(( OOC: Introducing the lead prosecutor, Cynthia Keys. She's a thin, tall, black woman wearing an expensive and conservatively styled pantsuit and a thin silver chain around her throat. She wears glasses at her desk -- she finds they make her look smarter -- but she takes them off when she's addressing a jury.

She's not famous, but has a few solid cases behind her. Besides, nobody else in the office wanted to touch a case this volatile. She has a growing reputation within the DA's office as an expert hand with a jury, but a bit sloppy with her research. Fortunately, for this case she has assistants to handle the research side.

The biggest surprise about her is that she was a vociferous critic of the MRA from when it was first proposed, and a strong and vocal supporter of mutant rights. The news has been full of speculation for weeks now about what exactly that means; no two commentators seem to agree.))

---

Cynthia stands, walks casually to the edge of the jury box, leans conspiratorially in to address the jury.

"Wow. This is going to be some case, huh?" Her eyes widen slightly, as though in anticipation. "I mean, it's got everything. A pretty girl. Mutant powers. Elimination of due process. Brutal oppression of a minority. Race riots. An exciting rescue from a concentration camp. All the elements of a movie-of-the-week, right? I know I'd watch."

Nobody nods, but she didn't expect them to. She sees a couple of hesitant smiles, though. It's a start.

Her voice is mellow, friendly, and inviting as she indicates the defense table with a friendly sweep of her arm. "You'll hear more about all that from the defense, I'm sure. And they'll be absolutely right: Isabel Duskmoor, along with hundreds of other mutants, was incarcerated under the Mutant Registration Act and treated horribly. It's a bad law, and the Camps were a horror and a travesty. I opposed the MRA when it was passed and I oppose it now, and so should you."

And now the closed-off faces start to open. Good. They're listening. They didn't expect that.

She'd taken a huge gamble during jury selection... the safe bet would've been to stock the box with anti-mutant bigots and exclude mutant sympathizers, while the defense tried the opposite. Instead, she'd gone the other way... excluding the complete mutant apologists who would never convict a mutant for anything, keeping the reasonable sympathizers, and focusing her efforts on weighting the jury in her favor more subtly.

The result, she'd hoped, was a fairly homogenous jury, with relatively little internal strife. Which should lead to a quick verdict. And with a crime as visceral as this one, that helps the prosecution. Besides, she doesn't want to give the defense any grounds for appeal on this case.

"So if I'm so chummy with the defense on this, if we're both so full of peace, love, and understanding... " (and in the privacy of her own mind she cheers as three of the jurors, the ones she'd pegged as ex-flower-children, turn to face her with just the hint of a smile. That's right, boys and girls, pay attention... look past the expensive suit... real person here...), "...then why are we even here?" She spreads her arms to the side and smiles invitingly, making eye contact with the last holdout, Cynical Man, and smiling a little as he nods. And that makes twelve. Time to move on...

"We're here because none of that has anything to do with this case." Her voice turns crisp and compelling as she straightens up and moves to face the jury directly, and she's pleased to see them straighten up a fraction in sympathy. Got 'em!, she thinks. And now that she's gotten their attention and their sympathy, she moves on to the actual meat of her opening remarks.

"We're not here because Isabel Duskmoor is a mutant.
We're not here because she's a woman.
We're not here because she's white.
We're not here because she's young and pretty.
This case is not about minority rights, or women's rights, or mutant rights.
Not at all.

We're here because Isabel Duskmoor is a murderer... a cold-blooded killer.
And that's the only reason we're here."

She lets herself unbend a little, and the jury relaxes microscopically in sympathy, and she walks casually away from the jury box. "We're here because we're a nation of laws," she continues, "Mostly good laws. 'Don't kill people'. 'Don't take things that don't belong to you.' 'Don't stab people's internal organs with sharp objects.' Laws that apply to blacks and whites, women and men, mutant and baseline human alike." She lets her voice emphasize the rhythm of the opposed pairs, almost sing-song, as she approaches, then turns abruptly and adds: "Isabel Duskmoor has broken those laws, and the law demands that we hold her accountable!"

Her stroll had, seemingly coincidentally, led her to the judge's bench; she delivers that line with the judge seated behind her, in a ringing, oratorial voice her preacher father would have been proud of, and the jury sits up and takes notice again. One thing she had stocked the jury with was practical types; 'accountability' would resonate with them.

"We're here because we've been chosen to stand up for the men and women she killed and demand justice!" And that should be good for hooking the idealists.

"If we let Isabel Duskmoor walk out of this courtroom free, she'll kill again. And again. And again. We're here because of the many, many innocent men and women who depend on us to provide protection." She doesn't shout that one, doesn't do anything to emphasize the underlying message: her next victim might be you, or the people you love. She doesn't want to make them scared of Issie, not this early in the game... she just wants to plant the seed. So she moves on, quickly.

"Later, I'll introduce you to the families of the police officers Isabel Duskmoor killed. I'll introduce you to the one surviving officer and let him tell you about the night Isabel Duskmoor killed his colleagues and maimed him... without compassion, without remorse, and without hesitation.

And when you listen to his story, as you listen to other witness' testimony, as you see the facts of the case, I want you to remember why we're here." She counts off the three points on her fingers as she continues, her voice firm and strong and powerful.
"Remember: the law looks to us to hold her accountable.
Remember: her victims and their families look to us to ensure justice.
And remember: every innocent man, woman and child in this state looks to us to offer protection."

She steps back, spreads her hands to the side, what she thinks of as "stepping down from the pulpit", and concludes with the same friendly, mellow, conspiratorial voice she'd started out with.

"It's not a comfortable place to be.
It's not a pleasant place to be.
It's not fun.
Believe me, I know.

But it's important.
It's even, if you don't mind my using such an outdated word, noble.

Put Isabel Duskmoor in prison for her crimes and for the rest of your lives you'll know you did something that matters.
That you stood up to power, and held it accountable.
That you served justice.
That you saved lives.

Not many get that chance. I hope you'll make the most of it."

There's actually tears in her eyes as she sits, and she realizes that she's selling herself on this just as much as she's selling the jury. Well, why not? It's all true.

That's why she'd become a criminal prosecutor in the first place, after all.

(OOC: Borrowing Sonya's speech-color idea. )

Myron Leech listened carefully to the Prosecution’s Opening Statements. He leaned on the table, the fingers of his hands formed a tent, both index fingers resting lightly on his thin lips. Piercing blue eyes stared out from behind the wire-rimmed glasses, but gave no hint as to his thoughts. Almost. A hint of disapproval crept in at the smiles the Prosecution managed to elicit. It was not unexpected, as his research on his opposing professional pointed toward a cunning mind in the selection field. Not unexpected, but still unwelcome. She would be a worthy opponent.

He waited for Ms. Keys to finish before moving. He stood in a deliberate, smooth movement. Truly, he could win a prize for imitating a worm. Or perhaps a snake... He took a page off of the neat stack of papers on his table, and twitched the other back into a concise symetrical position. He walked slowly toward the jury, supposedly reading something. The jurors eyed each other, wondering at the silence. Finally Myron glanced up, over his glasses, and folded the paper, neatly and even down the middle. And he smiled.

“Well, I must say, I am more than a little surprised.” His voice was an odd contrast of quiet but firm, with a slightly nasal twang. Really he should have been an accountant. “I had nice, neat little speech all prepared and written up, with full intentions to combat an attack on mutant rights. But as my colleague so eloquently stated, this case has absolutely nothing to do with mutant rights. I begin to wonder if she is a psychic herself, and she covered my thoughts to a tee. Though ever so much more eloquently.” He turned and gave Ms. Keys a half bow, seemingly out of respect, before turning back to the jury.

“Well, as I have already prepared, please forgive my redundancy. This case is not about mutant rights. It is about justice. And I must agree with everything Ms. Keys said. Except for one thing. The Prosecution intends to prove that Isabel Duskmoor,” and he swept a hand out toward the defendant, “is a cold blooded killer. I intend to prove otherwise.”

He folded his hands behind his back, bowed his head, and began strolling slowly back and forth in front of the jury box. His voice took on an almost heavy-hearted tone.

“There is no doubt that there are a number of victims here. People have died. Death is a cruel, hateful nemesis that all of, unfortunately, must face on a daily basis. Unwarranted death is an even harsher reality. Someone must be held accountable for this crime against humanity.

“But,” he turned, and raised one finger, tilting his head, “is that person Isabel Duskmoor? Or was this unfortunate event a result of a bad situation, one made worse by the bad decisions on the part of those sworn to protect us?”

He again turned, this time addressing the entire courtroom, though not actually looking up at them. “The Prosecution stated that we are here to hear the facts of this case. She is correct. Fact is what justice should be based on. For this reason I urge you to pay close attention to the facts. It will be difficult to ignore your emotions, as there is no doubt that pain has been caused to a number of innocent individuals. However, I urge you,” and his tone deepened, “to put aside your feelings, and see the facts. The fact that Isabel Duskmoor is just as much a victim here, a victim of circumstance. A victim that, as the Prosecution claims, deserves to be protected. Just like every man, woman, and child here, human or mutant, has the right.”

He bowed slightly to the jury, and then the judge, before sliding smoothly back to his seat, pausing briefly to look Cynthia Keys directly in the eyes.

The next few days of testimony are almost a blur for Cynthia… important, of course, but really just laying the framework for her star witness, Mr. Kelly.

There weren’t many witnesses to the Slaughter – not many left alive, anyway – and those few had been frightened at the time and remained frightened now. They testified about what they saw and heard, but couldn’t – or in some cases wouldn’t -- definitively identify Isabel as the perpetrator, and the defense had made that perfectly clear on cross-examination. The families of the dead officers were even less relevant; she’d been lucky to get their testimony included at all. Still, they’d all served their purpose… they proved nothing, but they set the tone, set the jury’s mood. Which was just as important, if not more so.

Then, the forensic medical expert who testified about the bone fragments found in officer Isaac’s chest, and their match to Isabel’s DNA. The other forensic experts who testified about the dozens of fatal stab wounds, slice wounds, etc. that were consistent with her powers (though, of course – as the defense pointed out – consistent with other types of weapons as well). These were dull as ditchwater – expert evidence always was – but they provided a much-needed grounding in observed, recorded, scientific facts.

For her entire career as a prosecutor Cynthia has been amazed by how little importance juries actually assign to facts. In her early years she kept trying, and failing, to build cases on them. She’s learned from experience, though… first, you tell them what to believe, then you give them just enough facts to justify believing it. The defense always has experts of their own, of course… so at the end of the day it’s really all about what the jury wants to believe. Which makes it all about who has the most compelling story.

She’d been torn about whether to include psychiatric evaluation… ultimately, decided against it. Juries never believe in them anyway, and she doesn’t need the usual droning about “pronounced sociopathic and psychopathic tendencies” to creep the jury out when she can show the jury pictures of streets full of sliced-up cops.

She’s pleased with herself – she’d handled the case so far with an attention to detail as well as her usual flair. If her star witness performs as well on the stand as he did during their prep sessions, she’s confident they have this case locked down tight.

"The prosecution calls Rupert Kelly."

Detective Rupert Kelley of the NYPD, Central Park Precinct, was not shaking as he stood to take the stand. He hadn't been sure whether he would be or not. It wouldn't have made any sense if he had been--this, after all, was just another trial.

He'd testified at trials before. It came hand-in-hand with being a cop. As a beat officer, it was mostly small stuff: traffic incidents, domestic violence; things that made the headlines only on days when the news was light. He'd been at more interesting trials, during his short time as a Detective with the Mutant and Mutant-Related Crimes Task Force--MMRC, the Mercy. This was just another trial. He made his way from the seat he'd been warming for the past few days, and went to take his brief place at the front. Rupert passed Cynthia Myers on his way to the main floor. The Captain of Mercy gave him a tight nod. Rupert was able to give her a curt smile back, because this was just another trial.

He walked to the stand. He got sworn in. It was only when Prosecutor Keys approached him that the routine wore off. That's when the traitorous thought slipped in past his practiced defenses: This isn't just another trial. This is it. He kept his eyes on Ms Keys. It was very important to just keep his eyes on Ms Keys.

They'd rehearsed this moment for weeks. They'd rehearsed this moment until it was begging to be put in its grave. He just had to go through this once more, and he'd never have to deal with it again. Behind Ms Keys, his gaze caught a reassuring smile from the audience: his psychiatrist. ...I wish she hadn't come.

Ms Keys was talking. Rupert didn't need to actually hear the question; he knew his part. They were starting with the basics. They'd work up from there. As long as he didn't think too hard about it, as long as he just followed her prompts, everything would just go like they'd practiced, and he could go sit back down again. So. The basics.

"Would you state your name and profession for the record, please?"

"Rupert Kelley." He started simply, making sure he answered Ms Keys, but he was talking to the jury. You always talked to the jury. They were the people you needed on your side. "I was a beat officer when she... I was a beat officer back then. I'm a Detective now." He'd said it reasonably enough: he'd only had to swallow once. Ms Keys hadn't seemed to mind his rephrasing, during practice; she said they made him come off as more 'personable'; whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

Now onto the fun stuff. "Where were you on the day of the Slaughter, Detective Kelley?"

"The Massacre," he corrected. "I know what the media calls it... but on the force, we call it the Massacre. We're not pigs going to market. We're human beings. With all due respect.

"We--my partner... my partner Jerry Brockwell and I--we'd picked up a call on the radio, asking all units to respond to some sort of riot in-progress at the Sanctuary. It was the day of their Grand Opening; there was the usual detail already on crowd control. Jerry and I, we were making jokes about how those guys were actually having to earn their pay. No one had expected trouble there; it was... back then, we thought it was just a homeless shelter. A rich philanthropist's pet project. Something that was no one was going to argue over; it was good for the City. You don't expect real trouble at something like that. We--I--knew the guys who were working crowd control. They were good men. I knew them." There was a cup of ice water on the stand; Rupert wrapped his hand around it, his knuckles slowly turning white. He made sure he made eye contact with the jury for this one. A man had to. "Jerry and I, we were making jokes about them after that call came in. It's... it's one of the most shameful things I've ever done in my life."

"What happened next, Detective Kelley?"

"We went to the scene. When we got there... it was..." He looked down at the ice water; he deliberately unwrapped his hand from it, and set it back in his lap. He looked back to the jury. "You've all heard of Hell, right? I'm not talking about whether you're Christian or not. You've got some picture in your head of what Hell would be like, right? So did I, before then. When we got there... that's my picture of Hell, now." He stopped for breath. He wasn't exactly built for being long-winded, as much as he liked to be.

"Go on, Detective Kelley." Ms Keys prompted softly.

He nodded to her, and turned back to the jury. "We weren't the first on the scene. The original officers, the ones on crowd control from the beginning, the ones we'd been cracking jokes about--I think they were all dead by then. That's something for the medical examiner to say for certain; I don't want to get the Defense jumping down my throat on that one. I just know I didn't see any of them still standing, when we arrived. I did see some of them... I..." He turned back to the ice water, and actually took a swallow. He coughed. Then he went on. "Some of them were dead already. I saw that, for sure. You've seen the pictures of the aftermath; picture some of those men and women still alive, still fighting; trying to keep those--" Not 'freaks'; Ms Keys had spent hours drilling him on what not to say; they weren't 'freaks', 'muties', 'monsters', 'demons', 'beasts', 'creatures'; to be extra safe, they weren't even 'mutants'. "--those three away from the civilians that hadn't made it away from the scene yet. Picture Hell, with the damned still trying to fight their way out. The officers that had arrived before us--the ones still alive--they were on the frontlines, just trying to make sure everyone got out safe. The frontlines of Hell."

"What happened next, Detective Kelley?"

"Jerry and I got out of our car, as soon as we got there; we were very close to where two of the suspects were. I saw all three of them attacking people; I... I distinctly saw two of them killing people--the teenager who could change into a raptor, and the Defendant, Miss Isabel Duskmoor. They were the closest to us. The third suspect, the woman, I did not get a close look at. It was... it was chaos. It was Hell.

"Units were getting called in from all over the city, not just from our precinct. I learned that later. It... It didn't help. There was no coordinated defense. The second you were out of your car, you were a target. It was too close and too crowded for guns. We were just... we were nothing but moving targets. The raptor boy was the one who killed Jerry. He jumped on him; he tore out..." He paused a moment, getting his voice back under control. "He tore out Jerry's throat. He was right next to me, and I couldn't do anything. Honestly, I never saw the Defendant approaching. Jerry had just been killed. Then next thing I knew, there was a pain in my chest; I couldn't breath. I looked down, and saw that the Defendant had--the Defendant had stabbed through my chest with one of her bone weapons. I remember---I remember that she was smiling. She was wearing a dress and a ribbon in her hair, like she was at a party. She laughed when she--when she pulled her bone out of my chest. She was laughing. She must have thought I was as good as dead; she didn't bother to finish me off, like she did with the others." He'd started unconsciously kneading at the scar over his lung. He stopped when he realized what he was doing, and sat up a little straighter.

"How severe were your injuries, Detective Kelley?"

"I've been told that if the paramedics had been five minutes later, I'd just be another one of her murder victims, Ms Keys. I'd be dead. She had stabbed through my left lung. I was... I'm not trying to be gruesome with this, it's just how it was: I was drowning in my own blood, and I was bleeding to death at the same time. That's just how it was. I didn't actually feel much of it. Shock is a damn good thing; I'll just say that.

"I was unconscious for two days. I was in the hospital for about ten weeks. It was... it was partly for psychiatric reasons; I still have to... I see a psychiatrist twice a month, since then. I meet with my physical therapist, once a month. The doctors tell me my lung capacity is down by about a third; I can't expect to ever regain that fully, even with the therapy. I can't go up a flight of stairs without wheezing; if I jog--hell, if I walk briskly for too long--my vision starts to fade. I'm getting out of breath, just sitting up here."

"If your injuries were so severe--so life-altering--Detective Kelley, why did you go back to work?"

"I could have taken disability, if that's what you're getting at." He knew exactly what she was getting at: she was getting at excuses for him to seem noble and just. Something she'd made entirely clear he would need, once the Defense lawyer sunk in his teeth. "I decided to go back to work, instead. I got my promotion to Detective, and I joined the Mutant and Mutant-Related Crimes Task Force. After the Massacre, a lot of people on the force were scared of mutants. Scared to the point where they'd go out of their way to avoid dealing with them. A mutant could rob a store right in front of some of us--and I'm not naming names, and I'm sure as hell not blaming anyone--but some people on the force would just let them get away with it. Just because they were a mutant; because they didn't want to end up like everyone at the Massacre. Someone had to still be willing to hold them accountable for the things they were doing. I figured... I figured it might as well be me." A statement his psychiatrist was going to try and delve deeply into the meaning of during their next session, no doubt. Great.

"Thank you, Detective Kelley. I think we can all understand how hard it is for you to be up here, confronting the Defendant; reliving those memories. I only have one more question for you. What do you believe started the Massacre? What triggered Isabel Duskmoor to do what she did?"

"I don't know what started it--I don't know why any of those three began killing, that day. I can't answer that question with an honest answer, Ms Keys. All I know is what I saw. I saw the Defendant--I saw Isabel Duskmoor--attacking and killing good officers. She sure as hell attacked me. I've never been more certain of something in my life." Now, to close it off: he looked at each member of the jury in turn. "Please--you have to put her away. This isn't about her being a mutant, and this isn't about revenge. She killed good people, and she laughed about it. She is not going to stop killing unless you put her away. If you have any care for yourself or others; if you believe in justice at all, you have to convict her for what she's done.

"Please."

"Thank you, Detective Kelley. That's all the questions that I have for you."

It was time for the cross-examination.

(OOC: Sorry in advance for the length of this post. It is a collaboration of three members, to cut down on posting and timing confusion. Keep in mind that each color is a separate member speaking; that might help a little bit in the reading.

Myron listened intently to Detective Kelly’s testimony. His left hand made detailed notes on the notepad before him, but his eyes remained focused on the man in front of him. Such detailed testimony would be difficult to poke holes in. Difficult, but not impossible.

"Thank you, Detective Kelley. That's all the questions that I have for you."

That was Myron’s cue. He set his pen down, and took a brief moment to skim what he had written, before standing and walking toward the witness stand.

”Detective Kelly, could you please inform the court, what the standard procedure is for responding to a riot?”

"The 'standard procedure' is about sixty pages of eight-font text. It boils down to 'listen to your higher ups, don't use excessive violence, calm things down, and watch each other's backs. The higher ups... they didn't know what was going on, really, so I can't blame them for how things turned out. I don't think anyone could accuse us of using excessive violence. ...I don't think they could accuse us of the last two, either."

Myron blinked over the rim of his glasses. "The 'higher ups' didn’t know what was going on? Well, that’s a bit disconcerting. So what you're saying is that your team leaders sent you in to a potentially dangerous situation, without giving you an inkling of what you might be up against?” He reached up and scratched the back of his head, his face expressing confusion. ”Doesn't that sound a bit irresponsible, Detective?”

"That's not for me to say, Mister Leech, and I really can't see why it would have any bearing on whether Miss Isabel Duskmoor willfully murdered those men."

”Don’t worry, Detective, we’ll get to Miss Duskmoor soon enough. I want to hear from you in the meantime.” He smiled at the detective. Though it appeared genuine, the reaction came from the discovery of how ‘reactive’ the Detective could truly be.

“Now then, you say that "There was no coordinated defense. The second you were out of your car, you were a target." That was your exact statement before, correct? Why is it that there was no coordination?”

The prosecuting attorney was out of her chair before the last word was fully uttered. "Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation!"

Myron responded without missing a beat: "Your Honor, the witness is certainly in a position to offer informed testimony as to the state of the police department at the time, and that state directly effects the events under discussion. Surely if he doesn't know, he can say so?"

After a moment the Judge replied, "I'll allow it, Counselor."

Cynthia sat back down with mixed feelings. On the one hand, having the defense establish the bonafides of the prosecution's main witness can't be a bad thing. On the other hand, the defense lawyer was no idiot... he was bound to have something up his sleeve here.

Myron watched until she regained her seat, then motioned to the Witness. ”Please continue, Detective.”

"With all due respect, Mister Leech, the reasons why there weren't a coordinated defense were out of my control, and I'm not some kind of expert, to be commenting on them. I was just a beat officer then. They told us to get to the scene: we did. We weren't the first responders, like I said, but we were there pretty soon after it began. And it all... it all happened quickly. Back at the station, I think they didn't know how serious it was at first, either; I hear it started as just a brawl in the crowd that was getting out of control. I suspect that's what got called in."

”All units were called in? Why were they not appraised of the situation before entering? Why weren't you and your partner told? Why didn't you ask before exiting your car?” Again Myron allowed confusion to seep into his tone, and again the Prosecuting attorney reacted.

"Objection! Your Honor, he's still asking for speculation!" Keys sounded quite aggrieved, just as she'd practiced it for years after her first trial. Myron countered in his own perfected, butter-smooth voice, "Your Honor, surely the witness can testify as to his own reasons for entering an out-of-control situation without seeking further orders?"

"I'm rather curious about that myself, Counselor. Objection overruled." Yet again Myron refrained from showing his pleasure.

Cynthia sat back down again, doing her best not to look as frustrated as she was. That hadn't gone well. Myron waved for Detective Kelly to continue.

"Units from across the city, I said. I don't know what the later teams were or weren't 'appraised of', but no, Jerry and I weren't told.... weren't told anything that would have prepared us for that. Mister Leech, with all due respect, if you turned a corner and saw some of your closest friends, and--and your neighbors, maybe--being mercilessly attacked by those--those murderers, would you stop to make phone calls, or would you get out of the damn car and help them? No, we didn't ask for more details, Mister Leech; maybe we should have; I don't know. I don't know if that would have changed anything. It was before the MMRC--sorry; that's the Mutant and Mutant-Related Crimes Task Force--was even formed. By FBI standards, we were all supposed to sit back and do nothing while those... those three attacked civilians. The government says untrained officers shouldn't go anywhere near mutants. They're right on that. But Hell--people were getting killed. No officer worth his badge is just going to turn around and go home when that's happening, right in front of him. There were a lot of things that went wrong that day, Mister Leech, a lot of things, which I think you're getting at. That doesn't excuse her, though. The fact that Jerry and I didn't sit in our car and radio back in for orders doesn't excuse Isabel Duskmoor from murder."

Myron paused for a moment, then shook his head sadly. ”You know, Detective, I agree with you. The mistakes of others doesn’t excuse anyone from murder. However, in light of all that you’ve told us, by sending men into this dangerous situation, without giving them an understanding of the danger they faced, isn’t it true that your ‘higher ups’, as you named them, showed an incredible amount of irresponsibility? Irresponsibility that directly resulted in the death of many good men? In fact, such irresponsibility is classified and defined by the law as ‘Manslaughter’.”

“Now, moving on....” Myron continued on quickly, before either the man or his fellow lawyer could comeback with a rebuttal or objection. Cynthia, on the other hand, sat tight on that. She did not want to get sucked into defending the NYPD's management during this trial, and while the implication that they are culpable worked against her case, that ship had already sailed. All she could accomplish by objecting is make the jury pay more attention.

”You said part of your hospital stay included a psychiatrist, correct? And you still see that psychiatrist twice a month? What kind of diagnosis did he give you?”

Behind Myron’s back, Cynthia sat on that one as well. They all knew this was going to come up, best to get it over with. She'd certainly run through the right answers with Kelley enough times, now they would all see whether it took.

"I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Mister Leech. Thank you for asking."

”You're welcome, Sir,” Myron replied, seemingly absentmindedly. ”Could you please explain what that means, for our jurors’ benefit?”

Myron noted, with internal pleasure, the long pause before the Detective replied. "...It means I have insomnia, Mister Leech. I have to be medicated to get a good night's sleep. It means I have flashbacks, Mister Leech. I've relived that day more times than I can count. It means that by testifying today, I'm risking reliving it again, Mister Leech. Thank you, again, for asking."

”You’re welcome, Sir. Now you said you returned to work why, again?”

"You sure do make me repeat myself, Mister Leech.”

"My apologies Detective. I'm a tad deaf in this ear. Just wanted to be sure I heard you correctly.” Myron looked back blankly, no hint of his pleasure showing.

”Like I said, I returned to work because someone had to be willing to face--to face them. To make sure they were as accountable under the law as every other citizen of this nation."

”That is indeed very noble of you, Sir, after such a traumatic experience, and with such a stressful prognosis."

“Now then, could you tell me what this is?” Myron pulled out a pink slip, and added another beside it. ”And this? Could you explain why they were given to you?”

"Yes. That's a notice of temporary suspension. I was given it because-- Yes, that's one, too. As I was saying, I was given the first one on a standard procedure basis. When an officer discharges his gun while on duty and it results in injury or death, Internal Affairs investigates. I was cleared on both counts and returned to duty."

"An injury or death? Could you tell me which one resulted in both of these cases?”

"The first, Mister Leech.”

”Two cases of injury, and duty suspension notices in as many months? Doesn't that seem a bit harsh, Detective?”

" 'Harsh', Mister Leech? I'm not quite sure what you mean by that. As I said, it's just a standard procedure, and I was cleared to return to duty."

"Standard procedure? Just like the 'standard procedure' for deploying and or responding to a riot?”

"Objection, Your Honor." Cynthia kept her voice casual this time, almost bored. Myron expected the objection; they were getting close to some dangerous territory. No doubt she wanted to keep the jury from figuring that out. Besides, Cynthia felt Kelley had been doing a great job of keeping his cool, and it seemed to be working. So far, so good. "Is there an actual question in there somewhere, or just a rising inflection at the end of a sentence? If so, I'm afraid I missed it."

"As did I, Ms. Keys,"[/i] the judge replies. "Move along, Mr. Leech." Myron bowed slightly.

”Of course, Your Honor. My apologies. Now then, Detective, how serious were the injuries in the individual cases? Were you injured yourself, Detective? Before or after the shots were fired?”

"My partner at the time, Detective Cassandra Elliot, injured one suspect during arrest; a minor wound to his hand. Unfortunately, I fatally wounded the other suspect in self-defense. She was... she was in the form of a large Rottweiler at the time, and gave no indication of being a... person as she attacked me."

”I see. And at anytime during these events, did you momentarily relive the Sanctuary Tragedy?”

"The Sanctuary Massacre, Mister Leech. It wasn't some type of Shakespeare play; it was bloody, it was brutal, and it was committed in large part by your client.” It appeared the Detective was becoming defensive. Myron remained outwardly stoic. ”But no, to answer your question, I did not at that time experience a flashback.”

”Thank you, Detective, for clearing that up for us.” Myron turned to go back to his seat, then paused and turned back. ”One more question, if you will indulge me, Sir. Have you returned to active duty in these past months?”

"I did return to active duty with the NYPD soon after my discharge from the hospital, yes, and I received a promotion to Detective. I'm guessing you're not interested in that though, Mister Leech. Before you ask: yes, I have been on loan to the New York State Detention Center for Dangerous Mutants, as a Supervisor; the same facility where the defendant was sent after violently resisting the Registration Law. I won't defend that place. I'd just like the jury to remember that what Isabel Duskmoor did--the people she murdered--she did all that while the Registration Bill was just a thought in some Senator's head. Anything that happened there, it doesn't wash clean the blood on her hands."

The Detective's reply was given with a collected and calm air, not quite the fashion of a response Myron had hoped for. But he did have the satisfaction of seeing frowns appear on three of the jurors faces at the Detective's admission. Two of them leaned into each other and exchanged a brief word.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

"You may step down, Detective."

Myron regained his seat, waiting for his next opportunity to speak, and then his turn to call his own witnesses.