Thread: Exhibit B

I'm posting this without comment, except to say that it sucks that you have to reenter italics every time you copy paste into the text box.



Exhibit B
Christopher Olson


“Is she... resting?” asked David Smith
“She’s been in and out,” replied Dr. Abrams.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, she looks just like the last time I saw her. Except, of course, for a few little things.”
Dr. Abrams sat down beside her as her chest rose and fell rhythmically with the expansion and contraction of her lungs. He reviewed a fresh toxicology chart indicating nothing out of the ordinary except low iron levels.
“David,” she seemed to be saying. “David, I had the funniest dream.”
“She’s still sleeping,” said Dr. Abrams. “She’s in deep. The talking in her sleep is something we induced. It’s so we can tell if her memory is functioning properly.”
Her head rattled from side to side.
“Hi sweetie,” David whispered, at once hoping to incur a response while afraid she might answer him.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, drearily.
David’s head pulsed with throbbing veins and sweat. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I did something bad.”
Dr. Abrams looked up from his charts.
“Don’t take anything she says in this state at face value,” said Dr. Abrams. “She may be remembering something, or she might be creating an original scenario from an idle combination of things she remembers.”
“I forgive you sweetie,” he said, placing his hands on her feet and caressing her toes with his finger tips.
“Please promise me you won’t do anything,” she murmured.
“Nothing baby. But baby, you have to promise me you won’t bring it up at the trial.”
She began to stir on the sofa, a bad dream expunging her from her dream state. Her eyes opened, her baby blues surveying the ceiling. Gradually they made their way across the room, until they fell on the face of her husband.
She screamed.

***

Arnold Giocardi had one of those lapses of faith. They only happened at the outset of a trial, or at the end of one. Pressure mounted, of course, in the middle, but the beginning of the trial was loaded with so much possibility. The judge’s final judgement was always a coin flip. As much as he might think he presented a good case, or a bad one, he never failed to be surprised. It was like that paradox of the cat in the box. Until he heard the judge’s final verdict, the case would continue to fluctuate between two quantum states, finally resolving in either life or death. On those cases where he lost, he blamed physics.
No case is open and shut, but if he could be so bold as to assert that kind of arrogant presumption upon any one of his cases, this might be it. The husband murdered his wife. Plain and simple. The testimony he had gathered was scrupulous, and damning.
But this was going to be a precedent-setting case, regardless of the simplicity—and sheer idiocy—of the crime. None of Giocardi’s cases to date would be studied by future scholars, except this one.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as I have hopefully persuaded you over the past few days, Mr. Smith made a fatal error. He believed himself invincible. But his invincibility ultimately came at the expense of another’s vulnerability. Peggy Smith, his wife of six years, the mother of his two children, an artist who worked part-time as a daycare worker, who had aspirations of providing a better future for her two children, saw her days cut short. Enough euphemisms. Peggy Smith was killed on August 2nd of this year. You’ve heard the 9-1-1 call. You’ve heard the testimony of her children. You’ve heard the testimony of an expert on aggressive violent behaviour, who stated that Mr. Smith ‘fit the profile.’”
Giocardi downed a glass of water on his desk. He contemplated its effect on the eyes and ears of the jury, but mostly he noticed how much it quenched his thirst.
“Your honour, I’d like to call a witness to the stand: Peggy Smith.”
A woman in black garb lifted herself up from the pew where onlookers and members of the press sat entranced at the proceedings. She stepped up to the stand, her high heels making large cracking blows to the hard tiles, sending shivers up the spines of anyone and everyone. She had pale blue eyes, blonde hair and a stern demeanor.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” asked the bailiff.
“I do, your honour,” answered Peggy, one hand on her chest over her beating heart.
“You may or may not believe that this is the real Peggy Smith,” Giocardi spoke to the room as a whole. “And you’d be right. As you may recall from last week’s proceedings, the Peggy Smith on the stand is a shadow, a mirror image, or what have you. She is no more a person than a piece of evidence. She is the last will and testament of the real Peggy Smith, the embodiment of her long-term memories, a portrait of a marriage soured and gone horribly wrong.
“If I may humbly encapsulate the speech made by Dr. Rosary Bartholomew, who you all saw last week: within fifteen minutes of death, the brain begins to experience cellular decay, and the substance which makes up memory vanishes for good. However, a technique developed to decrypt memories from the human brain, store them, and reproduce them, having existed for sometime, can be applied to the dead in the crucial time immediately following death. These devices, which recently began test trials on select ambulances, were tested on the late Peggy Smith while she was succumbing to her wounds. As Dr. Bartholomew pointed out, short term memory, including the memory of Peggy Smith’s death, tragically cannot be recovered. But all is not lost: the witness, dare I say it, on the stand will attest to the years of violence she suffered at the hands of her husband. She will also express her deeply held suspicion that she was murdered by her husband, Mr. Smith.”
That wasn’t all Dr. Bartholomew had said, of course. Though memories could be decoded and recorded for posterity on a flash drive, they cannot be viewed as evidence through a computer. Only a human brain can make sense of the data, and due to the minute differences that genes, hormones and blood chemistry plays on memory—much about the science of memory remains elusive—a vessel physiologically similar to the originator of those memories was deemed the most suitable candidate for accessing the data.
Mr. Giocardi took a long look at Mr. Smith, wondering what psychological effects seeing a woman you murdered alive and well would have on the mind.
“As Judge Reinhold permitted earlier in the trial, the witness will recount the memories of the late Peggy Smith in the first person to facilitate clarity, and will refer to herself as Peggy Smith throughout the trial.”
“Actually,” said Peggy, whose momentary interruption spooked at least one member of the jury, as if a wax sculpture had suddenly sprung to life after remaining still for so long, “I would prefer to be referred to by my maiden name, if you please. Call me Peggy Belanger.”
Mr. Smith gritted his teeth.
“Ms. Belanger,” began Giocardi. “Can you point to your killer in this room?”
“No, I cannot,” replied Belanger. “Although I am reasonably certain that my killer is that man there: Mr. Smith.”
“You say you are reasonably certain that he is your killer,” repeated Giocardi, as if the jury’s memories already needed refreshing. “Why?”
“To be brief,” replied Belanger, “this day had been coming for a long time.”
Giocardi smiled. As much as he liked to think that his job was providing a voice for the voiceless, he felt pride seeing his client speak for themselves for a change.
“As Mr. Smith tells it, you two had the perfect picture of a marriage,” said Giocardi, feigning innocence. “Why his mother claims she thought of you as the daughter she never had, and that you would routinely talk of how much in love the two of you were during phone conversations. Mr. Smith even says you continued to make love quite frequently up until your passing.”
The word “passing” seemed an inadequate substitute for bludgeoning until death, as the coroner had called it.
A wan smile passed over Peggy Belanger’s face. “I was so in love with him, Mr. Giocardi, that I overlooked his abuse, his anger issues. I’m a mother: I know what a mother likes to hear. Hearing that your son is a deranged lunatic who beats his wife is certainly the last thing I would want to hear as a mother.”
Mr. Pengrove, Mr. Smith’s so far tightlipped defendant, sat up in his chair at the words “deranged lunatic,” but reconsidered raising an objection to the words of a dead woman.
“Deranged lunatic?” repeated Giocardi, giving the words more time to sink in. “Well, if your husband was a deranged lunatic, why didn’t you leave him?”
Belanger expressed a mild irritation at the question. “I’m not a psychologist, but I would say fear was a contributing factor. I was also dependent on him for an income, and had two children to take care of.”
“Miss Belanger, didn’t you fear your children might be at risk?”
“Objection,” interrupted Pengrove. “Mr. Smith’s parenting is not at question.”
“Overruled,” replied Reinhold. “Mr. Smith’s behaviour towards his family is at question.”
Giocardi continued. “Describe to me how you came to dislocate your jaw on February 29th of last year.”
“My husband pushed me down the stairs after I invited a man he suspected of being a former boyfriend of mine to dinner.”
“Were his suspicions correct?” asked Giocardi, as if that were the question on the minds of the jury.
“Yes. When I told him that we had dated—however briefly—in high school, he flew into a rage.”
“And then what did he do?”
“He called me a cunt and a whore, and leaned against me until I fell back with full force against the stairs.”
“You were unable to go to work for six months, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Surely then you went to the police,” said Giocardi, seemingly incredulous. Then, leaning against the table and crossing his arms, “But what did you tell the doctor?”
“I didn’t. My husband—I mean Mr. Smith—told them that I had slipped on a piece of clothing that had fallen from a bundle of laundry I was carrying.”
“Did you expose the lie?”
“No. I was too afraid.”
Giocardi amused himself with the choice of words that were forming in his mind, combining to form his next question.
“Why are you breaking your silence now?”
Unnoticeable except to Giocardi, or perhaps judge Reinhold, a salty tear dripped down Peggy Belanger’s face.
“I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.”
Giocardi breathed in her answer, drawing it into his lungs, using it as inspiration.
“Peggy, do you know anyone who might have wanted you dead?”
“In my previous life, I was a daycare worker. No.”
Giocardi uncrossed his arms. “That’s all for now, your honour.”
The defense remained still, impassive. A moment passed before judge Reinhold interjected.
“Mr. Pengrove, would you care to cross-examine the witness?”
Mr. Smith consulted his lawyer, and without a moment’s hesitation, Pengrove stood up and addressed the court, “No, your honour.”
“Mr. Smith,” said Reinhold, in an upbraiding tone. “I’d seriously advise you to cross-examine the witness.”
Smith spoke for himself. “That won’t be necessary, your honour.”
“If it would please your honour,” said Mr. Pengrove, rubbing his hands together, “I would like to call a witness to the stand.”
Reinhold was baffled. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, your honour,” said Pengrove. “I would like to call Peggy Smith to the stand.”
A woman in a baby blue blouse and high heels stood up from the pew in the back of the courtroom. She had flush, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, blonde hair, and was smiling from ear to ear. She replaced Peggy Belanger on the stand, first giving her a short look up and down, like she were checking herself out in a mirror to see if she was presentable.
She sat down on the stand.
Giocardi broke out in a cold sweat.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do, your honour,” answered Peggy, flashing a warm smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” began Pengrove, responding to Peggy’s smile in kind. “No doubt you are wondering if this is the real Peggy Smith. As Mr. Giocardi deftly put it, she is the mirror image of Peggy Smith as she was and as she might have been now. In the interest of fairness, and at my own personal expense, I have financed the production of the defense’s own Peggy Smith to prevent forensic tampering.”
“Objection,” said Giocardi. “The Living Memory program was overseen by an independent third-party. The prosecution was given the same level of access to the witness as the defense.”
“Sustained,” said Reinhold.
“My apologies,” said Pengrove, “I did not wish to question the scruples of the scientists who performed this remarkable feat. I merely wished to highlight the experimental nature of this technology and its potential susceptibility to confirmation bias. As Dr. Bartholomew stated to the court previously, psychoanalysis is required to activate memories stored in the clone’s subconscious. It is my belief that by searching for memories of ‘abuse’ or ‘violent behaviour’ specifically, whether under hypnosis or otherwise, prejudices the subject’s own memories and alters them.”
Pengrove turned to face Peggy Smith.
“Mrs. Smith, how would you describe your relationship with your husband prior to your death?”
“Loving, caring. It was a perfect union.”
“Objection,” Giocardi loudly interrupted, and then not finding any conceivable grounds for his objection, except the foul taste building in his mouth, quietly withdrew it.
“So you don’t think he killed you?” continued Pengrove.
“I have no idea who killed me,” said Mrs. Smith. “It couldn’t have possibly been my husband.”
“Will the witness keep her story straight,” piped up judge Reinhold. “Dear, your... your doppleganger testified quite differently when she took the stand. Would you have any reason to state that your husband may have been responsible for your death and then state that he did not? If not, I will be forced to dismiss both of your testimonies.”
Pengrove smiled brightly. Perhaps that was what he had wanted all along, thought Giocardi: to sow reasonable doubt.
“I can’t speak for my compatriot, but I know in my heart of hearts that my husband was not responsible for my death, nor was he abusive, and nor was I in fear of my husband.”
“You can’t speak for Miss Belanger but you can speak for the deceased?” asked Reinhold. “I don’t understand. If you both contain the same memories, what accounts for the discrepancies?”
“If I may respond, your honour, I’ve already provided you with the answer,” said Pengrove, “The prosecution has exerted its influence somehow on Miss Belanger, while my own Peggy Smith has remained uncorrupted by any back room dealings.”
“Objection!” yelled Giocardi.
“Sustained,” said Reinhold. “That doesn’t completely answer my question, Mr. Pengrove.”
“I’m sorry, your honour. I can’t fully account for the discrepancy, except if the discrepancy is inherent in the replication process itself, in which case I’m at a loss.” As if to further expand the list of discrepancies in the two Peggy’s accounts, Pengrove added, “Mrs. Smith, please tell me what really happened on February 29th of last year.”
“I tripped and fell down the stairs. I was clumsy.”
Giocardi’s face had begun its slow transition into red.
“So your husband didn’t push you down the stairs, at all?”
“No,” she shook her head for added emphasis. “He wasn’t even in the room.”
“What about the night of your death. Do you remember any of that?”
Peggy Smith rubbed her ring finger, as though longing for her wedding ring. “I was told that my short term memory did not have enough time to imprint itself before I passed away, and that I may never recall the events that led up to my death.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Pengrove.
“The last thing I remember, I was waking up in bed beside my husband. We kissed as he got out of bed so he could get ready for work. I suppose that was the morning of my death.”
“At that moment, did you consider that this could possibly be your last day on Earth?”
“I had so much I was looking forward to,” said Peggy. “Of course not.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Pengrove, “I’m sure everyone would like to know. Do you have any regrets?”
Peggy was silent for several, thoughtful, seconds.
“I’d like to update my will,” she said. “I’d like to leave everything to my husband.”
Giocardi slammed his hands on the table. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Objection,” said Pengrove.
“Sustained,” said Reinhold. “But this isn’t the time nor the place to review your will.”
“I disagree, this is as good a time as any,” said Pengrove. “But if it pleases your honour, the defense has no further questions for the witness at this time.”
Peggy Smith looked up at her husband, her lips moving to form what could have been the words, “I love you.”
Giocardi had one of those lapses of faith. The defense had expertly sowed doubt in his chief witness, and retroactively cast the leagues of evidence that had accumulated during the course of the trial into doubt. Greater still, he knew that whatever outcome of the trial, the results would have far-reaching legal implications for any future attempts to use the recorded memories of murder victims to testify in court. Was Pengrove morally opposed to the use of cloned eyewitnesses? Would he really go the added length to create one using his own finances, out of his own pocket, simply to disprove their effectiveness in court?
He would have to cross-examine Mrs. Smith. He could always fall back on his leagues of old-fashioned forensics evidence, but who would trot out nothing less than the victim’s resurrected corpse onto the podium, only to hush up her testimony when it didn’t go his way? No, his best chance of winning the case would be to prove that the two Peggy Smith’s memories were in complete agreement—and the only way he could conceive of doing that was...
“I would like a moment with my client, your honour,” said Giocardi.
“Your client is deceased,” said Reinhold, “unless you mean your eyewitness, or eyewitnesses, as the case now seems to be.”
“I wish to speak privately with Peggy Belanger, your honour.”
Peggy Smith rose from the stand. “Excuse me Mrs. Smith,” said Giocardi, “I will cross-examine you in a moment.”
Peggy Smith seemed confused. She made eye contact with Mr. Smith as though seeking his permission before obediently sitting down again.
Belanger leaned into Mr. Giocardi, the two exchanging a private word. “I see,” she could be heard to say. “That’s a great idea.”
She turned to face judge Reinhold, arms crossed along her waist.
“If your honour will allow,” said Mr. Giocardi, “Ms. Belanger would like to cross-examine Mrs. Smith.”
Reinhold stifled an incredulous laugh. A moment passed in which it seemed like he would object, but with a simple gesture he gave Belanger the floor.
The two Peggy’s stared eye to eye, and it seemed to the room like a message passed between them on a unique frequency that only the two of them were tuned into.
“Do you remember when David was forced to enter anger management training at work, after he blew up at a coworker?”
“My husband didn’t have anger issues,” replied Mrs. Smith.
Giocardi pondered her phrasing: my husband.
“That’s a matter of public record,” said Belanger. “Are you contesting the public record?”
Mrs. Smith looked overly self-conscious. “My husband wasn’t abusive, if that’s what you’re getting at. But yes, he did enter anger management at work.”
“Would you have any reason to protect your husband against allegations of abuse, Mrs. Smith?”
The Peggy on the stand could barely look her twin in the eye.
“No, but maybe you do.”
Miss Belanger smiled. “You know that if you testify against Mr. Smith, there’s a good chance he’ll be locked up. Does that upset you?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “Of course it does.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore, you know. Not behind bars, nor as a free man.”
“It’s not that,” said Mrs. Smith. “I don’t want him to go to jail... because I want to pick up things where I left off.”
There was a murmur of chattering about the court, while Belanger’s mouth stood agape.
“Oh, honey. No,” said Belanger. “You know you mustn’t do that.”
Mrs. Smith looked defiantly at her twin, like she was protesting against a mother who disapproved of her boyfriend.
“It’s my decision. It’s what I want.”
“But, honey. He hurt us. You know deep down that he hurt us.”
“I don’t know why you’re saying this,” protested Mrs. Smith. “It’s a lie.”
“He gave you a black eye on your birthday, and threatened you against going to work or seeing your friends for three days so he could hide the truth. Why are you helping him hide the truth?”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “It’s all lies.”
“Do you remember Lindsay? Oh god.” Belanger was having difficulty holding back her own tears. “Do you remember when she ruptured her sinus cavity, and kept having bloody noses? The doctor who took the X-ray wondered if she had had an accident and hit her head. You know in your heart of hearts who you suspected most.”
Mrs. Smith didn’t even answer. She just looked down and shook her head.
“Do you remember Patrick?”
Mr. Smith, who was already fully glued to the spectacle in the courtroom, appeared extra alert at this sudden pronouncement.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” lied Mrs. Smith.
“You don’t remember the man we were having an affair with?”
Mr. Smith placed his hands over his face, his elbows on the table.
“Patrick was my daughter Lindsay’s homeroom teacher,” provided Belanger. “Lindsay had had a number of absences, so Patrick became concerned and called for a parent-teacher meeting. David was busy with work, so I went alone. He said I had an exceptionally bright daughter, but that she was absent-minded, and aloof in the classroom. He seemed so gentle and caring, and it caught me off guard that someone could be so gentle and caring. When David got home that night, he had clearly been having a tough time at work, so he let it out on me. He yelled at me for half an hour for not having dinner ready before he got home. He yelled so much it made Lindsay cry. She was so upset she didn’t go to school the next day, so Patrick called home, to see if everything was all right. My Guardian Angel, I thought. I cooked him some cheese cake, and Lindsay gave it to him in homeroom to make up for all her absences...”
“When Lindsay came back from school,” Mrs. Smith took over, “she brought a note with her. Our... my heart raced. I didn’t want to open it. Instead I just imagined it was a love letter. I placed it under my pillow during a mid-afternoon nap, and when I woke up, David was getting under the covers. We cuddled for a little while, and when I woke up again I could hear him tearing open the envelope and reading the card. He tore it into pieces while I pretended to be asleep, and my heart sank.”
“You said your last memory was lying in bed, on the morning of our death,” said Belanger. “That was the day we were supposed to meet Patrick, wasn’t it? We were determined to kiss him, and we probably did...”
There was a pause. “Suppose David found out.”
Mrs. Smith began sobbing in large, involuntary waves.
“Do you remember the last thing you felt?” continued Belanger.
Her body convulsed, her nostrils flared.
“Fear. Just fear.”
“He killed you,” said Belanger, then, leaning in so only Mrs. Smith could hear her, “he killed me too.”
A crescendo of pain and tears overcame Mrs. Smith.
“He did it,” said Mrs. Smith, pointing at her husband. “He killed me.”
Belanger smiled triumphantly at her husband.
In an instant Mr. Smith shot out of his chair and had his hands around Peggy Belanger’s neck, squeezing tightly.
“You fucking bitch,” said Mr. Smith, amid an intangible string of profanity.
Pengrove and Giocardi launched upon him, the bailiff secured one arm around Peggy Belanger’s delicate arm, ready to pull her back to safety, as she placed her hands on the back of Mr. Smith’s head and on his temple, twisting his head around until it made a loud snap. He crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Mrs. Smith screamed in a fit of agony.
Pengrove felt for a pulse on Mr. Smith’s neck as Giocardi laid him flat out on his back.
Peggy Belanger watched the scene unfold with empty eyes as the bailiff secured handcuffs around her wrists, while Peggy Smith placed her husband’s head on her lap and stroked his hair.
None of Giocardi’s cases to date would be studied by future scholars, except this one.

An odd little tale.

One thing I like here is that the writing is mature, together and pretty flawless. It's refreshing.

I really enjoyed the writing. The style graced the imagery you intended to put up.

Thanks for sharing,

Fox

Well written and the opening scene caught my interest. Still, I had some problems getting into it. You opened the court scene with the prosecutor's Point of View, but then kept head-hopping out of it. And I failed to feel the tension that must have been gripping the court room. Jury and spectators' reactions might have helped, gasps, murmuring, that sort of thing. And I had trouble believing a woman (or her avatar, so to speak) would have the strength to break his neck. A smuggled hand-gun would have been more credible. Still, it's a well-handled, unusual concept and I enjoyed it. Thanks for posting it.

JohnB

I wish people wouldn't use the term "headhopping" in polite company.
It's perfectly legitimate to change POV's as much as the writer wants. It either flow or it doesn't.

Thanks for the comments everyone. It's hard to write a courtroom drama without knowing much about courtroom etiquette besides what's already fictionalized on television.

WriterJohnB: I think giving her a gun would suggest it was a premeditated murder, where as as it's written now, it's clearly self-defense. Although... it would be quite a revelation. Nah, I'm fine with it the way it is.

I might add the jury's responses, since I pretty much ignore them aside from a mention at the beginning.

ChristopherOlson - No need to remain in the dark about correct courtroom procedure. Just about every jurisdiction I know of publishes a courtroom procedures and protocol manual. I doubt they are on the Internet, though they may be. I haven't looked. But if you are in the U-S you can query the attorney general in the state where you live, your local district attorney, or any lawyer and find out how to get a copy. There may even be one already in the reference section of your local library.

I have made it a practise all my life to have ready to hand copies of courtroom procedure, standing orders of legislative bodies, and the laws governing the operations of local boards, councils, regulatory bodies, and such. For me they are useful in writing articles about politics, law, and crime. And be sure to get a copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

For a fiction writer such reference material can provide the kind of verisimilitude needed for that fabled 'suspension of disbelief'.

The funny thing is courtroom behavior in films and TV has always been extremely flaky.
Lawyers holding something up and saying, "I introduce this as Exhibit D" and they tag it with no discovery or anything.
Half of the objections raised are legally ridiculous and just serve plot needs.

HOWEVER
The funnier thing is it doesn't matter. Everybody thinks that's how it works, so you're cool.

ChristopherOlson - Sorry. I forgot to mention in my last post that your piece is excellent. It's mostly 'show' and very little 'tell', with lots of well constructed dialogue.

Lin is probably right that correct protocol and procedure need not be strictly adhered to in fiction. In non-fiction of course it's different. I remember covering a trial in Lackadaisical County for Backabush Review. I made some minor slip in reporting the judge's instructions to the jury and was hauled up for contempt of court. Luckily everyone else held that particular court in contempt as well so I was let off with a warning not to refer to the judge again as a 'blathering idiot with 'possum manure for brains'.

That's the same jurisdiction where I was once arrested for indecent exposure. However, the case was thrown out for lack of evidence.

Cool idea, even despite my abhorration of courtroom talk. Only thing was I had no idea who anyone was until there were two of the dead woman, then things made sense. Don't know if that was how it was 'supposed to work'.

Garza: I'm an aspiring journalist myself, but I know an acquaintance of mine who works for a small town newspaper in the Canadian north who almost caused a mistrial after he published evidence from a previous trial in which the defendant was acquitted and which the jury of the current trial was forbidden to know. He got a severe tongue lashing from the judge and the opposing small town newspaper wrote a front-page story about it, but beyond that, he came out okay. It was hella funny if you knew the guy.

It may have been funny to almost everyone, but not to the judge. Judges tend not to have a sense of humour about such things, which is why knowing the law, and understanding the law, is important if you are going to write about court cases.

During the civil rights struggle in the southern U.S. in the '60's I wrote a series of magazine articles on the subject including accounts of police response to demonstrations and subsequent judicial proceedings. I was also supplying one of the television networks with background material for their correspondents to use. This was in the early days of pocket pagers, and one day I wanted to contact one of the field reporters for the network and paged him. He happened to be sitting in federal court and had forgotten to turn his pager off. The judge did not find that situation the least bit funny and fined the reporter for contempt of court. Everyone else did find it funny when the reporter described for us the look on the old judges face when the pager sounded, and those old pagers were loud. There was no vibrate mode. The reporter said the judge stood halfway up, looked around, and wanted to know if the courthouse was on fire.

Interesting story. I like it.

Awesome.

I'll have to agree that the neck-snapping was a bit bizarre, though, like Ms. Belanger was some kind of superstrong robot or something... or was she??? O_O
(But yeah, I'll echo John B's comment about a smuggled handgun, and I do like the sort of really uncomfortable twist ending of giving Ms. Belanger some sort of murderous intent which may or may not have been anticipated by Mr. Giocardi.)

As far as realistic court stuff goes... my guess would be that evidence as extraordinary as two opposing gholas of the victim would have been voir dire'd to the ninth circle of hell and back and every appeal court in between before either of them could say a word on the stand, while Mrs. Smith and Ms. Belanger would've had a few years during those proceedings to re-establish two remarkably different lives and in the process possibly forgetting or misremembering a whole lot of stuff in the process. And God help us all with each of them revising their wills (who gets the dead person's stuff anyway?) and at least one of them starting divorce proceedings. So for the story's sake it was probably better to avoid that likely outcome and get to the meat of the matter.

EDIT: It was probably a very good decision to have Mr. Smith killed at the end so the verdict couldn't be appealed.

EDIT2: Almost forgot to mention that the intro scene creeped me the hell out. Good work.

Would you believe I wrote a treatment for this story in grade 9? Back then the clone was male, and contained the memories of an inspirational South African politician who was murdered by the CIA for opposing some kind of vital trade route or something. I imagined it as a who-done-it political thriller. I can't remember what my teacher said at the time. If I remember correctly he was a bit at a loss for words.

Anyway, I couldn't think of any other way to end it except having Mr. Smith confirm for the court that he's a wild-eyed killer by having him reenact his wife's murder in the middle of the trial, only to provide his dead wife a chance at revenge from beyond the grave.