Reckless Disregard by Robert Rotstein

a reputation as someone who might say anything in a courtroom . . . “the guts to use his own name, has defamed Mr. Bishop. Instead of being brave and standing behind his words, he wants to hide. This Poniard ”—she spits so hard on the P that a fine mist of saliva sprays into the air—“should be ordered to face his accuser, to face the man whose reputation he’s trying to destroy. But Poniard says he’ll submit to a deposition only in writing. How convenient, because that means we can never get a look at his face to see if he’s a liar or a con man or just some smartass doing this for the publicity.”
    The judge shakes his head. “Ms. Diamond—”
    “Apologies, Your Honor. I meant to say wiseass.” There’s laughter, but this time none of it comes from my side of the room. The worst part is that the judge laughs too.
    “Let’s say you’re right about requiring the defendant to appear for deposition in person,” the judge says. “Why so soon?”
    “Because the man who hides behind the name Poniard has no respect for the law. Unless we can inspect his computer and take his deposition immediately, we’ll have no chance of preserving evidence that will show that he targeted Mr. Bishop for political purposes. Poniard is a radical and a propagandist posing as some sort of artist. Here are his words: ‘I design my video games to subvert, and I don’t mean just laws or governments, but also the minds of the game players.’ Remember that children and teenagers play his video games. He also says, ‘The only laws I respect are the rules of my own games, because I create them. The rest is just flawed coding that needs to be deleted.’” She shakes her head disdainfully. “Poniard may have already destroyed evidence. But we won’t know unless we have a chance to look, and the longer we have to wait, the longer he’ll have to cover up. We have a right to question him and do a forensic analysis of his computers right away. Poniard should be ordered to appear in this courtroom in three days so that we can get a fair chance at discovery. Thank you, Your Honor.”
    She’s left me an opening by focusing on rhetoric and not on the letter of the law, which is on my side. She’s a gifted advocate. I was gifted once, but no longer. I’m still more experienced, though, and experience is one of the two antidotes to the venom that is talent, preparation being the other. So said Harmon Cherry.
    Harmon wasn’t always right.
    I get to my feet slowly, so as to keep my balance. Like Lovely, I try rhetoric, taking a risk in quoting the controversial Ayn Rand: “Civilization is the progress toward a society of privacy.” I cite the favorable legal precedent in great detail. It’s all to no avail. An impatient Judge Triggs looks up at the ceiling. Stage fright is a peculiarly repellant form of narcissism, and now I begin to focus not on what I’m saying but on the sound of my own voice, which grates like feedback from a cheap guitar amp. Some of the media members have folded up their laptops. The Poniard freaks are as quiet and wrung-out as mourners at the end of a funeral.
    I hear Tom Petty singing, “I Won’t Back Down.”
    For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, suffering a new symptom of stage fright. Then the smartphone plays the chorus twice more before its owner locates the power button.
    “Whose phone?” the judge says.
    No response.
    “The owner of the cell phone shall identify himself or herself!” A bellow this time.
    Again, there are no volunteers. The judge looks at his bailiff and then at his clerk, who both shake their heads.
    Silence—not empty but palpable, a whiff of sulfur before the bomb explodes. It’s I who light the fuse.
    “Your Honor, it’s Brandon Placek’s phone.” I know because I’ve heard his ringtone before, an obvious symbol of what he must consider his journalistic iconoclasm in the face of the powers that be.
    “Identify him,” the judge says.
    I point to Placek,