She’s still wearing the turquoise contact lenses, and I’m kind of relieved. Because her natural eyes would do me in—and I’d be drooling.
She turns slightly to place some files on the table and my eyes drift down over her exquisite form. Fuck me, she’s got that line up the back of her stockings—that sexy dark thread that glides over her calf, up the soft skin of her thighs, beneath her skirt to the promised land. I run my knuckle over my chin, just in case.
Nope, no drool. We’re good.
The bailiff instructs us to rise and the Honorable Judge Phillips enters the courtroom, taking his place behind his bench. He checks to make sure all the primary parties are here and accounted for. I expect him to call the jury in next, so we can begin our opening statements—and I admit, I’m looking forward to seeing Kennedy in action.
But that’s not what happens.
Because Kennedy stands up. “Your Honor, we’d like to submit a motion to disqualify the defense’s forensic computer expert from testifying.”
A forensic computer technician examines data left behind after cybercrimes. My expert is the best in the business and he’s going to testify that the evidence of the bank hack and theft that the prosecution says traces back to Justin’s computer is faulty. That, sure, Justin’s computer may have been used in the crimes—but there’s a slim chance it wasn’t. And slim is all you need for reasonable doubt.
If this were chess, my computer expert would be my rook—not the most powerful part of my defense, but still an essential piece in the grand strategy.
I stand up. “On what grounds?”
Kennedy’s eyes cut to me. “Because he’s not permitted to testify or be currently employed. A hearing will bear that out.”
The judge agrees to a hearing on the motion, and two hours later the judge disqualifies my witness. On a technicality. Because he’s based out of London and didn’t bother to update his work visa—which is now expired.
Looks like Kennedy came ready to rumble too. And she’s damn good at it.
? ? ?
After the hearing, once our opening statements are given to the jury, Kennedy starts with a forensic computer expert of her own. Her questions are quick, to the point, and emit a heady scent of confidence. The tech’s answers are detailed and boring, as most technical aspects tend to be—but he’s polished. He breaks things down for the jury to a level they’ll understand.
Which doesn’t bode well for Justin.
In a short time, the judge calls me to pose my cross-examination questions. Which would be great except—Kennedy barely lets me ask one.
It goes something like this:
“Can you explain—”
“Objection!”
And this:
“How can you be sure—”
“Objection!”
And then:
“When you determined—”
“Objection!”
Most of her objections are overruled, but that’s not the point. It’s a strategy. She wants to break my rhythm, keep me from finding the zone where I can bait the witness into saying what I want him to, and then throw his answer back in his face.
She’s trying to annoy the fuck out of me—and it’s working. Did I actually say this was going to be fun? I was wrong. I start envisioning what my hands would look like wrapped around her pretty little neck—and not even in a hot way.
So when I ask, “What are the odds—”
And Kennedy pops to her feet with, “Objection!”
I shout back, “Objection!”
The judge peers down at me through his glasses. “You’re objecting to your own question?”
“No . . . Judge.” I stammer. “I’m objecting to her objecting.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s new.”
“Am I going to be allowed to question the witness? At this rate, my client will be collecting social security by the time this trial is concluded.”
“If Mr. Mason framed his questions correctly, I wouldn’t be forced to object, Your Honor,” Kennedy says serenely.
“There’s nothing wrong with how my questions are framed,” I growl.
The judge chides us, “Let’s keep the arguments directed my way. And Miss Randolph, let’s refrain from any frivolous objections going forward.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And on that note, let’s call it a day. Court will reconvene tomorrow, 9 a.m. Adjourned.”
After the judge exits, I reassure Justin with a back pat and a pep talk. Then I pack up my briefcase and turn to head out the door. And who should end up walking out at the exact same time, beside me, but the Hot Bitch herself.
“Certainly, sir,” I mimic in a high-pitched voice. Then lower, “Kiss-ass.”
“I’d rather be a kiss-ass than a dumbass. I didn’t realize you got your law degree from a Cracker Jack box Daddy paid for.”
“Hey.” I swing around in front of her, pointing to my chest. “I buy my own Cracker Jacks.”
She lifts one unimpressed shoulder. “If you say so.”