickest court win to date. Attacking a fellow Advocate in open court, not exactly legal; nor is it a good look for her. If I understand the law correctly, the judges would have no choice but to step in to defend me. From there, the violence would likely escalate. I could potentially win this case before the trial even begins. I doubt that’s going to happen, though. It’s more likely that she’ll either back up, which means this weapon is more dangerous than I can imagine; or she’ll hold her ground and tell me to fuck off, demonstrating fortitude and putting me on notice that she’s a formidable adversary. After all, you don’t get to be an Advocate by being a milksop.

  As I expect, Makki holds her ground and lashes out verbally. “No, I’ve seen it. Put your toy sword away or I’ll put it away for you.”

  Just as things are getting interesting, a shimmering gate of light opens to my left and my client appears beside me. We must be nearing go time. Unfortunately, Eirik’s still wearing the same orange jumpsuit he was wearing yesterday and he still looks like a poorly groomed zombie. I would have preferred he suited up, maybe looked a little less guilty—another detail I missed that I normally would have covered. The Sinn distraction is wreaking havoc on my work life.

  I slightly bow my head towards Makki deferentially—there’s no further advantage in antagonizing her—and then theatrically twirl the blade in my right hand, like a gunfighter spins his revolver, before sheathing the blade back into its black leather shoulder harness. I’m not sure where that move came from. I’ve never practiced it before. Sinn wouldn’t have approved of showboating during our training sessions and, outside of those sessions, I’ve never had a reason to practice spinning a sword. I never even held a real sword outside of those sessions. It’s like the sword was speaking through me and it wanted to show off. I’m thinking this sword and I are meant for each other. Wherever the spiny move came from, I bet it looked really fucking cool. I don’t know if it’s just that I am getting used to it, but the sensation of magic working through me, whether it be from the sword, ring, or my pen is causing me less and less anxiety. It’s almost becoming normal. I wonder if that’s a good thing. Probably not.

  “You’ll have to excuse me; I need to speak with my client before we begin.” Without waiting for Makki’s response, I turn my back on her and maneuver Eirik over towards Sinn’s side of the desk. Although his body responds to being physically guided, there’s still nobody home. It’s more like moving furniture than a living being. Once Sinn has the man formerly known as the Butcher seated in a chair, I turn back towards the gallery. Adrian’s arrived and is sitting with his security detail a couple of rows behind Wilson and Joycee. We make eye contact and he nods, acknowledging my presence. Phulcus is standing alone in the back row staring at me, eyes filled with hate. I consider flipping him off, but I can already hear Sinn’s voice scolding me for acting like a child; so instead, I blow him a kiss. It’s better to make love than war, unless making love is making war, in which case, fuck-em, suck-em, blow-em all to hell.

  I continue searching the room for Whanung. Seven Advocate runes are now illuminated, including the one above his door, so he’s lurking here somewhere. Just as I’m about to give up, I lock on to a familiar and unexpected face approaching and then taking the seat next to Adrian. Red, the big lineman from yesterday morning, the gentleman who strenuously urged me not to take this case, is now seated next to my client and they seem to know each other—they’re even laughing about something. I consider yelling a warning across the courtroom, but that seems a bit melodramatic and what would I yell? Adrian, that large red-bearded behemoth wants to kill you? Or beware of the ginger wolf? What if Adrian already knows? What if Adrian asked him here? By interfering, I could be ruining Adrian’s plans. What if he’s delivering a message? There is so much going on here I don’t understand. I wish I’d had more time to learn about all the potential players and their motivations. I’m finding that wolf politics is more complicated than mere leg lifting and ass sniffing. It is a rather challenging and nuanced subject. For now, I will just have to trust that Adrian knows what he is doing and can take care of himself. I doubt Red would make a move in the courthouse, anyway. That’s not really a smart move if you value your life; and, based on his strategic retreat from my office yesterday, he doesn’t seem like the suicidal type.

  Regardless, I can’t worry about Adrian right now. I need to worry about the dangerous wendigo standing at the table across from mine and the three deadly judges seated on the bench in front of me. It’s time to focus on Eirik the Butcher’s trial, which is about to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Still Wednesday Morning

  “Advocates, your appearances,” commands Judge Prestegard.

  I stay quiet, allowing Advocate Makki to speak. It’s not out of male courtesy or politeness, I’m just following proper legal procedure. Traditionally, the prosecution gets to go first in a criminal case. Speaking first is an advantage and all the advantages go to the government. The deck is always stacked against the accused who are often unofficially referred to in legal circles as the guilty-in-waiting.

  “I am Advocate Makkitotosimew, appearing on behalf of the Magna Concordat and all of its citizens. I understand my name is difficult for some to pronounce, particularly humans.” Makki glances over at me. “Ad
vocate Makki is fine. Good morning, fellow Lords.”

  Lords. What a kiss-ass. The proper title for an Advocate whether male or female is Advocate or Lord. When serving as a judge, it’s either Lord or Judge. You can call me a non-conformist, I ain’t calling any of these self-aggrandizing pricks Lord; nor will I bend the knee for anyone. I don’t care how hot the person is, how blonde their hair is, or how many dragons they command.

  The three judges each nod deferentially to Makki and then, like children at a circus after the lion tamer exits the stage, shift their attention onto me, the resident clown-in-waiting. I guess that’s my cue to speak. “I’m Advocate Colt Valentine and this is my associate Sinn Palatinus. We are appearing on behalf of Eirik Varulv.” I point to Eirik quietly sitting beside Sinn, staring endlessly into the void.

  “Thank you, Advocates. Welcome, Mrs. Palatinus and Mr. Varulv. I am Judge Prestegard; these are Judges Seleena and Tavar. We are here today because a Concordat citizen has broken one of our laws.”

  “Allegedly,” I mutter under my breath while giving Sinn side-eye. Her boyfriend is a piece of work.

  “Advocate Valentine, I couldn’t quite hear you. Speak up. If you’re going to provide running commentary while I am speaking, why don’t you make it loud enough for everyone to hear, so we can all appreciate your comedic observations.” I’m not surprised that Prestegard is picking right back up where he left off the last time we were in court together and again inserting his foot directly into his open mouth. He’s reacting, not thinking, too obsessed with trying to show me up to think clearly. He is blinded by his hatred of me. At least he’s consistent. I can work with consistency. Consistency is an underappreciated trait.

  “Umhmmm,” I noisily clear my throat. If a judge ever calls you out on something, you have a few options: (1) Apologize: apologizing won’t win you any respect with the judge, but it will likely cause them to move past whatever it is you did; (2) Own it: owning it may cause the judge to respect you, but if you push it too far, you may end up spending the night in a jail cell; or if you really want to push the envelope, (3) Do both: in a backhanded sort of way. Personally, I’ve always been partial to option three.

  “I apologize, Judge, I meant to say it loud enough for you to hear. What I said was al-leg-gedly. Eirik Varulv has been accused of breaking a l—.”

  “You interrupt me to repeat what I said.”

  “No, Judge, you misspoke. Maybe it was a Freudian slip, maybe not. I don’t know. You said a Concordat citizen has broken one of our laws. You—”

  “No, I certainly did not. If you’re done interrupting me, I’d like to continue.” Judge Prestegard pauses, waiting to see if I’ll make another remark. I don’t. He’s already shown the courtroom his britches, there’s no reason to push further. “As I was saying, a citizen has been accused of breaking one of our laws. We are here today to determine his guilt or innocence. I assume everyone is ready to begin.”

  Both Advocate Makki and I nod in agreement.

  “In that case, Advocate Makki, you may begin. If you choose to, you may make an opening statement. If you do so, Mr. Valentine may briefly respond with a statement of his own. Will you be making an opening statement today?”

  “No, Lord Prestegard.”

  Prestegard smiles in apparent approval of Makki’s election. In this court setting, where judges make the ultimate decision, and not a jury, the prudent move is to waive opening and keep your cards close to your vest. Unlike when there is a jury who knows nothing about the facts or law, there is no real benefit in trying to precondition a panel of judges, which is the real purpose of an opening statement. The format of this court heavily encourages litigation by ambush.

  “Then you may present your evidence and any witnesses you may have to prove your case against Mr. Varulv. Advocate Valentine may, of course, cross-examine any witnesses you call. At the conclusion of your case, you must give a closing argument, during which you must articulate the crime that has been committed and convince us that you have submitted sufficient evidence of Mr. Varulv’s guilt. If you have, Mr. Varulv will need to enter a plea or choose ordeal by combat. If he pleads not guilty, Mr. Valentine may try to mount a defense, call witnesses, and whatnot.” That last bit was said in a demeaning tone, meant to bait me. “If Mr. Varulv is found guilty, the judges on this panel will determine a just punishment. If there are no questions, please begin. Advocate Makki, the floor is yours.”

  “Yes, Lord. I’d like to call Adrian Varulv to the stand.” Advocate Makki glances over at me, expecting some sort of reaction. I am a little surprised, as I’m not entirely sure what the prosecution’s theory of the case is, and I have no idea whether Adrian’s testimony can hurt his father’s case or not. I do my best to remain straitlaced, measured, suppressed. If I was at a poker table, my head would be down, blacked-out sunglasses on, earphones in, hoody up. At times like this, reactions are your worst enemy.

  Adrian makes his way from his seat in the gallery to the witness stand. He glances my way, searching for safety, advice, assurance that everything will be all right. I do everything I can to avoid looking up from the yellow legal pad I’m doodling on. While ignoring him may cause Adrian a little anxiety in the short term, in the long term it’ll be better for his father’s case. You never want the case-deciders, the three judges in this instance, to see you communicating with a witness, even with your eyes, unless that witness is on the stand and you're questioning him in open court in front of everyone. If the case-decider sees you privately talking to a witness, or sees a witness looking to you for help while they’re being examined by someone else, they’ll assume you’ve coached the witness up, and told the witness what to say. They’ll assume the witness is a liar, you’re a liar, and any credibility you may have earned with the judges or jury is blown to pieces in a fiery explosion. While I already assume this particular panel of judges is poisoned against me—at the very least, Prestegard is against me—I’m not yet ready to completely throw in the towel or wash my hands of this case. I still have faith I can pull a miracle off, that is, once I figure out what the hell this case is about.

  Advocate Makki licks her thin lips with an unnaturally long blackish-purple tongue and then addresses Adrian. “Please introduce yourself to the court.”

  “My name is Adrian Varulv. I am the Lycanthrope. I am a Concordat citizen and Leader of the American Werewolf Pack. My father, who retired from the Pack counsel a couple years ago, is sitting at the table over there with the Advocate I hired to defend him.”

  Makki nods. “You had a daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was a Concordat citizen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her mother was a citizen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife died during the childbirth of your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Adrian grimaces. There is an edge to the grimace. It’s not quite a threat, more of a warning to tread carefully.

  “What happened to your daughter?”

  “She died.” Adrian clenches and unclenches his fists. He is not exactly the poster boy for self-control.

  “How did she die?”

  “An ax.”

  “Was it your father’s hand that killed her?” Makki asks the question smoothly with no emotion. I’m actually quite impressed by her witness control. It’s a clever question, it doesn’t directly implicate his father. If Adrian believes his father was possessed or under someone else’s control, he might even answer yes. A lot of attorneys would be trying to browbeat Adrian; that would be a mistake, one Makki isn’t making. Instead, she’s deftly stirring him, not giving him an opportunity to become justifiably outraged. She’s keeping him on the line, in the boat's wake, not giving him any room to swim away or dislodge the hook.

  Adrian’s eyes overflow with moisture. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just don’t know.” It’s a tr
uthful answer, a soul-bearing answer, one I wish he had never given. Maybe is the word that launched a million wars, caused a million deaths, a million divorces, and a billion breakups. Maybe, more often than not, means yes; especially when used in reference to murder, wanting a divorce, wanting space in a relationship, or Russian collusion.

  “Thank you, Mr. Varulv. I have no further questions.” Makki exits the well and takes a seat.

  My stomach twists and moans, loudly enough that Sinn gives me a questioning look. As much as I hate to give my opponents credit, I must admit that was beautifully executed. Makki knows what she’s doing. She knows how to ask questions and more importantly she knows when to stop asking questions and cut a witness lose. The difficulty setting on this trial just got turned up. I really should have expected nothing less from a potentially centuries-old, evil, native American spirit. I wonder how long wendigos live? More important, how do you kill one? Why didn’t I look that up last night? I’m slipping. My dinner flub with Sinn must be affecting me more than I thought.

  Prestegard leans over and whispers something to Judge Tavar, who remains stone-faced. If Tavar is in Prestegard’s pocket, he’s playing it close to the vest. I haven’t even heard him speak.

  Prestegard leans back in his chair. “Mr. Valentine, your witness.”

  “No questions at this time.” Adrian looks at me with surprise, which quickly turns to anger as his eyes lock in and his jaw clenches. He likely feels that he has more to say and can’t understand why I appear to be doing nothing. Contrary to what some lawyers think, and what nearly all clients think, sometimes, less is really more. Sometimes, inaction is really action. Without fully understanding Makki’s theory of the case, and without knowing what other evidence she intends to introduce, it would be folly to ask a friendly witness—one I could recall as a witness during my defense, if necessary—questions that I haven’t prepped him to answer. The only potentially helpful testimony I could extract from him at this point would be whether or not he believes his father killed his daughter. A question that would likely invite a speculation objection, which, considering the composition of this bench, would most likely get sustained. There is no upside to asking him any questions right now, and you should never do something just to do it. In a courtroom, you should always act with purpose or not at all.