VEE. “So, beyond reasonable doubt does not mean beyond all doubt. Understand that. If the jurors believe that it’s reasonable to believe your guilty, you are just that; guilty,” I said as I paced the floor in front of the conference room table.

“Now, your case is somewhat unique. You’ll stand before the jurors, guilty. You killed him, Michael. There’s no denying that you did. You admit it. What it gets down to is why. Why did you kill him? What I, no, I guess what we need to convince the jurors is this – that you killed him for a reason that every one of them would have chosen as well. All we need is one juror to side with you and stick with his initial belief, and we’ll at minimum have a hung jury,” I stopped pacing and focused on Michael.

“What’s that mean, really?” he shifted his focus from the table to my face.

“It means they, the jurors, were incapable of reaching a decision in a reasonable amount of time. You can be retried, because you weren’t found guilty or innocent. A lot of times when the jury is hung, the state will refuse to retry it, for fear of losing or having another hung jury. It’s kind of like a tie, no one really wins,” I raised my right hand to my mouth and thought.

“The facts of this case are simple. If we get a hung jury, they probably won’t retry it. They’re not going to go dig up any additional facts about you or the alleged crime. They’re not going to make a better case, a more solid case. Like I said, you did it. But why you did it is our ticket out. You were in fear for your life. Do you understand that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he responded as he ran his hands along the edge of the table.

I slapped my hands against the conference room table. Immediately, Michael sat up in his chair and stared at me.

“What the fuck,” he whined as he looked up.

“Talk like that again, Michael. Talk like a fucking southern Texas boy, and that jury will hang your dumb acting ass. Say yeah in court. I fucking swear, you can either get on board, or find another god damned attorney. Do you understand me?” I growled.

“Yes,” he responded.

“One better,” I paused.

“Yes ma’am,” I said in a stern tone.

“You were in fear for your life. Do you understand me?” I asked harshly.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded.

“You went there to talk to him about your sister. We’ll make something up. Who gives a fuck? He’s dead and no one can say why they think you went here. There is no place for thoughts or opinions in the courtroom. This is a room full of only facts. So, you went there to talk about your sister. He was dating her. It was to be a friendly talk. Tests have shown that although he wasn’t completely drunk, he had been drinking alcohol, and was on the cusp of being legally drunk. He made a judgment call, and he didn’t recognize you. He pulled a gun, and you reacted. You were in fear for your life. That’s all you know. Remember that, scared to death. You saw a gun and you freaked out,” I hesitated and looked down at where he was seated.

“Good answer. Okay we’re going to play as if I am the prosecutor, like we did earlier. Remember, they can’t just ask random blanket questions, and if he tries, I’ll attack his ass like a fucking shark. Now, anything he asks; anything at all. Don’t fucking answer. He asks what color your fucking watch is, you don’t respond. You count to three. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. White, sir. It gives you time to think, and me time to object. So, no matter what, you count to three. Everything he asks. Okay, you ready?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Uncross your arms. It makes it appear as if you’re defensive or uncomfortable. Learn that. You’ll need to sit with your hands on your thighs. No matter what, keep your hands in your lap, one on each thigh. If you get nervous, stop and take a drink of water, regroup mentally, and start over. But always keep your hands in your lap. It’ll drive the prosecution crazy because he won’t be able to figure out what you’re thinking,” I said as I patted my thighs with my palms.

“So, Mr. Ripton, on the night in question, you drove to the home of the deceased, is that correct?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am,” he waited a few seconds and responded.

“Where were you prior to arriving at the decease home?” I asked.

“And I will object. Because it isn’t any of his fucking business,” I added before he could answer.

“If questioning like that is introduced, and I don’t catch it, it opens a line of questions that will allow him to make mincemeat of our case. Let me explain how this works. Stick with me. Are you paying attention, Michael?” I looked across the table, making note of his hands being placed firmly in his lap.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded after a few second delay.

That’s my Michael, you’re doing well.

“Okay, if I let him come at you with a question like that, to some attorneys, it may seem like no big deal. To me, it’s suicide. He asks if you drove. You say yes. He asks some other question or questions to make you comfortable. Your age. Where you went to school. Then, he asks where you came from. You say your parent’s home. He asks if you’re nervous. You say yes. He’ll ask if you’ve ever been in a court room, and I’d object. Then he asks what you were doing at your parents. You say eating. He acts surprised for a moment, and walks to his desk in the courtroom, opens a file, and walks back to in front of where you’re seated. He then states, well, Mr. Ripton, the day in question is a Sunday. The Sabbath. You left Sunday dinner with your family to drive to your sister’s former boyfriend’s home, and you want us to believe you did so just to talk? And I’d be standing there with my dick in my hand. That is if I had a dick,” I turned to face Michael.

He blinked and stared, as if confused.

“I’m fucked,” he sighed as he looked down at the table.

“No, you’re not. You have me. I may let you run over me in the bed room, but in the court room, I’ll tear this prosecution team limb by mother fucking limb like the savage little bitch that I am. You see, Michael, the reason I need you to take charge in the bedroom is simple. In the courtroom, something inside of me takes over. It takes charge. And when it’s over, I feel like I’ve been possessed by a beast. I need someone to just take over when I’m done. But in that courtroom, you do what I say, how I say, and in the manner I advise you to do so, understood?” I asked as I pulled the chair from the table.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded softly as he stared at the edge of the table.

“Michael?” I asked as I sat down in the chair.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded as he looked up.

“Do you trust me?” I asked as I reached over the table, holding my hand in the center.

He nodded his head and wiped his hands on his shorts.

“You didn’t possess the mens rea element of the crime, and it’s required that you possess a criminal mind to be convicted. The guilty mind. The proceeding with the crime after you realized the act itself was criminal. You had no guilty mind. You never believed you were doing wrong. You were in fear for your life. It’s just that fucking simple. You remember nothing. You remember a gun. You remember trying to save yourself. You don’t remember direction. You don’t remember anything. You don’t remember anything but a gun, and you reacted. And when you finally realized what had happened, you were on the porch, calling the police.

“Do you trust me?” I asked again, my hand still hovering over the table.

He swallowed an audible lump and nodded his head.

“Yes ma’am,” he said softly.

“Prove it,” I clenched my fist.

He raised his right hand and extended it to the center of the table, holding it a few inches from mine. As he looked up and into my eyes, he smiled.

“I pizz you,” he said as he bumped my fist.

“I got this,” I said as I pressed my knuckles into his.

“And I pizz you back.”