Gods Go Begging by Alfredo Vea Page B

with the evidence they had. Even with all of that jury sentiment, he was as good as free. His black ass was already out the door.
    “So after the witness failed to identify the perpetrator, the prosecutor was sweating bullets in front of the jury box and just dying on his redirect examination. The jury wasn’t buying any of what he had to sell. But then, all of a sudden, my client started elbowing me and screaming at me, ‘Ask her if he had a scar on his ass! Ask her if he had a scar on his ass!’ ”
    There was a knowing groan around the table. Eyes closed in pain and arms were upraised in despair. Each two and three-piece suit around the table was turning slowly to rags and sackcloth.
    “I told him to sit down and shut up, but he persisted. The toothless sumbitch was screaming his demand directly into my right ear. I tried to quiet him up, but every person on the jury heard it. I swear his breath was so bad that I’ve had straight hair ever since.” He raised his eyebrows as he looked up toward his own brown, once curly head of hair.
    “He kept getting louder and louder, insisting that his stupid question be asked. Finally, in desperation, I stood up and moved for a recess. The clerk hit her secret switch; the judge jerked upright, blinked twice, denied my motion with prejudice, and promptly suggested that we take a recess. I sat my man down in the holding cell and tried to explain, but it was useless.”
    Every cup of coffee at the table was being allowed to go cold. Here, in all of its glory, was irony.
    “I pleaded—I begged the damn fool to let me run my case. I even promised to show him my diploma from Georgetown School of Law. I think some three-time loser must have planted the crazy question in his head while they were together in the weight room. Despite my firm assurances about the state of the case, my client insisted that I ask that damned question.”
    “Jailhouse lawyers,” Newton grunted. “It kills me that the biggest losers are always the ones handing out the most advice.”
    “So I made my record in chambers, and I moved for a directed verdict of acquittal based on a clear failure of the evidence, but the judge pointed out that all of the evidence had not been heard yet,” continued Matt. “Old Judge Garfield woke up long enough to rule that the defendant had a right to have his question asked, even if it was against the advice of counsel. When I personally refused to ask the question, the judge sneered through his yellow dentures and informed my client that he himself could put the question to the witness.”
    “That was kind of him! Did you know that he had his dentures tinted to match his only remaining tooth? The DA must’ve been salivating,” said Jesse.
    “Not as much as the judge was,” said Matt. “The old man actually stayed wide awake long enough to hear the question propounded and the answer given. He was up there on the bench grinning like the Cheshire cat, though I think I did detect some shallow breathing and rapid eye movement. So after the DA was through with the witness, my genius client Dewilliam Magpie—I swear to God that was his name—stood up, extended his arm, and pointed a stern and accusatory finger at the witness.”
    “The jury must have loved that,” muttered Jesse.
    Matt only shook his head dejectedly.
    “Meanwhile, back at the defense table, here I am acting all nonchalant, but inside, you know my shit was going to pieces. After staring her in the eyes for a painful eternity or two, Dewilliam launched his brilliant question at her. I could see it! I swear I could see that idiotic question as it ran down from his shoulder, across his elbow, over his wrist, then leaped from his pointing, untrimmed fingernail! That question jumped from his inept brain like a madman leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge. ‘Miss Victim, did the man who attacked you happen to have a scar on his ass?’ ”
    The entire table moaned in the throes of agony.
    “At first the poor