Gerrel wanted to throw back his head and howl, part of him still in shock that this was really happening, that his own governmental system was breaking down, and that it had decided to turn on him.
He watched Shepard saunter up to him, smiling pleasantly. "Admiral. Did you or did you not propose the initiative to arm the Liveships?" Then, in a softer voice. "I was allowed a copy of the minutes from that meeting, I already know the answer. You don't have to lie."
He would have loved to punch her. "Yes."
"Thank you," Xala said dryly. "Let it be recorded that Han'Gerrel admits to it."
Was she really going to work him down the list? "What kind of a soldier are you?" Gerrel growled, leaning over and lowering his voice. "You want to retake your homeworld from machines. We want to take our homeworld back from machines." The decision to 'ally' with the geth was something that had all quarians uneasy. It wasn't a universally embraced idea. Perhaps if he could get her to commit to some unpopular idea…
To his surprise, she smiled, eyes flinty. "The geth have already devoted two squadrons of fighters and two units of Primes. These four units have already been deployed to aid in evacuations or take heat off Galactic Allied forces," Shepard answered. "Meanwhile, our other new allies have not yet committed anything but promises—meaning no disrespect, given the circumstances. The quarians naturally have a bit more to square away before they can think about galactic matters," she added sweetly to the jury. Then, she turned back to Gerrel. "Have you had opportunity to see the memorials erected to your forbearers? They would have taken years, maybe even decades if organics had been handling them. And what organic bestows such an elaborate quantity of time on a dead enemy's remains? Prejudice is a difficult weed to remove, wherever it crops up. But the time to remove it has come, nevertheless…lest you endanger the Flotilla again by reigniting hostilities on your precious homeworld."
Gerrel felt the charge in the air, the question of whether he would start something now that it seemed that maybe nothing needed to be started. He had access to the propaganda pieces her journalist provided, of course he had, but he had little use for such things. She had an agenda, and the resources with which to push it.
When he said nothing, Shepard continued, pacing back and forth slowly, like a fish in a bowl. "My team assaulted that dreadnaught to allow the Civilian Fleet to withdraw. The plan was made, the details worked out. Why did you deviate from the plan, Admiral?"
"The situation changed, as you very well know—and before you go any further, even you couldn't have known that the signal would reconnect from somewhere else!"
Shepard opened the datapad and pulled something up. "I have here the estimated death toll within the Civilian Fleet, beginning at the timestamp of Admiral Gerrel's assault on the dreadnaught, which forced the Patrol Fleet to support it, lest the death toll be even higher. It was calculated by my crewman EDI, and has been cross-referenced with census data generously provided by the Flotilla. Would you like to see the numbers, Admiral?" she held out the datapad.
He didn't move to take it.
"I really think you should look at the numbers. You're responsible, after all," Shepard said quietly.
Gerrel grimaced. "I hardly think you're a person to lecture me about civilian casualties."
He didn't even have the satisfaction of her expression flickering, no hint of wanting to shove the datapad up his nose.
"I assume you're referring to Aratoht? Yes, I'm personally responsible for three hundred four thousand, nine hundred forty two civilian deaths, exactly. And I see that number every time I have to think about civilian casualties. I see it every time I have to look a batarian in the eyes. I see it every time I go to bed. I sacrificed those lives to keep the Reapers from waltzing in this galaxy's back door. But don't think for one minute that I fail to consider the magnitude of what was paid for that reprieve. I didn't judge myself guiltless; the loss was pronounced acceptable by others. Read the damn number." She thrust the datapad at him, eyes burning like coals in her face.
"Read it," Xala commanded. "The rest of the judiciary board is already acquainted with it. Shepard, I believe your point is made past arguing. Thank you."
Gerrel took the datapad, read the number—translated into Khelish—then returned the datapad to Shepard. He made himself appear untouched by it…which earned him a contemptuous look from Shepard, as it she would like to punch him again—in the face, this time, since he didn't have a helmet to worry about.
He's seen her in the legal arena before, enjoyed her performance, then. Not so much now, when it was pointed in his direction. He knew what this was: if he wouldn't capitulate and accept the guilt being foisted upon him, she would leave no question about it, so she wouldn't have to sit through hours of argument and discussion. She had a war to deal with, and these proceedings were interfering with it.
"Thank you for your indulgence," she said to Xala. With that, Shepard returned to her bench.
Gerrel balled his hands into fists, furious over his inability to mount a decent defense. The number was high, yes, but at the time, to stop the dreadnaught from powering up again, who wouldn't have wanted to stop that?! It disgusted him how his decisions were being reduced based on what people knew now versus what everyone knew at the time.
In their box, the judiciary mumbled, apparently deliberating on the spot instead of withdrawing to do so. Eventually, they settled down, and one motioned to Xala that they were ready.
Xala nodded. "Jury? You have come to a consensus?"