VEE. It doesn’t matter what the law says, or what the circumstances are that surround a particular case. What matters, above all, is how it is presented to the court. A person can be innocent one hundred percent, and if the case isn’t presented to the court properly, or if law that supports your defense isn’t properly referenced, the case will be lost. Regardless of the circumstances or the events in support of the defense, I prepare all cases as if they’re lost from the beginning. The end result? I rarely lose a case that can be won.

“It isn’t about guilt or innocence, Michael. It’s about presentation of law. It may sound awful, but that’s what it gets down to,” I paced the length of the conference room table as I spoke.

“Well, what are we gonna tell ‘em, babe?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I’m thinking out loud, so just let me run with this. Let’s see. Contrary to what you or anyone else thinks, what you’ve seen on television, or in the movies, we can’t go into court and tell them what you think or feel. We are allowed to defend the facts that the prosecution presents to the jury in support of their case. For instance, I can’t get you on the witness stand and ask, were you of the opinion, Mr. Ripton, that the deceased raped your sister? I can’t ask, and that fact doesn’t matter. Not in court. It pulls at the heart strings of the jury, and I’d love for them to know. But that also brings in the question of motive. If I asked that, prosecution would object, and the judge wouldn’t allow it. A few of those types of tactics, and I’ll be out of the courtroom on my ear. But, if the prosecution asks you if there was a reason you went to the deceased’s home that day, you can answer. Then, the question and your response will open the door for me to explore it. It may seem different than you think, but that’s how it works,” I stopped pacing and turned to face Michael.

He stared at me with his mouth half open.

“Close your mouth, dear. A fly will get in there,” I laughed.

He rolled his eyes as I started pacing again.

“Now, as simple as this case is, it remains complex. Or, well it can be. Not knowing how they’re going to come at us makes it hard to prepare. I suspect it’ll be something like this; exclude the reason you went there. You went there, it’s undisputed. Now, you’re there, and the deceased sees you. He, in fear for his life, and in an effort to defend his home, pulls his weapon. You, seeing the weapon - which he had a right to possess - react in a manner that utilized excess force, causing the untimely demise of the deceased. Without a doubt, some variation of that presentation will be their case to the jury in their opening,” I placed my hands on my hips, stopped, and raised my eyes.

“When you talk like that, you sound so damned smart - and so fuckin’ mean. Hell, I wouldn’t want to go against you in court. It makes me horny as fuck, Vee,” he said as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“Mr. Ripton, let’s get one thing straight. In here,” I pointed to the conference room table.

“I’m your attorney, and you, sir, are my client. You’re the accused, the defendant. The man that will go to prison for a long fucking time if he doesn’t take this matter seriously. So, in here, in my playground, it’s my rules. And, when you’re here by appointment, you will abide by my rules, act in a manner that’s respectful, and listen. What you will offer, sir, if you offer anything, will be pertinent to the case, or in response to a question that I may direct you to respond. Is that fully understood, Mr. Ripton?” I asked without taking a breath until I was done.

“Yep,” he responded as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“And that, Mr. Ripton, is another thing. Starting tonight, you will curb the Texas adolescent bullshit. If I may step into my I’m your girlfriend mode for one moment; I will go on the record as stating that I personally like your manner of speaking and acting. There is no place, however, in a court room for Yup, Yep, Ain’t, Bro, Brother, Dekk, Ripp, Fixin’, or anything of the like. So, we will practice your speech, patterns of speech, and we will conduct a mock trial prior to even entering the courtroom. Is that understood?” I asked, my hands still placed firmly on my hips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded.

I stared and waited for a smirk or a smile. None came.

That’s a good boy.

“Now. That has me thinking about what they may come at us with regarding you. Let’s talk about him. Nothing he has done, in the past, in or through the course of the instant offense, warrants taking his life, according to the prosecution. The facts are as follows; the man is a piece of shit rapist, and I can’t introduce that to the court. The man pulled a gun on you, and you, Mr. Ripton, are the victim here,” I paused and raised my hand to my chin.

“We can’t question the character of the deceased unless his character comes into question. And we can’t raise the question, unless they attempt to paint him in a light that is…”

Often when physically preparing for a case, I tend to think out loud and recite law, as I pace the floor. Tonight, as I paced the floor and spoke about what I was thinking, Michael’s eyes followed me, and his mouth began to change from that of uncertainty to a smile. As I spoke, he clasped his hands together and pressed them to his mouth.

“I’m going to crawl up that piece of shit kid’s ass with a microscope. I’m going to find out who he was, where he’s been, who he’s dated, who he’s fucked, what sexual diseases he’s had, who and where his parents are, and what he ate for lunch before you broke his worthless neck. Although I can’t introduce any of that in court, I can hold it in reserve. If they so much as bring up his character, good or bad - I’ll be ready. If they even fucking attempt to portray him as being some choirboy that is not deserving of the wrath of Ripp, I’ll shred their asses and his credibility like fucking lettuce,” I stopped, rubbed my hands together and smiled an exaggerated smile.

“So, you’re saying that you can’t question his credibility. You can’t go dig up facts that he’s raped or tried to rape a dozen girls, and tell the jurors?” he squinted and looked as if he was thoroughly confused.

“That is a fact. He, Mr. Ripton, is not on trial. You are. He could have fucked chickens in the parking lot of the H.E.B., and we can’t bring it up in the court room. He could have raped every girl in his senior class and been convicted of it, and we can’t say one fucking word. You’re on trial, not him.”

“Unless,” I paused and spread my arms apart.

“They attempt to say that he’s a saint.”

“Now, Mr. Ripton. What about you? What may I expect that they’ll introduce in their efforts to prosecute you for being a killer? A thug? A criminal? All the way back to adolescence, let’s hear your story, every shitty story you’ve got, I have to be aware of everything, you know?” I asked as I pulled a chair from the table and sat down.

He twisted his left wrist and looked at his watch, “How much time do you have set aside to discuss such matters, ma’am?”

I nodded my head in approval as I pressed my skirt against my thighs, “Much better. You sound like…well, you sound like I want you to sound to the jury. A few hours, how is that?”

He’d look much more presentable in a nice suit and some glasses…

“That might get us to about the time I turned twenty years old or so,” he responded.

And he wasn’t smiling.

Oh fuck. This might be more difficult than I thought.