"Mr. Abraham couldn't have escaped from the crime scene so quickly, let alone commit it at all. Firstly, Mr. Abraham was born with clubbed feet, a birth defect that continued to affect him for the rest of his life. As you can see by the medical records displayed on the screen, circa 1964, my client underwent several surgical procedures from ages 24 to 78 months. Prior to these procedures, doctors at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan, recommended a high-carb diet in order to extract unneeded fat from Mr. Abraham's stomach and mold it into what would later become his replacement heel. Although this ultimately was the only benefactor to my client's eventual ability to walk without leg braces, the weight he gained as a young child affected his weight much later on into his life.
"Mr. Parker's claim that my client was able to escape from the scene of the crime in a period of under 3 minutes is therefore highly unlikely, as both his handicap and weight suggest otherwise. While it is possible that Mr. Abraham escaped on some sort of motorized vehicle, the documentation displayed on the screen, circa 2003, shows my client's driving license was confiscated due to an accident in February of the same year. As my client has not driven any motorized vehicle since, nor own one, it would have taken him approximately 15 minutes to travel from the park's center to the park's entrance, considering that it was night and he was apparently carrying the hatchet, weighing 25 lbs, found in his apartment. My client's weight also suggests that his arms would not have nearly enough strength to create the 6 inch deep wound the victim suffered from. Unless, that is, it was dropped, in which the absurd angle that the murder weapon inflicted the wound on discounts. In conclusion, my client was not able to escape the scene of the crime before park officials discovered the victim's body."
She had them now.
"Thank you, Miss Satella. Mr. Parker, do you have a rebuttal?"
Courtney smiled. Of course not.
She had set this up perfectly, and even she had no doubt that her client was guilty. After all, despite his weight and lack of a license, it seemed quite obvious to her that he had an accomplice.
And her opponent had no motive for the crime. She had superior knowledge and the truth, and all he had was one lousy piece of evidence.
"In that case, the jury may now decide the verdict."
The look of defeat on her opponent's face was one she had seen so many, many times.
And, two hours or so later, she drove out of the parking lot with a smile she had worn so many, many more.
Now, she sat on her couch with a glass of wine and her labradoodle, watching Pretty Little Liars on mute at 11 PM while she talked to her best friend over Skype. Her hair was in pink curlers that matched the oversized Jimmy Choo t-shirt she bought at a thrift shop in Miami, and she filed her nails quite messily as she kicked her feet up onto the coffee table. If it were anybody but Gwen seeing her, she wouldn't be caught dead doing so.
"No, I mean, I don't understand why people are so intimidated by my hair. It's not even blue anymore! It's literally just black, but just because it's not as natural as it used to be people assume I'm goth or something."
Courtney nodded, not looking up from her nails. "You are pretty goth, though."
"Not really! I mean, I'm naturally pale and my eyes just happen look like they were murdered with blue eyeshadow. And what makes it worse is that they'll see me protest animal testing out of big beauty companies like Suave and so they label me as some sort of goth eco-obsessed stereotype! It's not like I own 50 cats and hate all colors except black, like, do you see what I am wearing right now? Would a goth eco-obsessed stereotype wear this?!"
Courtney looked up at the screen and saw a white halter top decorated with green skulls. "Yes."
"Ugh! You're just as bad as they are. I feel obligated to go buy a fur coat or something."
Courtney laughed, setting down the nail file and pausing the TV. "You can borrow mine," She joked, but before Gwen could become offended, said "I'm kidding! I'm kidding. I love animals, isn't that right, Gatsby?" Cuddling her labradoodle, she made a number of strange baby-talk sounds which she was sure Gwen found quite disgusting and animal-ist, as if that was a word.
"Oh, stop it, Courtney. How did the trial go?"
Courtney smiled, gently pushing Gatsby aside and focusing on her conversation with Gwen. "Great, as always."
"I'm assuming you won?" Gwen asked. Courtney nodded as if this was obvious (in her defense, it was). "Don't you ever feel guilty when you win? Like, knowing some rapist or murderer or jewel thief is getting off the hook just because it's your job?"
"No." Courtney scoffed. "Cause that's what it is; my job."
"Well, whatever you say, Miss Unhumanitarian. I gotta go to bed, I have a job interview tomorrow."
And then Courtney was reminded that her best friend was unemployed for about the fifth time that week, and as she looked around her sky-rise apartment with the most incredible view of her favorite city, she almost felt sorry for her. "Right. Well, good luck." Courtney smiled. "Bye."
She ended the call before Gwen could reply, unpaused the TV, and binge ate 2 entire boxes of popcorn until 3 AM.
When she woke up the next day, she was mortified to find that it was a quarter to noon and she had an appointment exactly 15 minutes ago. Feeling extremely embarrassed and unprofessional, she fumbled to explain the situation to her client over the phone and apologized, rescheduling for the same time next week.
She threw up last night's 'snack' into the sink, threw up on the floor at the sight of it, and then proceeded to throw up on the mop as she tried to clean the whole shebang.
She was starting to get angry, because vomit reminded her of camp and she really, really would rather not be reminded of camp when she had a 104 degree fever. Or when she didn't. Either way, she had woken up no more than 10 minutes ago and could already tell that this was not going to be a day like yesterday.
She gave up on trying to force a glass of water down and eventually returned to the couch, scrolling through her cell phone for someone, anyone who lived nearby…
Bridgette, work…
Mom, on vacation…
Gwen, interview...
Duncan, asshole…
Wait a second, why was he even still a contact on her phone? Oh yeah, he had custody of their raccoon since Gatsby didn't handle her so well… (no, it's not weird for a Defense Attorney to have a raccoon).
Okay, so maybe not anyone. Courtney really needed to make more friends.
She settled on leaving Gwen a voicemail and hoping her interview was done soon.