Rogue Lawyer полностью

“You used it first,” Judge Ponder fires back. “You used it first. Overruled.”

We eventually establish that four of the cops decorated themselves with black war paint, and by the time I move on Keestler looks as dumb as a teenager playing with crayons. It’s time for some real fun. I say, “Now, Peace Officer Keestler, you play a lot of video games, right?”

Finney is back on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy.”

“Overruled,” His Honor says harshly without even looking at the prosecutor. Judge Ponder has become increasingly, and obviously, fed up with the police and their lies and tactics. We have all the momentum—a rarity for me—and I’m not sure how to handle it. Do I speed things along and get the case to the jury while they’re on our side? Or do I plod along, scoring every possible point?

Scoring is so much fun, plus I have a hunch the jury is squarely on my side and enjoying this train wreck. “What are some of the video games you enjoy playing?”

He names a few—benign, almost kiddie-like games that make him sound like an overgrown fifth grader. He and Finney know what’s coming and they’re trying to soften the blow. In doing so, Keestler looks even worse.

“How old are you, Mr. Keestler?”

“Twenty-six,” he says with a smile, finally an honest answer.

“And you’re still playing video games?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“In fact, you’ve spent thousands of hours playing video games, right?”

“I guess.”

“And one of your favorites is Mortal Attack Three, right?” I’m holding his deposition, a thick sworn statement in which I managed to hammer out the fact that he got hooked on video games when he was a kid and still loves them.

“I guess, yes,” he says.

I wave his deposition like it’s poison and say, “Well, haven’t you already testified, in a sworn deposition, that you’ve been playing Mortal Attack Three for the past ten years?”

“Yes, sir.”

I look at Judge Ponder and say, “Your Honor, I would like to show the jury a clip from Mortal Attack Three.”

Finney is turning flips. We’ve been arguing about this for a month, with Ponder withholding a ruling until this very moment. Finally, he says, “I’m intrigued. Let’s take a look.”

Finney tosses a legal pad on his table in total frustration. Ponder growls, “Enough of the theatrics, Mr. Finney. Take a seat!”

I rarely have the judge on my side and I’m not sure how to act.

The courtroom lights are dimmed while a screen drops from the ceiling. A tech guy has edited a five-minute clip of the video game. At my instruction, he cranks up the volume, and the jury is jolted by the sudden image of a bulky soldier kicking in a door as explosions rip through the background. An animal resembling a dog but with shining teeth and huge talons lunges forward and our hero guns him down. Villains appear in doors and windows, and they’re all blown to hell and back. Bullets, the kind you can see, blast and ricochet. Body parts are ripped off. Blood is knee-deep. People scream and shoot and die with great drama, and after two minutes we’ve seen enough.

After five minutes, the entire courtroom needs a break. The screen goes blank and the lights come on. I glare at Keestler, who’s still on the witness stand, and say, “All fun and games, right, Peace Officer Keestler?”

He does not respond. I watch him drown for a few seconds, then say, “And you also enjoy playing a game called Home Invasion, right?”

He shrugs, looks toward Finney for help, and finally grunts, “I guess.”

Finney stands and says, “Judge, is this really relevant?” The judge is leaning on his elbows and ready for more. He says, “Oh, I think this is very relevant, Mr. Finney. Let’s roll the tape.”

The lights go down, and for three minutes we watch the same mindless mayhem and gore. If I caught Starcher playing this garbage, I’d lock him away in rehab. At one point, juror number six whispers loudly, “Good God!” I watch them as they stare at the screen, thoroughly disgusted.

When the videos are over, I force Keestler to admit that he also likes a game called Crack House—Special Ops. He admits the cops have a locker room in the basement of the police department. Courtesy of the taxpayers, it is equipped with a fifty-four-inch flat-screen television, and for fun the boys gather there between SWAT maneuvers and play video game tournaments. Over Finney’s lame objections, I drag this out of Keestler, bit by bit. By now, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and this makes matters worse for him and the prosecution. When I finish with him, he is destroyed and discredited.

As I sit down, I look at the gallery. The chief of police is gone, and for good.

Judge Ponder asks, “Who’s your next witness, Mr. Finney?”