Oh she is pretty!So as I believe has been mentioned, Noa's appearance is based off of (translation: outright ripped wholesale from) my character on Final Fantasy XIV.
As a present to myself for finishing the bar exam, I ordered an art commission of my character, who... well, since she looks exactly like Noa, I may as well just share it here as an exemplar.
Therefore... BEHOLD! MYSTUFFPROTAGONIST.
Pound the Table | An X-Men Self-Insert
- Thread starter October Daye
- Start date
- Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
- Location
- California
Very Au'ra much interesting
Artemis
What's a pirate's least favourite letter?
- Location
- The Seven Seas
My congratulations to you! Looking forward to see that education hard at work at continuing to write this excellent story!
- Location
- Texas
Cool picture, but ah... Is the cross on her forehead some kind of cosmic joke or something, what with being paired with her otherwise somewhat demonic appearance?
If you were trying to make her seem unnatural, or slightly off, then the picture is perfect. Noa looks good, and just different enough that it presents a certain sense of danger.
Overall, cool picture, thank you for sharing it!
If you were trying to make her seem unnatural, or slightly off, then the picture is perfect. Noa looks good, and just different enough that it presents a certain sense of danger.
Overall, cool picture, thank you for sharing it!
I take it the mesh boob window is something left over from the Final Fantasy design and not something Noa actually wears to court?So as I believe has been mentioned, Noa's appearance is based off of (translation: outright ripped wholesale from) my character on Final Fantasy XIV.
As a present to myself for finishing the bar exam, I ordered an art commission of my character, who... well, since she looks exactly like Noa, I may as well just share it here as an exemplar.
Therefore... BEHOLD! MYSTUFFPROTAGONIST.
Otherwise looks great, very professional. Although the foot placement suggests heels when she is wearing flats. Minor nitpick, I guess, I remember she wears both.
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- She/Her
This is also a sketch, so keep in mind the details are not final.
What actually is interesting to me is that my only time on a jury they actually did do selection all at once, with all the alternates in the room at the same time. It was however also in Colorado, for a 6 person jury. I suspect that things must be done differently in different jurisdictions and levels of crime.
Edit:
And the smartest thing the defense attorney did was keep his client off the stand.
Edit:
And the smartest thing the defense attorney did was keep his client off the stand.
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Well here's the thing: whether jury selection is all at once or one-by-one really depends on the case. For a relatively low-profile civil case, where you're not going to see it in the news or anything, then of course it makes sense that they'd do it all at once for the sake of expediency.What actually is interesting to me is that my only time on a jury they actually did do selection all at once, with all the alternates in the room at the same time. It was however also in Colorado, for a 6 person jury. I suspect that things must be done differently in different jurisdictions and levels of crime.
Edit:
And the smartest thing the defense attorney did was keep his client off the stand.
For high-profile criminal trials, or where there is any risk at all of the jury being tainted... for example, by the questions asked of other potential jurors, but that they aren't asked themselves... you keep them separate.
The current, most modern example is the Derek Chauvin trial. Jury selection for that trial was one by one, simply because there was a lot, and I mean a LOT, of profiling going on there.
For a trial like in this fic, you would've done the "keep them all separate" approach until finally getting a full jury of 12 and 3-6 alternates.
- Location
- Colorado
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Annnnnd watched! Including Matt as her shadow is such a fun choice! I can even see him taking inspiration from his legal mentor's unglamored appearance for his heroic persona in this continuity.
Excited to see her make a name for herself as a mutant rights attorney.
Excited to see her make a name for herself as a mutant rights attorney.
Chapter Seven
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Pound the Table
Chapter Seven
The limo service's Lincoln Towncar pulled up to a rundown apartment building in Hell's Kitchen, the lot abutting a small, but clearly well-loved Catholic chapel. Was chapel the right word? I didn't know, and frankly, I didn't care. Regardless, the limo pulled up to the curb, and I reached across the backseat to open the window on the right side of the car.
"Mr. Murdock," I called to my associate. "Door's unlocked."
Matt picked up his faded messenger bag and tapped his way to the car, sliding in with more grace than one would have expected from a blind man. He did have to finagle the placement of his cane in the backseat, but that took only another five seconds or so before the door closed, and we were on our way to the courthouse.
"How'd you sleep?"
Matt took a moment to just breathe before answering the question. "Badly. You?"
"Decently enough," I said. "NyQuil is surprisingly good as a sleep aid, as is Benadryl. But only for special occasions, like court."
"Right, right," he said. Then, "is… this, normal?"
"Hm?" I turned to glance at Matt, a tad confused. "You're playing the pronoun game here, Matthew. I don't know what 'this' is referring to."
"All of…" He waved a hand at the car. "All of this. Ma'am, you bought me a two thousand dollar suit. Is, is that normal?"
"It can be," I told him. "Depending on the clientele your firm serves, the level of amenities a firm has to provide both its clients and attorneys changes. If your clients are mostly the neighborhood sort, you want to match your means to the neighborhood, if just a little bit above their means. But big firms? Firms like Lewin Lieberman & Loeb?"
I tapped the leather of the armrest that folded down between our seats in the back of the limo. The interior of the car had that timeless "luxury" feel to it, and the privacy divider between the driver and backseat gave it an air of severity.
"This firm is expensive. As a result, clients of the firm expect to see expensive items; ones a step below their own usually, so as to not seem threateningly moneyed, but expensive. They want to see steakhouses, luxury cars, bespoke suits, designer shoes. They want to know that we can and do run in the same circles, that we know firsthand the interests we're protecting. But more than that, attorneys of the firm have an image to uphold, one in keeping with the firm's reputation. We need to look and act the part."
"And that's why I have a new suit?" Matt asked. "An Armani one?"
"Consider it an early birthday present," I told him. It was already harder for Matt to go suit shopping, just because he couldn't actually tell what the patterns or colors were, or how they looked on him. "You needed one anyway."
"This is probably the nicest thing I've ever worn." Matt's fingers twitched, and I guessed he'd kept himself from running his fingers over the fabric of his suit. "But this is just… normal for you, isn't it?"
"It is now," I admitted, rehearsing my opening statements in my head. "But back midwest, it was all toasted ravioli, oven brisket, and Ted Drewes on special occasions."
"Hmph, figured you for an out-of-towner," Matt said, triumph in his tone. "All fairness? You don't talk like a New Yorker."
"Oh?" I asked, unable to help the slight smile. "And where did you think I was from?"
Matt frowned. "Well, the way you enunciate your words? You sound like Reagan, a bit."
"Reagan? Really, Reagan?" I gave an exaggerated huff, and crossed my arms over my chest. "Why I never!"
"No, no!" Matt said, sounding slightly worried. "It's the way you talk, how you pronounce and enunciate things, it's got a bit of a Hollywood feel to it, you know?"
I couldn't help but laugh, both at his assessment and expense. "Well, Reagan comparisons aside, that's rather intentional. You'll see during opening statements."
Matt, despite being blind, gave me a look.
"You know what I meant by the idiom, Matthew. Quit being churlish."
"Sorry, sir." He paused deliberately. "Ma'am."
"At this time, would the prosecution like to make an opening statement?"
"We would, your Honor." Lou Young stood from his chair at counsel's table, but did not go any further. "Counsel requests permission to enter the well of the court."
"Granted," Judge Andrews said.
Most people take for granted that lawyers get to walk around in front of the judge and jury. In reality, no, this is not something we're simply able to do. It is a privilege, not a right.
The area between the bar of the court – a literal waist-high wooden fence, with a swinging door in the center of the aisle of the same height as the fence itself – and the judge's bench is what's known as the "well of the court". One does not simply walk into the well of the court without permission. If you do, the bailiff tackles you.
(I have seen it, it is hilarious, and is almost always followed up by a contempt of court charge from a judge who's desperately trying to restrain their laughter at the sheer idiocy.)
Whenever you enter the well of the court, or if you need to proceed to a different part of the well of the court, you need to ask the judge for permission. You want to approach the jury box, to show a piece of evidence to the jury? Ask permission. The witness needs to have a piece of evidence handed to them? Ask permission for that. Are you requesting a sidebar with the judge? Once again, you ask permission.
Generally, this permission applies to you. It has not, in my experience, extended to furniture.
And yet, here was DA Young, picking up counsel's chair and taking it into the well of the court.
He set the heavy wooden chair down in front of and facing the jury box, then sat in the chair. He was on the front half, leaning rather far forward, his arms resting in his lap as opposed to on the arms of the chair.
From this angle, I wasn't able to quite tell what he was doing. I saw an arm reach into his coat pocket, and when he brought it out, he held a box of those horrid menthol cigarettes he loved. He tapped on the bottom to knock one cigarette loose, grabbed it… and then paused.
"Ah, what am I thinking?" He used that same tone one would use for rhetorical questions, then lightly tapped himself on the head with the heel of one palm. "I can't smoke in here, none of us can!"
A quick glance at Judge Andrews showed zero surprise, which worried me, and was enough to guess that this little bit of theatrics had been planned. I had to suppress a frown, and instead simply turned to my notepad, marking down that he was going for what I could only assume was a 'town hall' feel with his opening statement.
"See, in some ways, that's how this all started," Lou Young said. He put the cigarette back into the box and placed it back in his jacket pocket, then leaned forward, his hands clasped lightly in his lap. "A few young men off work, sharing a beer, having a smoke. Normally, this isn't a dangerous thing to do. It doesn't lead to a young man being crippled for life. But here, it did. All because four young men saw that something bad might be happening in their neighborhood, took a stand to stop it… and got the worst shock of their lives when they turned out to be correct, and they were now stuck in an alley with a dangerous mutant."
Ah, so that's the angle he was going for. He wanted to reframe the reason his four 'victims' followed St. John into the alleyway, and so he put it in a manner that couldn't be easily refuted. It's one thing for him to say that they did it to stop a crime.
It's something else entirely if they thought it was to stop a crook: it introduces the possibility that they could have been mistaken, meaning that any testimony regarding whether they knew St. John was a thief or not was now just their opinion.
"It was just a day like any other," Lou said, twiddling something between his fingers – one of his menthol cigarettes, I saw once he raised his hand. "Mick, Jimmy, Theo, and Pat. The work site let them go early – you know how May is, raining most every afternoon. Can't build when it's wet, can you? So they figured, may as well hang on the street corner, by Jimmy's building. There's a corner store they can get some smokes and beers, shoot the breeze.
Lou wagged the cigarette as he spoke, pointing from juror to juror. The chair had felt like a ridiculous affectation at first, but now that I saw it in action? The way it placed him below the jury?
It was, I had to grudgingly admit, inspired.
"It was while they were doing this, while they were just spending time together, living their lives, that they saw something. They saw someone go into the corner store, rush out of it, spot them looking, and run." His hand moved, a cigarette held between his fingers emphasizing his every move. "So they did what any good samaritan would do: they gave chase. They herded this rapscallion down an alleyway, and confronted the thief! Only… they made a mistake."
DA Young waved the cigarette in his hand.
"See, Mick had a vice. He liked to smoke. So when he and his friends cornered the scoundrel in the alleyway, he still had a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth." He held the cigarette directly in front of him, displaying it prominently to the jury. "He may as well have just handed the villain a loaded gun.
"The mutant, cause as it turned out, that's what he was, ripped the fire out of Mick's cigarette. He torched the entire alley worse than the napalm guns back in 'Nam. Mick, Jimmy, Theo, Pat, they tried to fight back, but it was too much. They ran. And while they were running? Fwoosh!" He motioned with a hand, imitating liquid coming from a hose. Or rather, I figured, napalm jelly from a flamethrower. "The mutie nicked Mick in the leg, and his trousers caught fire! He tried to get them off, stopped looking where he was going, and – wham!"
Lou Young punctuated that last bit with a loud clap of his hands, at which three of the jurors flinched back, having leaned in to listen to his story. He had them enthralled – the only saving graces were that they weren't the five I was courting, and that if he'd managed to reel them in so easily, none of them was likely to be the foreman.
"Mick fell into an open construction site. His leg broke so bad, he's never gonna walk right again. Jimmy, Theo, and Pat, they got out sorta alright. That is, if you don't count the nightmares. And all 'cause they thought to protect their neighborhood, and crossed a mutie to do it.
"You don't gotta take my word for it, though." Lou Young flipped the cigarette to his other hand, and used it to point at the witness stand. "Much as it'll hurt him to get up there, Micah Samuelson's gonna tell ya everything that happened in that alley. And James Boothe'll follow him. They'll tell you everything: what they saw, what they did. What they got for it. What it cost them.
"Next, Detective Vincent Ruscoli is gonna paint a picture for ya. He'll take you back to that alleyway, show you what he found, how he pieced together the clues. The veteran detective'll guide us all through the process he used to figure out that this weren't no ordinary thug with a lighter and hairspray, and just how much danger our good boys from Brooklyn faced.
"And lastly, the good Doctor David McConnell will share just how badly Micah got hurt. You'll know the extent of his injuries, how much it hurt. And just how bad it was that Micah, a twenty-two year old young man in the prime of his youth, will be needing a cane to walk for the rest of his life. How he'll be suffering pain during his every waking moment from now on."
The jury shifted uncomfortably. Beside me, St. John gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white, but to my eternal relief, he said nothing.
"By the end of this trial, the proof will be in front of you," Lou Young said, standing up from the chair now. He walked behind it and rested his hands on the back, leaning forward ever so slightly. "The who, the what, the how, the when, and the why."
He tapped on the wooden back of the chair on each of the five W's, the tap quiet, but resonating loud and clear through the courtroom.
"And once all is said and done, I know you will make New York proud. I know you'll have everything you need to convict this dangerous mutant, and help make our streets safe."
And with that, DA Young took his chair and returned to counsel's table.
I could feel the silence lingering in the courtroom, longer than was the usual. Risking the impropriety, I cleared my throat, and could feel the weight of Judge Andrews' gaze upon me.
"Does the defense have an opening statement at this time?" the judge asked, his tone hostile enough that the same three jurors who'd flinched from the DA's sudden change of tone earlier all turned to glare at me. As though the simple act of doing my job was an affront to them now, simply because of who and what my client was.
"Yes, your Honor," I said, standing up from my chair. "Permission to approach?"
"Granted," he said.
And with that, the game was on. I reached for the trial binder holding my demonstratives. The sharp snap of a three-ring binder opening drew the jury's attention, and a quick look showed me three of the ones I wanted, and two of the jurors I'd already written off, looking over at me with curiosity. Then, one more reach down, and I had a carry case, a cork board, and pins. Accoutrements in hand, I entered the well of the court.
I set up my easel in thirty seconds, and set the cork board upon it. Then, the folder still in my hand, I turned to face the jury.
"Most of us in this room are lucky," I started, standing beside my easel. "We are lucky that we have never needed to fight for our lives. To protect ourselves with whatever happened to be available, be it a rock, a knife, a gun – or a mutant power. But the sixteen year old boy at the table over there," I turned to point at St. John, "was not so lucky. He had no choice but to fight against four people, all of them bigger, stronger, older than him, using only what he had available to him.
"Now, all of this talk you've heard?" I flipped open the folder in my hands, and pulled out the first piece of paper. "Young man? Defendant? All of it forgets that at the heart of this case, there is a person. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury." I pinned the paper to the cork board, and stepped away, letting the jury see my client's baby picture.
"Meet St. John Allerdyce, John to his friends." The next photograph joined St. John's baby picture, one of him on his fifth birthday, at a Yankees game. "St. John is a young man, born and raised in Brooklyn. He's a smart kid, to the point that he was offered a full scholarship to a private school in Manhattan," a piece of paper on expensive stationery joined the photographs, "where he maintains a 3.6 GPA.
"Now, I had to look this up again, so for those of you who, like me, have forgotten what that number is supposed to stand for?" I received a few good natured chuckles from two jurors, and a few people in the gallery. "It means that St. John maintains an A- grade average at one of the most academically challenging schools in Manhattan – a school that routinely sends multiple students each year to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and more."
Another piece of paper joined the rest – a playbill, with a name circled in red pen.
"St. John spends most of his afternoons with the school's theater department. But while you won't find him on stage, everybody sees his work." Pictures surrounded the playbill – pictures of St. John hanging lights in the rafters of the theater, eating takeout Chinese with the rest of the cast and crew, having a mock swordfight with the props backstage. "St. John works lighting design. He hangs the lights, aims them, times it all. When the lights go down on the theater, he's the one flipping the switch. And when the spotlight follows the lead, he's up in the rafters, guiding it."
The last of my papers met the posterboard: a newspaper clipping from the New York Times' theater section, lauding the light and sound design on a high school performance. St. John's high school. St. John's lighting design.
I picked up the posterboard from the easel and brought it closer to the jury, starting closer to the prosecutor's table,and walking left, towards the bench. A simple left to right motion, like the way we read.
"This is who St. John Allerdyce is. A young man from a loving family. A young man with bright mind, a promising future, and a passion for the theater."
I turned back to my easel, and set the corkboard back into place, loosening the fixture holding the board steady before stepping slightly to its side, so the jury could see it again. Then for three seconds, I did nothing, said nothing. Just let the jury look at the corkboard.
"But according to the prosecution?" I took two steps towards the easel and corkboard.
Then, with a hard shove, I knocked it over.
The easel fell backwards, clattering to the wooden floor of the courtroom. The easel bounced once, twice, three times. The corkboard flew off, coming to a stop right in front of the bailiff, who nudged it aside slightly with his foot.
"Everything that St. John is, everything he's done. All of his hopes, his dreams, his aspirations, his drive?" I turned back to the jury now, stopping in front of the fallen easel. "According to the vaunted Louis Young, none of that matters, because St. John Allerdyce had the misfortune to be born a mutant."
"This case," I continued, only letting my last sentence ring in their ears for a single second, "is a simple matter of he-said, they-said. Both sides are, from a certain point of view, speaking truth. But DA Young was tricky, oh so tricky just now. Thoughts, feelings, suspicions. These are what he plans to offer you. The four neighborhood thugs – because, as you'll hear from the owner of the very corner store they allege John robbed, Mr. Alejandro de Soto, that is what people think of them – thought St. John was a thief. They assumed he had to have stolen. It's all…"
I turned slightly from the jury, one arm holding my other at the elbow, as my free hand tapped at my chin. I made sure to appear as though I was thinking, searching for the word. A moment later, I perked up, let one arm drop, and turned back towards the jury.
"It's all fluffy," I said. "Uncertain. It's a possibility.
"But this, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is not a squabble over who has to pay for a fender bender. This," I waved with both arms at the courtroom, offering as much of a flourish as was possible without expansive skirts to swirl about me, "is a criminal court, where we deal in one currency: cold. Hard. Facts. And as you will see, the prosecution's case is remarkably light on those, which we will take great care to expose for you to see.
"But as for the defense's case?" I let out a mirthless chuckle. "We have facts. Oh, do we have facts to spare."
I stalked towards the right again, setting myself directly in front of the prosecution's table.
The jury could look past me and see DA Young, but they wouldn't. What I'd done was a textbook example of upstaging: whichever object of attention was closer to the audience would get the lion's share of the attention.
Even though both the DA and I were in the exact same line of sight, because I was closer, I was more immediately important.
And with any luck, this would plant a particular idea in the minds of the jurors – that just as I was a more important object of attention now, so too would everything I said and presented be of greater weight and importance than whatever Louie did to try and spin his precious thug's flight of fantasy into a half-assed narrative.
"As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Alejandro de Soto, the owner of the corner store where all of this kicked off, will soon be seated upon that stand. He will tell you all about what actually happened to set everything in motion, including who really attacked who, and explain why St. John had a very real reason to fear for his safety. Namely, because where these four hooligans were concerned? He was far from the only one that they terrorized.
"You will also hear from a close friend of St. John's, a Miss Katherine Pryde."
I offered the jury a smile, even as I shifted to the side ever so slowly, moving just a little bit at a time as I spoke. Their eyes followed me, shifting away from the DA, putting him and his case out of sight, out of mind – quite literally forcing it to fade into the background.
"Miss Pryde knows that St. John is a mutant. She has known this for quite some time, has seen what his powers are capable of. And yet, she isn't afraid of him, not in the slightest. Why? Because Miss Pryde knows a person who happens to be a mutant, and she is all too happy to tell you about it.
"Lastly!" I shifted to the left, setting myself before the empty witness stand and the judge's bench. "You will hear from Doctor Harry Michaelson, who saw St. John hours after he was attacked in that alleyway. Dr. Michaelson will explain, in no uncertain terms, the extent of the injuries St. John suffered, how and what could have caused it, and – most importantly?"
I walked forward, until I was practically leaning on the jury box, staring straight at the man who had just yesterday been potential juror number ten. And this time, I was pleased to see that he was looking me straight in the eye.
"He will explain how St. John was quite literally this close," I held one hand up, my fingers an inch apart, "to having died in that alleyway."
I turned away from the jury box, and picked up my easel from where I'd knocked it to the floor, righted it, then retrieved the corkboard from halfway across the well of the court. The corkboard went back into place on the easel, which now faced inwards towards the judge, so that the jury could see more of my front. With both hands still on the easel, I gave a somber look to the contents of the corkboard.
And then, I let out the largest, most despondent sigh I could manage.
"Just as I didn't ask to be born a woman," I said, turning now to face the jury, with one hand still on the easel. "And just as DA Young didn't decide to be born a man, St. John Allerdyce had no control over his being a mutant. It's just how he was born. All that I ask is that you judge him on this."
I turned the easel with the hand resting on it, so that the jury could see it.
"On who St. John is. Because we all deserve that much."
And with that, I was done. A short, respectful bow of my head to the jury came first, and then I was dismantling the easel, retracting the tripod legs so that I could put it away. A moment later I was back beside defense counsel's table, and slid the easel into its case before disassembling the little diorama I'd assembled on the cork board.
"Holy crap," St. John whispered to me as I sat down, and I had to fight down the smirk at his shock. Leave it to the theater kid to recognize a monologue when he saw one.
"With opening statements concluded," Judge Andrews boomed, raising his voice over the murmurs forming in both the gallery and the jury box, "the court shall recess. We shall resume in thirty minutes with the prosecution's case-in-chief."
The gavel came down, and last-minute planning amendments began.
"If the prosecution could call its first witness?" Judge Andrews said moments after the bailiff returned with the jury.
"Of course, your Honor." Lou Young stood up from his chair and leaned forward, both hands on the desk. "The prosecution calls the victim, Micah Samuelson, to the stand."
Years of practice is what let me not grimace when I heard how the DA phrased things. It was a bit of a low blow, deliberately calling your witness the victim, meant to tug at the heartstrings of the jury.
And when the man of the hour passed the bar of the court, I understood exactly why.
Micah Samuelson couldn't wear a pair of suit pants due to the enormous cast immobilizing his entire leg, from just before the toes all the way to over the knee. Instead, he wore a pair of khaki shorts, with a single boat shoe on his good foot. To contrast that, he had a simple, long-sleeved polo shirt, buttons fastened. Mid-length black hair, slick with gel or mousse, was swept back so not a single strand obscured his face.
Were it not for the cast, which prevented him from sitting straight on the witness stand and left him with his leg poking out the side, he would look like he was just some preppy young adult, about to go sailing out on the docks.
"Please raise your right hand," the bailiff said. Mick raised it obligingly, glaring at St. John from the stand the whole time. "Under penalty of perjury, do you so swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"I do," Mick said.
The bailiff retreated, and Lou Young approached. My pen sat at the ready, while Matt had his thumb over the clicker of his pen.
I doubted that Louis would let a witness onto the stand if he thought they'd perjure themselves. But just from this glance, I knew Mick's type. He didn't like to get challenged, especially not by those he thought to be beneath him.
All I had to do now was listen for the thread, so I could pull it until it frayed.
Chapter Seven
The limo service's Lincoln Towncar pulled up to a rundown apartment building in Hell's Kitchen, the lot abutting a small, but clearly well-loved Catholic chapel. Was chapel the right word? I didn't know, and frankly, I didn't care. Regardless, the limo pulled up to the curb, and I reached across the backseat to open the window on the right side of the car.
"Mr. Murdock," I called to my associate. "Door's unlocked."
Matt picked up his faded messenger bag and tapped his way to the car, sliding in with more grace than one would have expected from a blind man. He did have to finagle the placement of his cane in the backseat, but that took only another five seconds or so before the door closed, and we were on our way to the courthouse.
"How'd you sleep?"
Matt took a moment to just breathe before answering the question. "Badly. You?"
"Decently enough," I said. "NyQuil is surprisingly good as a sleep aid, as is Benadryl. But only for special occasions, like court."
"Right, right," he said. Then, "is… this, normal?"
"Hm?" I turned to glance at Matt, a tad confused. "You're playing the pronoun game here, Matthew. I don't know what 'this' is referring to."
"All of…" He waved a hand at the car. "All of this. Ma'am, you bought me a two thousand dollar suit. Is, is that normal?"
"It can be," I told him. "Depending on the clientele your firm serves, the level of amenities a firm has to provide both its clients and attorneys changes. If your clients are mostly the neighborhood sort, you want to match your means to the neighborhood, if just a little bit above their means. But big firms? Firms like Lewin Lieberman & Loeb?"
I tapped the leather of the armrest that folded down between our seats in the back of the limo. The interior of the car had that timeless "luxury" feel to it, and the privacy divider between the driver and backseat gave it an air of severity.
"This firm is expensive. As a result, clients of the firm expect to see expensive items; ones a step below their own usually, so as to not seem threateningly moneyed, but expensive. They want to see steakhouses, luxury cars, bespoke suits, designer shoes. They want to know that we can and do run in the same circles, that we know firsthand the interests we're protecting. But more than that, attorneys of the firm have an image to uphold, one in keeping with the firm's reputation. We need to look and act the part."
"And that's why I have a new suit?" Matt asked. "An Armani one?"
"Consider it an early birthday present," I told him. It was already harder for Matt to go suit shopping, just because he couldn't actually tell what the patterns or colors were, or how they looked on him. "You needed one anyway."
"This is probably the nicest thing I've ever worn." Matt's fingers twitched, and I guessed he'd kept himself from running his fingers over the fabric of his suit. "But this is just… normal for you, isn't it?"
"It is now," I admitted, rehearsing my opening statements in my head. "But back midwest, it was all toasted ravioli, oven brisket, and Ted Drewes on special occasions."
"Hmph, figured you for an out-of-towner," Matt said, triumph in his tone. "All fairness? You don't talk like a New Yorker."
"Oh?" I asked, unable to help the slight smile. "And where did you think I was from?"
Matt frowned. "Well, the way you enunciate your words? You sound like Reagan, a bit."
"Reagan? Really, Reagan?" I gave an exaggerated huff, and crossed my arms over my chest. "Why I never!"
"No, no!" Matt said, sounding slightly worried. "It's the way you talk, how you pronounce and enunciate things, it's got a bit of a Hollywood feel to it, you know?"
I couldn't help but laugh, both at his assessment and expense. "Well, Reagan comparisons aside, that's rather intentional. You'll see during opening statements."
Matt, despite being blind, gave me a look.
"You know what I meant by the idiom, Matthew. Quit being churlish."
"Sorry, sir." He paused deliberately. "Ma'am."
"At this time, would the prosecution like to make an opening statement?"
"We would, your Honor." Lou Young stood from his chair at counsel's table, but did not go any further. "Counsel requests permission to enter the well of the court."
"Granted," Judge Andrews said.
Most people take for granted that lawyers get to walk around in front of the judge and jury. In reality, no, this is not something we're simply able to do. It is a privilege, not a right.
The area between the bar of the court – a literal waist-high wooden fence, with a swinging door in the center of the aisle of the same height as the fence itself – and the judge's bench is what's known as the "well of the court". One does not simply walk into the well of the court without permission. If you do, the bailiff tackles you.
(I have seen it, it is hilarious, and is almost always followed up by a contempt of court charge from a judge who's desperately trying to restrain their laughter at the sheer idiocy.)
Whenever you enter the well of the court, or if you need to proceed to a different part of the well of the court, you need to ask the judge for permission. You want to approach the jury box, to show a piece of evidence to the jury? Ask permission. The witness needs to have a piece of evidence handed to them? Ask permission for that. Are you requesting a sidebar with the judge? Once again, you ask permission.
Generally, this permission applies to you. It has not, in my experience, extended to furniture.
And yet, here was DA Young, picking up counsel's chair and taking it into the well of the court.
He set the heavy wooden chair down in front of and facing the jury box, then sat in the chair. He was on the front half, leaning rather far forward, his arms resting in his lap as opposed to on the arms of the chair.
From this angle, I wasn't able to quite tell what he was doing. I saw an arm reach into his coat pocket, and when he brought it out, he held a box of those horrid menthol cigarettes he loved. He tapped on the bottom to knock one cigarette loose, grabbed it… and then paused.
"Ah, what am I thinking?" He used that same tone one would use for rhetorical questions, then lightly tapped himself on the head with the heel of one palm. "I can't smoke in here, none of us can!"
A quick glance at Judge Andrews showed zero surprise, which worried me, and was enough to guess that this little bit of theatrics had been planned. I had to suppress a frown, and instead simply turned to my notepad, marking down that he was going for what I could only assume was a 'town hall' feel with his opening statement.
"See, in some ways, that's how this all started," Lou Young said. He put the cigarette back into the box and placed it back in his jacket pocket, then leaned forward, his hands clasped lightly in his lap. "A few young men off work, sharing a beer, having a smoke. Normally, this isn't a dangerous thing to do. It doesn't lead to a young man being crippled for life. But here, it did. All because four young men saw that something bad might be happening in their neighborhood, took a stand to stop it… and got the worst shock of their lives when they turned out to be correct, and they were now stuck in an alley with a dangerous mutant."
Ah, so that's the angle he was going for. He wanted to reframe the reason his four 'victims' followed St. John into the alleyway, and so he put it in a manner that couldn't be easily refuted. It's one thing for him to say that they did it to stop a crime.
It's something else entirely if they thought it was to stop a crook: it introduces the possibility that they could have been mistaken, meaning that any testimony regarding whether they knew St. John was a thief or not was now just their opinion.
"It was just a day like any other," Lou said, twiddling something between his fingers – one of his menthol cigarettes, I saw once he raised his hand. "Mick, Jimmy, Theo, and Pat. The work site let them go early – you know how May is, raining most every afternoon. Can't build when it's wet, can you? So they figured, may as well hang on the street corner, by Jimmy's building. There's a corner store they can get some smokes and beers, shoot the breeze.
Lou wagged the cigarette as he spoke, pointing from juror to juror. The chair had felt like a ridiculous affectation at first, but now that I saw it in action? The way it placed him below the jury?
It was, I had to grudgingly admit, inspired.
"It was while they were doing this, while they were just spending time together, living their lives, that they saw something. They saw someone go into the corner store, rush out of it, spot them looking, and run." His hand moved, a cigarette held between his fingers emphasizing his every move. "So they did what any good samaritan would do: they gave chase. They herded this rapscallion down an alleyway, and confronted the thief! Only… they made a mistake."
DA Young waved the cigarette in his hand.
"See, Mick had a vice. He liked to smoke. So when he and his friends cornered the scoundrel in the alleyway, he still had a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth." He held the cigarette directly in front of him, displaying it prominently to the jury. "He may as well have just handed the villain a loaded gun.
"The mutant, cause as it turned out, that's what he was, ripped the fire out of Mick's cigarette. He torched the entire alley worse than the napalm guns back in 'Nam. Mick, Jimmy, Theo, Pat, they tried to fight back, but it was too much. They ran. And while they were running? Fwoosh!" He motioned with a hand, imitating liquid coming from a hose. Or rather, I figured, napalm jelly from a flamethrower. "The mutie nicked Mick in the leg, and his trousers caught fire! He tried to get them off, stopped looking where he was going, and – wham!"
Lou Young punctuated that last bit with a loud clap of his hands, at which three of the jurors flinched back, having leaned in to listen to his story. He had them enthralled – the only saving graces were that they weren't the five I was courting, and that if he'd managed to reel them in so easily, none of them was likely to be the foreman.
"Mick fell into an open construction site. His leg broke so bad, he's never gonna walk right again. Jimmy, Theo, and Pat, they got out sorta alright. That is, if you don't count the nightmares. And all 'cause they thought to protect their neighborhood, and crossed a mutie to do it.
"You don't gotta take my word for it, though." Lou Young flipped the cigarette to his other hand, and used it to point at the witness stand. "Much as it'll hurt him to get up there, Micah Samuelson's gonna tell ya everything that happened in that alley. And James Boothe'll follow him. They'll tell you everything: what they saw, what they did. What they got for it. What it cost them.
"Next, Detective Vincent Ruscoli is gonna paint a picture for ya. He'll take you back to that alleyway, show you what he found, how he pieced together the clues. The veteran detective'll guide us all through the process he used to figure out that this weren't no ordinary thug with a lighter and hairspray, and just how much danger our good boys from Brooklyn faced.
"And lastly, the good Doctor David McConnell will share just how badly Micah got hurt. You'll know the extent of his injuries, how much it hurt. And just how bad it was that Micah, a twenty-two year old young man in the prime of his youth, will be needing a cane to walk for the rest of his life. How he'll be suffering pain during his every waking moment from now on."
The jury shifted uncomfortably. Beside me, St. John gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white, but to my eternal relief, he said nothing.
"By the end of this trial, the proof will be in front of you," Lou Young said, standing up from the chair now. He walked behind it and rested his hands on the back, leaning forward ever so slightly. "The who, the what, the how, the when, and the why."
He tapped on the wooden back of the chair on each of the five W's, the tap quiet, but resonating loud and clear through the courtroom.
"And once all is said and done, I know you will make New York proud. I know you'll have everything you need to convict this dangerous mutant, and help make our streets safe."
And with that, DA Young took his chair and returned to counsel's table.
I could feel the silence lingering in the courtroom, longer than was the usual. Risking the impropriety, I cleared my throat, and could feel the weight of Judge Andrews' gaze upon me.
"Does the defense have an opening statement at this time?" the judge asked, his tone hostile enough that the same three jurors who'd flinched from the DA's sudden change of tone earlier all turned to glare at me. As though the simple act of doing my job was an affront to them now, simply because of who and what my client was.
"Yes, your Honor," I said, standing up from my chair. "Permission to approach?"
"Granted," he said.
And with that, the game was on. I reached for the trial binder holding my demonstratives. The sharp snap of a three-ring binder opening drew the jury's attention, and a quick look showed me three of the ones I wanted, and two of the jurors I'd already written off, looking over at me with curiosity. Then, one more reach down, and I had a carry case, a cork board, and pins. Accoutrements in hand, I entered the well of the court.
I set up my easel in thirty seconds, and set the cork board upon it. Then, the folder still in my hand, I turned to face the jury.
"Most of us in this room are lucky," I started, standing beside my easel. "We are lucky that we have never needed to fight for our lives. To protect ourselves with whatever happened to be available, be it a rock, a knife, a gun – or a mutant power. But the sixteen year old boy at the table over there," I turned to point at St. John, "was not so lucky. He had no choice but to fight against four people, all of them bigger, stronger, older than him, using only what he had available to him.
"Now, all of this talk you've heard?" I flipped open the folder in my hands, and pulled out the first piece of paper. "Young man? Defendant? All of it forgets that at the heart of this case, there is a person. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury." I pinned the paper to the cork board, and stepped away, letting the jury see my client's baby picture.
"Meet St. John Allerdyce, John to his friends." The next photograph joined St. John's baby picture, one of him on his fifth birthday, at a Yankees game. "St. John is a young man, born and raised in Brooklyn. He's a smart kid, to the point that he was offered a full scholarship to a private school in Manhattan," a piece of paper on expensive stationery joined the photographs, "where he maintains a 3.6 GPA.
"Now, I had to look this up again, so for those of you who, like me, have forgotten what that number is supposed to stand for?" I received a few good natured chuckles from two jurors, and a few people in the gallery. "It means that St. John maintains an A- grade average at one of the most academically challenging schools in Manhattan – a school that routinely sends multiple students each year to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and more."
Another piece of paper joined the rest – a playbill, with a name circled in red pen.
"St. John spends most of his afternoons with the school's theater department. But while you won't find him on stage, everybody sees his work." Pictures surrounded the playbill – pictures of St. John hanging lights in the rafters of the theater, eating takeout Chinese with the rest of the cast and crew, having a mock swordfight with the props backstage. "St. John works lighting design. He hangs the lights, aims them, times it all. When the lights go down on the theater, he's the one flipping the switch. And when the spotlight follows the lead, he's up in the rafters, guiding it."
The last of my papers met the posterboard: a newspaper clipping from the New York Times' theater section, lauding the light and sound design on a high school performance. St. John's high school. St. John's lighting design.
I picked up the posterboard from the easel and brought it closer to the jury, starting closer to the prosecutor's table,and walking left, towards the bench. A simple left to right motion, like the way we read.
"This is who St. John Allerdyce is. A young man from a loving family. A young man with bright mind, a promising future, and a passion for the theater."
I turned back to my easel, and set the corkboard back into place, loosening the fixture holding the board steady before stepping slightly to its side, so the jury could see it again. Then for three seconds, I did nothing, said nothing. Just let the jury look at the corkboard.
"But according to the prosecution?" I took two steps towards the easel and corkboard.
Then, with a hard shove, I knocked it over.
The easel fell backwards, clattering to the wooden floor of the courtroom. The easel bounced once, twice, three times. The corkboard flew off, coming to a stop right in front of the bailiff, who nudged it aside slightly with his foot.
"Everything that St. John is, everything he's done. All of his hopes, his dreams, his aspirations, his drive?" I turned back to the jury now, stopping in front of the fallen easel. "According to the vaunted Louis Young, none of that matters, because St. John Allerdyce had the misfortune to be born a mutant."
"This case," I continued, only letting my last sentence ring in their ears for a single second, "is a simple matter of he-said, they-said. Both sides are, from a certain point of view, speaking truth. But DA Young was tricky, oh so tricky just now. Thoughts, feelings, suspicions. These are what he plans to offer you. The four neighborhood thugs – because, as you'll hear from the owner of the very corner store they allege John robbed, Mr. Alejandro de Soto, that is what people think of them – thought St. John was a thief. They assumed he had to have stolen. It's all…"
I turned slightly from the jury, one arm holding my other at the elbow, as my free hand tapped at my chin. I made sure to appear as though I was thinking, searching for the word. A moment later, I perked up, let one arm drop, and turned back towards the jury.
"It's all fluffy," I said. "Uncertain. It's a possibility.
"But this, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is not a squabble over who has to pay for a fender bender. This," I waved with both arms at the courtroom, offering as much of a flourish as was possible without expansive skirts to swirl about me, "is a criminal court, where we deal in one currency: cold. Hard. Facts. And as you will see, the prosecution's case is remarkably light on those, which we will take great care to expose for you to see.
"But as for the defense's case?" I let out a mirthless chuckle. "We have facts. Oh, do we have facts to spare."
I stalked towards the right again, setting myself directly in front of the prosecution's table.
The jury could look past me and see DA Young, but they wouldn't. What I'd done was a textbook example of upstaging: whichever object of attention was closer to the audience would get the lion's share of the attention.
Even though both the DA and I were in the exact same line of sight, because I was closer, I was more immediately important.
And with any luck, this would plant a particular idea in the minds of the jurors – that just as I was a more important object of attention now, so too would everything I said and presented be of greater weight and importance than whatever Louie did to try and spin his precious thug's flight of fantasy into a half-assed narrative.
"As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Alejandro de Soto, the owner of the corner store where all of this kicked off, will soon be seated upon that stand. He will tell you all about what actually happened to set everything in motion, including who really attacked who, and explain why St. John had a very real reason to fear for his safety. Namely, because where these four hooligans were concerned? He was far from the only one that they terrorized.
"You will also hear from a close friend of St. John's, a Miss Katherine Pryde."
I offered the jury a smile, even as I shifted to the side ever so slowly, moving just a little bit at a time as I spoke. Their eyes followed me, shifting away from the DA, putting him and his case out of sight, out of mind – quite literally forcing it to fade into the background.
"Miss Pryde knows that St. John is a mutant. She has known this for quite some time, has seen what his powers are capable of. And yet, she isn't afraid of him, not in the slightest. Why? Because Miss Pryde knows a person who happens to be a mutant, and she is all too happy to tell you about it.
"Lastly!" I shifted to the left, setting myself before the empty witness stand and the judge's bench. "You will hear from Doctor Harry Michaelson, who saw St. John hours after he was attacked in that alleyway. Dr. Michaelson will explain, in no uncertain terms, the extent of the injuries St. John suffered, how and what could have caused it, and – most importantly?"
I walked forward, until I was practically leaning on the jury box, staring straight at the man who had just yesterday been potential juror number ten. And this time, I was pleased to see that he was looking me straight in the eye.
"He will explain how St. John was quite literally this close," I held one hand up, my fingers an inch apart, "to having died in that alleyway."
I turned away from the jury box, and picked up my easel from where I'd knocked it to the floor, righted it, then retrieved the corkboard from halfway across the well of the court. The corkboard went back into place on the easel, which now faced inwards towards the judge, so that the jury could see more of my front. With both hands still on the easel, I gave a somber look to the contents of the corkboard.
And then, I let out the largest, most despondent sigh I could manage.
"Just as I didn't ask to be born a woman," I said, turning now to face the jury, with one hand still on the easel. "And just as DA Young didn't decide to be born a man, St. John Allerdyce had no control over his being a mutant. It's just how he was born. All that I ask is that you judge him on this."
I turned the easel with the hand resting on it, so that the jury could see it.
"On who St. John is. Because we all deserve that much."
And with that, I was done. A short, respectful bow of my head to the jury came first, and then I was dismantling the easel, retracting the tripod legs so that I could put it away. A moment later I was back beside defense counsel's table, and slid the easel into its case before disassembling the little diorama I'd assembled on the cork board.
"Holy crap," St. John whispered to me as I sat down, and I had to fight down the smirk at his shock. Leave it to the theater kid to recognize a monologue when he saw one.
"With opening statements concluded," Judge Andrews boomed, raising his voice over the murmurs forming in both the gallery and the jury box, "the court shall recess. We shall resume in thirty minutes with the prosecution's case-in-chief."
The gavel came down, and last-minute planning amendments began.
"If the prosecution could call its first witness?" Judge Andrews said moments after the bailiff returned with the jury.
"Of course, your Honor." Lou Young stood up from his chair and leaned forward, both hands on the desk. "The prosecution calls the victim, Micah Samuelson, to the stand."
Years of practice is what let me not grimace when I heard how the DA phrased things. It was a bit of a low blow, deliberately calling your witness the victim, meant to tug at the heartstrings of the jury.
And when the man of the hour passed the bar of the court, I understood exactly why.
Micah Samuelson couldn't wear a pair of suit pants due to the enormous cast immobilizing his entire leg, from just before the toes all the way to over the knee. Instead, he wore a pair of khaki shorts, with a single boat shoe on his good foot. To contrast that, he had a simple, long-sleeved polo shirt, buttons fastened. Mid-length black hair, slick with gel or mousse, was swept back so not a single strand obscured his face.
Were it not for the cast, which prevented him from sitting straight on the witness stand and left him with his leg poking out the side, he would look like he was just some preppy young adult, about to go sailing out on the docks.
"Please raise your right hand," the bailiff said. Mick raised it obligingly, glaring at St. John from the stand the whole time. "Under penalty of perjury, do you so swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"I do," Mick said.
The bailiff retreated, and Lou Young approached. My pen sat at the ready, while Matt had his thumb over the clicker of his pen.
I doubted that Louis would let a witness onto the stand if he thought they'd perjure themselves. But just from this glance, I knew Mick's type. He didn't like to get challenged, especially not by those he thought to be beneath him.
All I had to do now was listen for the thread, so I could pull it until it frayed.
jwolfe_beta
Semi Genre-Savvy Overlord
- Location
- Canada
Probably keep hammering the 'horrible dangerous mutant beucase he's a mutant' angle while trying to get the defending witnesses to lose composure.
TimEd
Meteor maker
Seems like a grind.
Maybe there will be a public mutant attack that he'll use to point to make his point.
- Location
- Israel
Something in me thinks they'll provoke or even outright orchestrate such an attack. It will be easy for them to arrange a "random mob" and lynch a known mutant that isn't on anyones radar, try and get one to retaliate and hush any attack throgh judicious use of corruption in the police department (aka bribes).
Then our MC catches on to it and accidentally exposes a wide net of corruption and plays it as if it was made specifically to target mutants and make allusions to the fight for black people's rights and the exact same thing that happened then.. That's going to sway any non old-and-rich person to the mutant's side and since it'll be televised nationwide to try and get fame for the prosecutor it'll bite him in the ass and televise him being part of a corruption scandal exposed while trying to send an innocent teenager into a super-max prison (exaggeration is the name of the game when talking media).
And that's just me rambling a prediction, I don't have enough information for a really accurate prediction nor do I know the author well enough to predict his twists, so this is the best I got.
Last edited:
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
not normally much for court drama but i am very interested in where this is going.
Chargone
Invisable operator
- Location
- New Zealand
There's apparently a saying in legal circles (and I may have the first two reversed): when the law is on your side, pound on the law. When the facts are on your side, pound on the facts. When neither are on your side, pound on the table".
The defence here seems to have the facts and the law (at least mostly)... So I'm guessing the prosecution is going to be mostly "poundng on the table"... Which I believe refers to dramatic performance appealing to and manipulating the emotions of the audience/jury.
So basically a lot of attempts to appeal to bigotry and discredit opposing witnesses and paint the defendant as a murderous crazy person rather than actually argue any more than necessary about the facts of what actually Happened, or if it was or wasn't legal. Constant spin-doctering, I'd expect.
That's my guess, anyway.
Godwinson
"Well, I've got nothing."
Ordinarily I cannot stand procedural stories, but I think an important difference here is that most of those stories are from the prosecution's side.
There's a reason why the fic is titled what it is.
- Location
- Texas
Takes a deep breath*
...
Okay...
NO.
No, no, no, no, no.
Please, tell me that the prosecution lost one of the votes already. Please tell me that Young's moronic stupidity in this chapter will come back to bite him in the ass hard.
PLEASE tell me that someone on the Jury realized that, by Young's own words, that the prosecution pointed the equivelant of a gun or a flamethrower at them. Something that by his own damn words:
Let me repeat that. Young brought the equivelant of a gun, by his own admission, into the courtroom, and pointed it at the Jury. Sure, it might not be loaded or ready to fire, but he still pointed something, that caused, by his own words, "a crippling injury" to the defendant's "Victim" at the Jury.
Please tell me that one of the people on the Jury noticed this. Please tell me that this grandstanding of Young's comes back to bite him in the ass royally!
...
Okay...
NO.
No, no, no, no, no.
Please, tell me that the prosecution lost one of the votes already. Please tell me that Young's moronic stupidity in this chapter will come back to bite him in the ass hard.
PLEASE tell me that someone on the Jury realized that, by Young's own words, that the prosecution pointed the equivelant of a gun or a flamethrower at them. Something that by his own damn words:
Let me repeat that. Young brought the equivelant of a gun, by his own admission, into the courtroom, and pointed it at the Jury. Sure, it might not be loaded or ready to fire, but he still pointed something, that caused, by his own words, "a crippling injury" to the defendant's "Victim" at the Jury.
Please tell me that one of the people on the Jury noticed this. Please tell me that this grandstanding of Young's comes back to bite him in the ass royally!
- Location
- California
Well we have grounds for a mistrial even the jurors don't call it.
Chargone
Invisable operator
- Location
- New Zealand
That is what I was thinking. Saying so just didn't want to fit right.Ordinarily I cannot stand procedural stories, but I think an important difference here is that most of those stories are from the prosecution's side.
There's a reason why the fic is titled what it is.
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
This story seems to lean in to getting legal proceedings accurate. That's an accurate summation of legal proceedings.
Godwinson
"Well, I've got nothing."
Wait, what? I think I missed something.
- Location
- Texas
You see how Young is saying how the lit cig in Mike's mouth was the equivelant of giving a loaded gun to Sinjin?
Young pointed a cigarette at the Jury, you know... something that Sinjin can apparently toarch an: "entire alley worse than the napalm guns back in 'Nam." with?
If I was on that Jury? I would be wondering if the insane man in front of me was going to load that metaphorical napalm gun that he is waving in my face. You know... the one that left one of the "Victims" crippled for the rest of his life? I was taught that you never point a gun at anything you don't want to die, so him waving that at the Jury?
I would honestly consider that a damn threat directed at me.