Paradigms Lost (66 page)

I sat up suddenly. “But I’d better not neglect that emotional side!”

I had a few calls to make.

CHAPTER 94

Opening Statements

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Prosecutor David Hume began, “we are all aware of the unique nature of this trial. In my time as an attorney, I have prosecuted and, on occasion, defended people who might be described as monsters. In this case, we are dealing with a monster in literal fact. The defendant, Angela McIntyre, is not human, despite the innocent appearance she displays for the court. She is a werewolf, a creature capable of taking on any shape for her own purposes, a monster that feeds upon human flesh and perhaps more. Werewolves are known to have killed many hundreds of people, perhaps many times that many, and even with all the technology at our command, it is difficult to either capture or kill these beings. Many people believe that we should be exterminating them, wiping them out as we would destroy some disease. The honorable court, however, has determined that, given the werewolves’ status as thinking beings, there is sufficient precedent to justify a trial. We recognize the reasons for this decision, and the State is confident that it will make no difference in the ultimate outcome.

“In this trial, we will demonstrate that the killing of Frederic Delacroix was the result of a cold-blooded hunt, and possibly part of something even more sinister. Angela McIntyre never intended to allow Frederic Delacroix to live once he had served his purpose; his actions, provoked deliberately by the defendant, were meant to allow her to kill him with impunity. She was never in actual danger from Delacroix, and therefore, any contention of self-defense is ludicrous. It is dangerous for us to make any other conclusion; permitting a trial and defense for such a creature is directly counter to the proper welfare and defense of the state and its people—its
human
people—by providing, for creatures who have an admitted view of humans as prey, a means to escape the consequences of their actions.” Hume gazed at the jury, trying to make eye contact with each of them to show his clear and forthright nature. “This is undoubtedly one of the most important trials any of us has ever seen, or will ever see. Remember that during your deliberations.” He paused a moment longer, turned and nodded to me.

I stood up slowly, then walked to the front of the packed courtroom. Flashes popped; despite some argument against it on both sides, there really hadn’t been any chance to make this a closed courtroom. Whatever happened here would be recorded for posterity. So I’d better look good.

“You all know who I am,” I said quietly. “I’m Jason Wood. These monsters, as the prosecutor calls them, are the reason you know me. I lost one of my best friends to their King. He nearly killed me in a hospital, where my wife was in critical condition as the result of an encounter with one of his people. I am not their friend. I think it’s important you understand that.”

The faces of the jurors were intent. I’d memorized all of them: Lucy Aluquerre, Jim Sherry, Darrin Brown, Maria Mendoza, Tony Sestin, Frank Kovalsky, Alfred Flint, Petra Hamilton, Alle Schumacher, Gladia Baley, Steven Jackson, and Verna Stout. I also met each of their gazes squarely. “I didn’t take this job to side with monsters. I took it because there’s something more important at stake here. This is a matter of justice. Whatever she is, Angela McIntyre was not planning to kill Frederic Delacroix that day, or any other. She was simply living her life, doing her job. Frederic Delacroix decided that this wasn’t enough, and tried to force himself on her. She defended herself—as the law allows her to do—with whatever weapons she had to hand. The fact that those weapons were more effective than Mr. Delacroix would have expected simply means that she was able to escape with minimal injury.”

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 regarding 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 Angela 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.