The rest of our mock trial team shifts impatiently behind us. It’s time to call it a night even though we achieved nothing productive.
I get to my feet. “We’ve been at this for two hours. Why don’t we adjourn for tonight and we’ll take it up again in two days?”
“Hopefully Miss Bell will practice in those two days. Maybe read a few of our materials on how to conduct an examination?” Randall sneers.
Heather’s response is predictably tart in return. “At least I actually bring some emotion to this dead room. Your opening was so monotone that five minutes felt like five years. Plus, do you have any clothes that don’t scream tacky? Hand to God, I’ve seen mannequins at the Salvation Army tricked out in better clothes than you have on.”
Beneath his dark skin, Randall blanches and turns ashy pale. Heather’s good at dishing out insults like this. And Randall, a scholarship student like me, readily takes the bait. “If only you’d inherited some actual skill from your dad instead of just his wallet.”
When Heather opens her mouth to deliver another cutting remark, I jump in. “All right. We don’t need to snap at each other. I think we’re tired, hungry, and just need a break. Heather, if you could, there’s a set of sample questions in the original packet that show the difference between cross and direct. I can resend them to you via email if you want.” Hell, I’d write the entire examination if she’d agree to memorize and read it, but any time I’ve hinted at offering help, she shuts me down. “Randall, Heather’s new to this. We’ve got ten weeks, and I’m sure we’re all going to make mistakes between now and the Regionals, so let’s give each other room to make them. Patience.” I give them both a smile.
Randall’s a stellar attorney-in-training. He’s sharp witted, quick on his feet, and can deliver a rousing argument. We need him. But we need Heather, too, because despite her inexperience, her tryout was the best we’ve seen since...well, our freshman year. Once Randall’s blood stops roaring in his ears, he’ll remember why we chose Heather in the first place.
I made out an extensive risk assessment spreadsheet—even factoring in that Heather was inexperienced—and Randall had agreed with every item on the list. I guess I weighted her father’s influence too heavily, though.
“Pack it up,” I tell the rest of the crew, who gratefully shove their materials into their backpacks and scoot out of the borrowed classroom.
“Thanks,” Emily murmurs as she passes by the desks Randall and I pushed together to form our attorney table. “I was dying up there.”
“No problem. You did well. You looked vulnerable and victimized. The judges will love you.”
Our mock trial matches are judged by a panel of three individuals, usually attorneys in the community where the competition takes place. They score us on everything from correct courtroom procedure to witness demeanor and believability. After two straight years of losing in Regionals to Central, Randall and I were determined to field a winning team.
We recruited students from the theatre department to play our witnesses, and we were going to ask Riley Hart, a Poli-Sci pre-law major to be our third attorney, but then Heather tried out and the closing argument she delivered in the tryouts nearly moved Coach Jensen to tears.
After Heather explained she had a lot of experience with the law and that her father was the famous Paul Bell, there was no question who was going to fill the third attorney spot.
Bell’s a criminal defense lawyer hired by athletes, politicians, and actors whenever they get accused of doing something wrong. He actually got an athlete out of a robbery charge by claiming the football team had coerced him and he was under undue duress. I may have been a little star struck when Heather was talking to me. Yeah, I definitely put too much weight on the whole “daughter of Paul Bell” thing.
I pause while putting my things away. Is it possible my risk assessment toward Matty—I mean Matt, because we are not on nickname terms—also includes incorrectly weighted items? Not all football players are horndogs. Ahmed, one of Ace’s closest friends on the team, is seriously devoted to his girlfriend. And didn’t one of the Warriors actually get married last month? That’s serious grown-up stuff.
“You forget something?” Randall asks as he wrestles one of the desks back into position.
I look up in mild surprise. I’d forgotten where I was for a moment. “Nope. Let me help you with that.” I have to get Matt Iverson out of my head.
We finish tidying up the room, putting all the desks and chairs back into their uniform rows while Heather inspects her nails by the door. I try not to let that irritate me. Randall, on the other hand? He huffs and puffs and sighs the entire time, which is annoying in its own way.
Once we’re done and I’ve worked up an unfortunate sweat under my button-down, Heather saunters over to run a finger along a desk.