BlackWell

Court date

I was twelve the first time I went to court. Sitting in the witness stand I watched the cigarette smoke rise up to the fluorescent lights. I had felt like that smoke, like I was floating, watching from a distance. The tears that ran down my face grounded me in reality, reminding me that I was not a spectator. Sitting in this courtroom now so many years later makes that day feel like a bad dream. Although I still find myself fidgeting, glancing at the clock at the far end of the room. There is something about these windowless, cold, and yet stuffy rooms that will always bother me.

Thankfully despite how uncomfortable I am, I don't cry in court anymore. You can't be emotional when you work with the dead. People expect a certain stoicism in my line of work, and I can't be falling to pieces with every new case on my examination table. Especially if the person is a murder victim.

That's why I'm here today,to argue with Patrick Erickson, and his defendant Celina Hornswallow, about my examination of Arnold Goldberg.

Patrick is about 5' 9", probably a hundred and fifty pounds. He may also have a smoking problem, but I'm not close enough to tell. He's also an arrogant, ego driven young lawyer. I know that from the dashing smiles he sneaks to the women on the jury. His three piece Armani suit, that's probably a knockoff. The way he walks, leaned back with his hands in pockets, screams over confidence. There's also the massive gold class ring, that he's buffed by rubbing on his suit jacket at least three times.

I take a moment to look at his defendant. She's about 5'5", and probably a hundred and eighty pounds. Celina is a veteran nurse, and a murderer. Sorry to kill the mystery so soon, but I know when I'm right; and the old man didn't fall down the stairs. 

Arnold Goldberg was an eighty five year old stockbroker. Who was fortunate enough to have a live- in nurse. "Ms. Blackwell, can you state for the jury how the victim died." Patrick asked, not looking up from his notes. "Doctor," I corrected him, and he looked up with a puzzled face. "Doctor Blackwell, that's my title so please use it." My voice is flat when I say it. He snapped his notes close and stood up. The jury murmured amongst themselves.

"Mr,Goldberg died of blunt force trauma to the head. He was struck repeatedly with a metal object by a left handed person." I state as Patrick strides up to the witness stand. Still using the nonchalant laid back stance, but his mouth was tighter. I smiled to myself.

"DOCTOR Blackwell, that seems like a wild accusation to me." he overly enunciates the word doctor. I Studied his face for a moment, ugly little lines formed between his brows. " I don't see how it's a wild accusation as you put it. I see head trauma everyday." I fold my hands in my lap and glance over at Celina.

She's a stout woman, a string of pearls straining against her neck. Her frown is intense, it resembles a thin red scratch. She sits like a statue, white knuckled, a blue vein protruding from her forehead.

"Did you take into consideration where the body was found, and that Goldberg could have fallen." he asked, straightening his shoulder and crossing his arms. An authoritative, intimidating stance. I smirk because even sitting down I know I'm at least three inches taller than him. "Of course I took that into consideration, but it's my job to find all the answers when someone dies." Celina snaps her eyes from her lawyer to me.

She can't see my eyes through my glasses, no one can, but she is boring holes into my face. I plant my eyes on Patrick, focusing on his gaudy paisley tie. "I found no evidence to suggest he fell down the stairs," A smug grin came across Patrick's face. "Are head wounds uncommon when falling down the stairs," he asked tilting his head to the side, with a chuckle in his voice.

I cock my head to the side, " An eighty five year old man, who falls down a twelve food staircase, Would be covered in bruises, lacerations, and more than a few fractured bones. Goldberg lacked the vast majority of those injuries, the injuries he did receive don't match up with a fall down the stairs." I straighten myself, sitting up fully and crossing my arms.

Patrick's eyes darted around searching for my eyes. "Please explain his injuries then," Patrick asked, arms falling to his sides. "Gladly, Goldberg had three injuries. The one to his head, and one on his right forearm. Both were lacerations," I paused to look over at the jury, "-or cuts caused by a blunt object. The third was bruising on his chest." I stated to the court when a cold sweat fell upon me. A familiar unwelcomed sensation. 

Celina's eyes were on me, I didn't need to look at her to know. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears.

Patrick perks up with a new thought. " Are you saying Miss Oswald attacked him," He gestured to his client. I roll my eyes. He thinks he's clever, I won't be the cause of a mistrial. " I'm saying he was attacked. by whom is not my job to figure out," I calmly answered back. Patrick furrows his brows, disappointed he can't weasel out of this. "Goldberg tried to defend himself, by raising his arm to block the attack, eventually the attacker held his arm down on his chest, causing bruising. They then struck him until he died."

Celina is burning holes into me, it feels like my heart is going to explode. If she's getting mad now, she won't like what I'm about to say. I begin to hear a kind of buzzing in my mind, it fades in and out, like static on a radio.

"Do you have any idea what object was used to do this?" That's the question Celina and I have both been waiting for. I swallow thickly, "More than likely a silver candlestick, Mr. Goldberg had several. We swabbed the laceration and found residue from polish, the same polish that was kept in the house." A silent chill settles over the room.

For a moment I am floating, a spectator watching from above. The buzzing begins to take shape, the static begins to speak. "-THINKS SHE'S SO SMART-" her thoughts are like bullets quick, and loud. "- BASHED HIS HEAD IN-"I taste bile in my throat, the cold sweat like an ice bath. This moment of floating ends when Patrick perks up, grinning ghoulishly, he asks. " Doctor Blackwell," he squinted his beady eyes. " How long have you been a forensic pathologist," he asks, cocking his head to the side.

I sigh because I'm fading fast, and sick to death of this argument. I stare at Patrick's gaudy paisley tie. I focus on it, take a deep breath, and swallow thickly.

" I suggest you ask something pertinent to this trial. I worked just as hard as my colleagues, to get where I am." Sighing through his nose, Patrick raises his finger. "Those." he points at my glasses. "Are very unique glasses, I can't see your eyes through them." He strides once again up to the witness stand. " Why do you wear them? Perhaps your vision was impaired during your examination." He asks, glancing at the jury.

Even they can see he's grasping at straws, I would know. I close my eyes and take off my glasses, and hold them out. " I have an eye condition, it's rare but manageable. Feel free to look through these, you'll see just fine through them." I wait for him to take my glasses, he doesn't. " Th-that won't be necessary. I have no further questions." I slide my glasses back on as he walks away.

Relief flows over me as I leave the stand, but her rage follows me, eats at me until the court is adjourned for the day.

The nuasea had been building and I dash out as gracefully as I can. The city air cool and crisp hits me as I walk down the courthouse steps. The migraine is going to hit soon and I need to get back to East Manhattan, before I kill over. I start to hail a taxi when an aggravating voice stops me. Patrick has chased after me, his hair not budging in the breeze.

"You know you don't have to take it so personally. I saw you getting emotional." He clicked his tongue at me. I Raised an eyebrow at him as he continued. I walked up to him so I was looking down at him. He took a step back as he realized the height difference. 

"How about I take you out, we get some drinks, cut loose a bit." He says with a smile I think was supposed to be charming. I stare at him for a moment as I hail a taxi" You know Patrick, You could just accept the fact I had you beat, and learn from it. A cab putters up to the curb and I open the back door. " Oh and I take my job seriously because it is. I'll speak for my clients, figure out how to speak for yours." I say shutting the door behind me.