The head juror stood up in the drab courtroom. It was a little comforting, this massive, important trial being treated as routine, given the same walls, the same colors that looked two shades too gray. He read from the paper, "We, the jury, find the defendant, Tim Corbis, guilty."
The defendant, Tim Corbis, only smiled his cool, smug smile. All according to plan.
"Miss Jacobs?" asked the prosecutor. She had forgotten his name already, but it wasn't like it mattered. He was the lawyer every lawyer pretended they were--successful, good looking, with a full head of hair and a custom suit. His smile was the kind to send butterflies to the stomachs of every woman--which was probably the most awkward sexual metaphor ever, now that she thought about it.
All she could think about, though, was the voice of Tim. "Fat cats and their servants, all of them. Don't bother with them, they're nothing to worry about." "Yes?"
"Are you ready to go testify?"
"Sure," said Miss Johnson, tiredly getting to her feet.
---
"Now, Miss Johnson. He surely wouldn't have come up with that from nothing. Someone had to believe him, too. So, Miss Johnson, I ask you. Do you beleive that he was right?" asked the defense attorney.
Miss Johnson, robbed of her first name, said, "Yes."
The defense attorney said, "Then, I submit to the court that this witness is delusional, and her testimony should be stricken from the record."
"Objection," said the prosecutor, giving Miss Johnson a look that said she had just lost the case for him.
Tim was sitting at the defense table, rocking back in his chair. He had worn the one suit he had ever owned, a faded black suit that had too-thin lapels and wide cuffs. He had folded his handcuffed hands behind his head, and was coolly surveying the room. There was an air of such casual flippancy to him, that he seemed the only normal part of the room. In a room full of citizens, of prosecutors, of working stiffs, a mob boss was the only normal one. He winked at a female juror who was clearly disgusted by him. She sneered and looked away, gossiping with her friend. Tim shrugged a good-natured shrug as the defendant tiredly explained that hurt their chances. Tim smiled and flippantly said, "Hey, man, like I give a shit. Your courts are goin' to screw me anyway," loud enough for Miss Johnson to hear as she entered the room.
The jury saw a tiny woman on the stand, being sworn in by a big man. She wore greys, which fit in perfectly with the desaturated wood grain of the courtroom. They saw her shrink behind her hands as Tim waved hello, a wide grin on his face. "Hey, hey Emily! Hey! Hi!"
"...hi," she muttered back, concern on her face. She seemed so small compared to the rest of the proceedings.
"Miss Johnson," said the prosecutor, "What is your relation to the defendant?"
"I work for him."
"And is your position one of importance?"
"Yes. I often help in the planning stages."
"The planning stages of what?"
"Stings. Hits. Deals. Anything that requires planning."
"And you can attest to the defendant's personal involvement?"
"Yes," said Miss Johnson. "Tim... the defendant was personally involved."
Question after question after question, laying down guilt brick by brick. Then the defendant stood up. "Defendants? Who cares? You get caught, you're gone, unless you've got a couple hundred thousand laying somewhere."
"Miss Johnson. What is your job, exactly."
"I'm a planning specialist. I plan."
Tim, feet up on the table in front of him, said, "She's my seeing-girl, my... whachacallit... seer."
The judge piped in, "Defense, control your client."
"Yessir. He'll behave." Tim gave a wide smile, in response. "So, Miss Johnson. My client says you were his seer. Is that true?"
"He beleives that, yes."
"Now, Miss Johnson. He surely wouldn't have come up with that from nothing. Someone had to believe him, too. So, Miss Johnson, I ask you. Do you beleive that he was right?" asked the defense attorney.
Miss Johnson, robbed of her first name, said, "No."
Tim sat up.
"I only humored him. He was always a violent man--I didn't want to let him know that I was just making really good predictions. He might have killed me."
Tim looked a bit concerned. "Bullshit." His voice was even, but had the ring of worry.
"It's true," said Emily. "I'm so sorry, Tim."
---
She had seen this before--this devastation. When the gangs wanted Tim out, he would sic his dogs on them, and they would wreak havoc. She had seen chaos like this before--a practiced artistry. Tim hadn't ordered it-they would have found her traveller's checks otherwise--but it was his dogs, doing what they were trained.
The first thing to do was to check the house for a hitman. She did that by walking, unarmed, through the house. Only afterwards did it hit her that that might have been a bad idea.
What if Tim wanted to send her a warning? A nicety, telling her to get out of the country. She had testified against him, and made him upset. For a moment, she considered running. But she decided, at the end, not to be afraid. Tomorrow she would replace the lock. And the door. And maybe the couch.
"I lied," said Emily.
"Oh," said the prosecutor. "About what?"
"I do see the future."
The prosecutor said nothing, but his eyes gave her the message. "You need help."
"You don't have to believe me," said Emily. "I just want you to understand."
"Okay." He started playing with one of the many toys on his plush desk like he would hide behind a shield.
She gripped her purse. "When I was a kid, a bunch of kids would try to hit this one kid until he bled. You know the story--poor kid gets beat, noone does anything. I saw where it was going to happen once, and so I waited in that spot with a stick."
"What happened?" asked the prosecutor, trying to move this along.
"I got the piss beat out of me," said Miss Johnson. "But you have to do what's right, no matter the cost."
"Very noble of you," said the prosecutor, shooing her away.
---
he head juror stood up in the drab courtroom. It was a little comforting, this massive, important trial being treated as routine, given the same walls, the same colors that looked two shades too gray. He read from the paper, "We, the jury, find the defendant, Tim Corbis, guilty."
The defendant, Tim Corbis, only smiled his cool, smug smile. All according to plan.