Chapter VIII: THE (NOT SO) INCOMPETENT.

Stephanie Lancroix cursed herself as she read the sheet of paper. She liked to keep up with the latest inventions. She had a cellphone with Super VGA resolution for a built-in digital camera and it also worked as a palmtop. At home, she had a state-of-the-art personal computer, which she kept turned on all the time she was there. The computer at the office was not an obsolete machine, though, and she rummaged through her e-mail accounts in her spare time.

She should have remembered to check the old, seemingly out-dated means of communication. She glanced down at the end of the aisle, at the conference room where she knew Dylan Hunt was working in. He would not be pleased. More than that, he would be extremely annoyed and angry... at her. She paced towards there, knowing that if she were to endure his admonishment, she had better do it now. Wasting more time would be worse.

She walked in. The room was empty. On the table, there were piles of papers arranged. She moved closer and peered at one of them. It was a photograph of a man very similar to the murdered man. Only that this picture seemed to have been taken eighty years ago! What...?

"Stephanie." She turned awkwardly. Dylan was walking in, an inquisitorial glance in his eyes. No sooner did he get by her than he took the papers away, gathering them in a folder he stuck under his arm. "You wanted something?"

She put up the paper she had. Dylan took it and read it. His breathing increased and she knew he was not glad of that. He shook his head and began to fidget around, his mouth always about to spit out something but holding it back.

"Are you incompetent?!" he finally barked out angrily.

"I... I forgot to check... I..." she hissed.

Carla Hayes and Roger Laver walked in, discussing something. They stopped when they noticed Dylan in a furious mood.

"What happens?" Roger asked.

"Trial was advanced. It's... next week." Stephanie replied. "I forgot to check my mail."

"You were informed any change in schedule would be immediately operative and served by letter.." Carla admonished.

"It's a week old." Dylan blurted out, laughing nervously.

Laver only glanced at Stephanie. She bit her lips yet contained the tears. An almost motionless nod was the only admission of guilt she dared make.

"Anyway..." Roger sighed. "You'd better get to analyze the evidence."

--

The evidence the DA had gathered was vast. The core of it, though, consisted in the murderous weapon, clothes of the murderer stained with the victim's blood, and the security tape Dylan had watched before. They were on the latter.

Dylan frowned as he watched Darren Jones – no, Lothar Waingartner! – take the head of Igor Troliev after the pitiful plea for mercy. The Quickening began to unleash when the camera ended playing.

Over and over again. And there was nothing. Because there had to be nothing. There was not a single thing they could find to redeem him. Jones was guilty. He was a cold-blooded psycho. He had always been.

Carla shook her head and spoke as if reading his thoughts. "This is pointless. We've nothing."

"Indeed."

Dylan and Carla seemed concerned. Extremely concerned. Stephanie knew that this was her fault. She should have paid more attention and remembered to check if the secretary – the one that always received, with a power of attorney signed therefor, all papers served upon the firm – had any letter for her.

The secretary could not be blamed. It was customary within the firm – a custom that dated back to Dylan's father - that she left any incoming notices, communications, summons, letters, inter alia, at a row of shelves behind her, where each employee, associate and partner had a specific separate place for such papers. And the secretary need not remember. It was the lawyer's burden.

Res ipsa loquitur. She had screwed up. The facts spoke for themselves. She could not pin blame on the secretary. Just like the case. Jones could not blame others. There it was. It was so evident. Her eyes widened. Was it!?

She withdrew her eyes from the image and observed the television as a device. A tiny smirk posed on her lips.

"What if he didn't murder him?"

"What?!" Dylan's question was an exasperated one.

"I mean... " She stood up and went to the screen. "We have this. He killed him. No argument there. But we have this, what we see here." She placed her fingers on the still image of the sword-swinging Darren Jones. "What about before? What if the other guy provoked him, threatened him, maybe even forced him to fight?"

Carla and Dylan eyed at each other and returned their attention to Stephanie. "You're saying that," Carla hissed, "he acted under a spur of passion. You can't prove it for certain."

"You're right." Stephanie countered. "But neither can they. This guy could perfectly gunpointed Jones to fight. Maybe he was some creepo with a thing for swords and handed Jones the weapon to please himself. Turns out Jones went nuts and took his head."

Carla smiled. She got the idea. Dylan nodded dubiously. "I don't get you."

"Reasonable doubt." Carla nearly mocked.

"Spur of passion. Ten years maximum." Stephanie added.

He felt like an idiot. Basic knowledge lawyers had. He had been so focused on keeping the secret involving immortality that he had overlooked what he was: an attorney. He had also forgotten to behave as a detached protector of his client's interests. He had been so focused on his subjective knowledge that Waingartner was guilty that he had bypassed crucial things.

"It's a long shot... but we don't have anything else." He yawned. "I need to get some coffee."

"I'll get it." Stephanie chanted as she left, relieved after having been able to open a very small door that brought light into the darkness of the case.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Dylan mused.

"Very. But we might have figured out. But we do know what Waingartner... Jones really is. And we pondered that above all."

"I sense jealousy again." Dylan mocked charmingly.

She smiled softly. "Hey, I'm giving her credit. I said we might, not that we would."

Stephanie returned with three cups of coffee. Dylan wanted to know who the DA and the judge would be. He was not glad to learn it.