Chapter Sixteen The Trial, Part 3: Money; It's a Crime
A hush spread throughout the courtroom, diluting the ruckus that Sara's bold testimony had caused. The eye of the room turned to Roger Mason, waiting in anticipation, watching him. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel them eyeing his prison uniform, waiting and staring as he struggled to stand up. He could not breathe well through his nose; his mouth hung open, drawing in the air slowly. Greg, now part of the eye he had feared at the stand, felt an urge to run up and help him, but he couldn't. He was close to tears witnessing the sad scene before him.
At long last, Roger stood up straight. He walked to the stand with pride, declining walking help from Tom, and took his oath, one shaking hand on the Bible. Then he sat down, leering at the eye of the crowd as though they, too, were abusing him by looking at him.
His lawyer stepped forward, looking overexcited. Castor seemed as eager as the audience to hear the story from the bad guy's point of view, even though he knew and planned exactly what his client was going to say. All the enthusiasm bearing down on him made Roger feel sick. He turned his eyes towards the opposite side of the room.
"Roger Mason," said Castor, "you stand here today, accused of two counts kidnaping, one count attempted murder, and three counts misuse of a firearm. How does that make you feel?"
Roger blinked slowly as though it were taking his brain a long time to comprehend the simple question. After a minute, he made a move towards the mike. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He noticed this, and tried a second time to speak. "I feel...bad," he said, his voice slightly nasal. "I feel terrible for what I did."
Castor's broad grin faded. That was not the answer they had discussed. "Oh...kay. So - you...you show regret. For..for...uh..." He trailed off, annoyed that his client was being truthful rather than eager to save his own skin. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Well, we've already heard the...the story from the point of the victims. What...can you tell us what happened before you came to meet Greg Sanders?"
"Yeah," Roger said casually, but no one could fail to notice that he sounded like his nose was plugged. Even Castor looked uncomfortable. "I remember it well. I was working in my office, writing a report for the Carson City Crime Lab. I worked day shift there - well, I did until I got arrested." He didn't look like he was upset about getting fired. "That day - the day of my crime spree -" Castor put a hand to his face after this comment. "- my darling brother, David Mason, came to me with an offer." He gave a big, fake smile when he mentioned David, revealing two chipped teeth.
"What offer was that?" asked Castor, who was exasperated from his case being screwed up right after it was thrown wide open.
Roger still avoided looking directly at anyone. This was not too difficult to do, as one of his eyes was almost completely swollen shut. "He said he would give me...a lot of money...if I went out to the Las Vegas Crime Lab and brought a CSI to the Interstate 15. He said I would see his car and I should pull over there. I took up the offer."
"And how much money was your brother offering you?"
Closing his eyes, Roger heaved a sigh. "A crapload."
Castor also sighed. This was most definitely not one of his favourite cases. "Can you be more specific, please, Mr. Mason? How much is 'a crapload?'"
Roger shifted uncomfortably. "100 thousand...dollars," he said slowly.
In the audience, there were murmurs. Greg raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He never thought it would be that much. With this new information, he found that if placed in Roger's situation, he would have also taken David up on the offer, no questions asked. Still, he wondered what he would do with all that money...which led him to wonder what Roger wanted to do with all that money.
"Wow," said Castor in wonder, even though he already knew how much it was. "That is a lot of money. So you just took him up on the offer, no questions asked?"
"Wouldn't you?" said Roger, forcing a small laugh. Greg frowned. He was a good liar and a quick thinker, but he was a terrible actor. The falseness of the chuckle must have struck the prosecutor, too, for he began scribbling down notes on a paper in front of him furiously.
"Personally? I suppose I would," said Castor. "Indeed. If it was any less, I would start asking questions."
He was leading Roger on. "I guess so. But really, I just needed some money. I might not have asked even if it was a grand."
Castor ignored his client's last sentence and went on. "Do you think maybe...he offered you so much money to lead you astray so that you wouldn't ask any questions?"
"Maybe," said Roger. "I don't know. It's possible."
Castor looked down, thinking. He came back up. "So you had no idea what his intentions were?"
"Not completely," admitted Roger, "but for the past few weeks he'd been muttering to himself about how he was going to make our Lab the best, no matter what it took. From this, I pieced together a vague idea of what -"
"No further questions, your honor!" called Castor loudly over Roger's magnified voice, cutting him off before he had a chance to further kill the defense.
"Mr. Nadar?" asked Judge Saber, who hadn't felt the need to say anything in a while.
"A few," said Nadar, looking sideways at the prosecutor. He stood up, staying where he was, as though he expected a brief answer to his quick question. He cleared his throat. "What makes you so sure that my client's intentions were bad?"
"I said, he was muttering to himself for weeks -"
"Why did you think it was an intent to kill? How do you know he didn't want to recruit someone?"
"I really don't think it matters what I think," said Roger. "The point is that, a) I had an idea of his intentions and still took the money, and b) in the end, it turned out that I was correct."
"Also," said Nadar, smiling as Castor put his hands to his face in a fury, "at the time that he came to you, were you aware that my client only had 200 dollars in his account?"
A small hush fell over the courtroom as they watched the defendant's stand, waiting to see what his response would be. In a way it was sickening; people just staring ahead like he was some sort of TV show that was about to reveal a major plot twist. Roger did not want to give them a show, but he had no choice but to answer the truth. He leaned in towards the mike and said softly, in that same nasal voice, "I thought...he had the money stashed somewhere."
Nadar grinned at the look of devastation on the defendant's face. Feeling his job was done, he went back to sit with his client. Kampbell got up and took over. Roger still was unnerved from the last attorney's questions, which made it easier for him to tenderize him.
"So...you knew he had no money in his account, and you had an idea of what he was planning - and yet you asked no questions?" Kampbell said in mock outrage.
"I know him," said Roger slowly. "He's always been mistrusting of banks and the like, I thought maybe...he could have had it hidden in his apartment for all I knew. I trusted him. He's my brother."
"You didn't trust him," said Kampbell accusingly.
"Excuse me? How can you tell me what I was feeling?"
"I said, you didn't trust him," repeated Kampbell. "How could you trust him like a brother when he's been verbally and physically abusing you?"
Still looking away towards the far wall, his eyes widened in fear. "Who -who said that?"
Kambell looked in his notes. "We were told that by Mr. Gregory Sanders."
Roger's eyes immediately flew through the crowd until they found Greg's. He looked sadly at him, as though desperately asking why he did it. Greg blushed, and looked back with the same sad gaze. Kampbell's questions continued, and Roger felt as though his words were a drilling into his brain. He didn't feel well enough anymore to hear the rest of his own trial.
"I expect that he's the source of your various wounds that made you late this morning, Mr. Mason," Kampbell buzzed.
Roger was shaken, and did not take his eyes off of Greg. He felt something wet fall down the side of his cheek, and touched it: a tear. "Next question," he said hoarsely.
Kampbell liked the direction in which he was heading, and wanted to prod on. He looked up at the Judge. "Your honor, I haven't gotten an answer to the question yet."
Judge Saber looked down at Roger, but didn't notice that he was crying. "I suggest you answer the question, Mr. Mason, unless you want to be charged with something else."
Roger refused. He shook his head. "You've figured it all out. Don't make me say anymore. You don't need it."
Kampbell pressed on. Now it was just out of pure spite that he was doing this. "Answer me!" he cried. "Are those wounds - that black eye, those bruises on your back, your bloody nose - are they from your brother?"
"Yes, dammit!" Roger shouted into the microphone. "Yes! I want to get the hell away from David Mason! That's why I pleaded guilty! That's why I needed money! And that's why I did what he told me to do without asking questions! Fear. And desperation."
He moved the microphone away as he put his head in his hands and began to sob. The crowd continued to watch his every move, watching as the tears flowed, listening as he cried out, sniffling at the sad scene before the ever-staring eye. Greg and Sara could not bear to watch anymore and turned their heads towards the wall that Roger had stared at throughout his interrogation, wondering why no one was doing anything to help or stop him, wondering why they were letting him carry on like that and allowing everyone to watch.