“Okay,” Chris said, “let’s talk response. Giraffe, what hurricane category do you want to go with?”
Giraffe did not hesitate. “If there was ever a monster crying out for a Category 5...”
“Aye,” Panther cut in. “Category 5.”
The rest quickly agreed.
The Boomerangs did not go to Category 5 often. Most trolls came in more at a Category 2 or 3, in which case their punishment would involve hurting credit ratings or emptying a bank account or perhaps blackmail, something to teach the troll a lesson but not destroy them.
Category 5, on the other hand, was cataclysmic. Category 5 wasn’t so much about damage as total annihilation.
God may offer mercy, but for Kenton Frauling, the Boomerangs would not.
Chapter Four
Four months later
Hester Crimstein, celebrity defense attorney extraordinaire, watched her opponent, prosecutor Paul Hickory, adjust his tie and begin his closing statement.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is not only the most obvious and clear-cut murder case that I’ve ever prosecuted — it’s the most obvious and clear-cut that anyone in my office has ever seen.”
Hester resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn’t time.
Let him have his moment.
Hickory lifted the remote with a flourish, pointed it at the television, hit the on button with his thumb. The screen came to life. He could have had the image already up on the monitor, but no, Paul Hickory liked a little pizzazz, a little showmanship. Hester put on her bored face, so that if any jury members sneaked a glance at her, they would see how unimpressed she was.
Sitting next to Hester was her client, Richard Levine, the defendant in this murder trial. She had discussed with Richard at great length how he should behave, what his demeanor should be, how he should react (or more importantly, not react) in front of the jury. Right now, her client, who would spend the rest of his life behind bars if Hickory got his way, had his hands neatly folded on the table, his gaze steady.
Good boy.
On the screen, there were maybe a dozen people crowded together near the famed arch in avant-garde Washington Square Park. Paul Hickory made a production of clicking the play button. Hester kept her breathing steady as the video started up.
Show nothing, she reminded herself.
Paul Hickory had, of course, played this video before. Several times. But wisely, he hadn’t overexposed it, hadn’t shown it ad nauseam until the jury became numb to the brutality of what they were witnessing.
He still wanted it to be a gut punch. He wanted it to be visceral.
On the tape, Richard Levine, Hester’s client, wore a blue suit with no tie and Cole Haan black loafers. He walked up to a man named Lars Corbett, raised a hand that held a gun, and without the slightest hesitation, fired two shots into Corbett’s head.
Screams.
Lars Corbett collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Paul Hickory hit the pause button and spread his hands.
“Do I really need to sum it up more than that?”
He gave his rhetorical question time to echo through the chamber as he strolled from one end of the jury box to the other, locking eyes with those who looked his way.
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is an execution. It’s a cold-blooded murder on the streets of our city — in the heart of one of our most beloved parks. That’s it. No one disputes these facts. We have our victim, Lars Corbett, right here.” He points at the screen, at the fallen man lying in blood. “We have our defendant, Richard Levine, right here, firing a Glock 19 that ballistics confirmed was the murder weapon, a handgun Levine purchased only two weeks before the murder from a gun dealership in Paramus, New Jersey. We’ve put on the stand fourteen witnesses who saw the murder and identified Mr. Levine as the perpetrator. We presented two other videos from two independent sources that show this same murder from different angles.”
Hickory shook his head. “I mean, my God, what else do you need?”
He sighed with perhaps, in Hester’s viewpoint, a little too much melodrama. Paul Hickory was young, midthirties. Hester had gone to law school with Paul’s father, a flamboyant defense attorney named Flair (yes, Flair Hickory was his real name), who was now one of her toughest competitors. The son was good, and he would get better — the apple not falling far from the tree — but he wasn’t yet his father.
“No one, including Ms. Crimstein and the defense, has denied any of these key facts. No one has come forward to say that this” — he points hard at the paused video — “is not Richard Levine. No one has come forward to give Mr. Levine an alibi or claim in any way that he didn’t brutally murder Mr. Corbett.” He paused now, moving closer to the jury box.
“Nothing. Else. Matters.”
He said it like that, three separate sentences. Hester couldn’t resist. She met the eye of one of the jury members — a woman named Marti Vandevoort she felt was vulnerable — and did the smallest of conspiratorial eye rolls.
As if he knew what Hester was up to, Paul Hickory spun toward her. “Now, Ms. Crimstein will do everything she can to muddy this very simple narrative. But please, we’re all too intelligent to fall for her shenanigans. The evidence is overwhelming. I can’t imagine a case being more open and shut. Richard Levine bought a gun. He illegally carried it to Washington Square on March 18. We know from the testimony and computer forensic reports that Mr. Levine was destructively obsessed with Mr. Corbett. He planned this out, he stalked his victim, and then he executed Mr. Corbett on the street. That is the textbook definition of first-degree murder, ladies and gentlemen. And — I don’t believe I even have to say this — murder is wrong. It’s against the law. Put this killer behind bars. It’s your duty and obligation as citizens. Thank you.”
Paul Hickory collapsed into his chair.
The judge, her old friend David Greiner, cleared his throat and looked at Hester. “Ms. Crimstein?”
“In a second, your honor.” Hester fanned herself with her hand. “I’m still breathless from that overwrought yet completely irrelevant closing from the prosecution.”
Paul Hickory was on his feet. “Objection, your honor—”
“Ms. Crimstein,” the judge half-heartedly admonished.
Hester waved away an apology and stood.
“The reason I say Mr. Hickory is being overwrought and completely irrelevant, ladies and gentlemen, is...” Then Hester stopped herself: “First, let me say good afternoon to you all.” This was a small part of Hester’s closing technique. She would give them a little tease, make them wonder where she was going, let them bathe in that for a moment. “Jury duty is solemn and important work, and we on the defense team thank you for being here, for participating, for being diligent and open-minded about a man being so obviously railroaded. Lord knows this isn’t my first case” — Hester smiled, checking to see who smiled back, noting the three that did, including Marti Vandevoort — “but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a jury that has adjudicated a case so seriously and intelligently.”
This was nonsense, of course. All juries looked pretty much the same. They were bored at the same time. They were riveted at the same time. Her jury expert, Samantha Reiter, sitting three rows behind her, believed that this jury was more malleable than most, but Hester’s defense was also more insane than most. The evidence, as Paul Hickory had laid out, was indeed overwhelming. She was starting the race miles behind the prosecution. She got that.