Counterplay

his spectacles, somehow defying gravity, perched on the end of his nose.
“We have a contract,” deFijter said, pulling several copies of a fifty-page document from his briefcase. “I would ask your lordship to look at page forty-seven, clause 37(B) (iii). That clause very clearly refers to this sort of situation. Mr. Leon is required pursuant to that clause to pay us a further $10 million.”
“I never knew that was in there,” Leon said, from the prisoner’s dock. “All I remember is this little puppy, Wittenberg there, saying to me that this would be ample, that there were probably funds that would be returned to me.”
“What about that, Mr. deFijter?” asked Judge Mordecai, crinkling up his nose still further.
“I don’t know what said little puppy stated,” deFijter began, “but a contract is a contract. And at Blankstein deFijter, we prosecute our clients’ rights vigorously. If we can seek a procedural advantage, we will. We leave no stone unturned in acting as counsel. Our opponents run into a thicket of motions, depositions, and appeals. We win that way. I built this firm that way. I make no apologies for it.”
“From the sounds of it,” said the judge, “you brought on a bunch of stupid motions that went nowhere, and you turned a four-week preliminary inquiry into, if I hear the lower court’s view of it, three hellish, idiotic months. It does not take a rocket scientist to see what happened here. You are not removed from the record. Your firm will defend this man as you agreed to do, never mind some fine-print bullshit in a fifty-page contract. The trial will take place, with your firm representing Leon Lestage. And if your firm is not here, you will be in contempt of court and I will send the sheriff out to arrest you.” He glowered at deFijter. DeFijter glowered back. He wanted to say, “I’d like to see you try, you old bastard,” but he had the wisdom of forty years to the bar, and knew Judge Mordecai was a bit of a wayward duck.
That crisis led to a series of management committee meetings at the powerful firm. Judge Mordecai was going to arrest deFijter? Had he completely lost his mind? The brain trust of the firm met and it didn’t take long to solve the problem. The solution was simple. Elegantly simple. Send in Wittenberg. She was now a lawyer. She was called to the bar, albeit for less than a year. She was bright. She was a member of the firm. She had conducted many of the witness interviews. She had sat in on the prelim, the motions, and the extradition proceedings. She knew the case. Sure, send in the little puppy. If some problem developed, she would have the support of the firm, more or less. That led to the Monday morning scene, with a totally overwrought Dana Wittenberg asking for an adjournment.
“After all this fiddling around, you now want an adjournment?” Judge Mordecai’s face reddened noticeably. “An adjournment? The jury pool is here. It’s day one of THE TRIAL. And where is your co-counsel? Where is deFijter?”
“Not here, m’lord,” said a hapless Dana.
“What do you want to do, Mr. Lestage?” the judge asked.
Leon Lestage was cagey and street smart. Here was this kid, who admittedly, on the grand deFijter team, seemed to be the only one working. If she marked down eighteen hours on a time sheet, she had actually worked eighteen, as opposed to working one hour and billing for seventeen. She wasn’t half bad. Bit of a nerd, but leggy and good-looking. His Harley buddies would admire the scar. Nervous as a kitten in a snake pit. And on the other side of counsel table sat four of the sharpest prosecutors the Crown could buy. The jury would see that. No one likes to see the little guy being hammered by laser-sharp overeager prosecutors. Wittenberg would gain the sympathy of the jury. Many trial lawyers had volunteered to sit at counsel table, but Leon told them all to get lost. DeFijter, with their endless motions and repetitive questioning, would alienate the jury.
“Let’s go, Judge,” said Leon. “Let’s kick some ass.”
“What do you have to say about that, Mr. McSheffrey?”
“We’re ready, m’lord.”
With that, Dana, ill with anxiety, bile churning in her gut, began the chore of questioning potential jurors. Fortunately she had brought a law text, An Introduction to Criminal Procedure, and stumbled through the day, fighting memory lapse after memory lapse, incurring the wrath of Judge Mordecai every few minutes, and feeling the sting of whispers and snorts coming from the prosecutor’s side of the counsel table. At the close of the day, she took two of her computers with her and dragged her way back to the barristers’ room to de-gown. She heard the animated chatter of McSheffrey and his crew from behind a row of lockers on the male side of the room. The phrases “little puppy” and “scarface” were repeated often, with gales of laughter. Dana practically ran out of the room, wondering again and again why she had not chosen med school.
Richard and Zak were outnumbered twenty to two. The Inzar Ghar defense squad was in no mood to barter as they had just lost six of their colleagues (the demise of Hamani was not an event of consequence).
“Turbee,” Richard hissed through his lapel mic, “where did these guards come from?”
Turbee didn’t answer—not that it would have made any difference.
“Okay, Richard,” said Zak. “There’s twenty of them and only half have RPGs. We should be able to take them on.”
“Don’t think so, Zak. Either our air cover shows up or we’re done.”
“So, Shayam,” said the squadron leader, smirking at Zak. “You have come to take away our Kumar? Yousseff will not be pleased. But at least we can tell him you are no longer an irritant. Go burn in hell.”
As the leader raised his hand to signal his men to fire, there was a roar of flame, a fiery explosion that