“I’m sorry.”

“What were you wearing, please? Tell the jury everything that was on your body.”

He swallows hard, then begins clicking off the armor, weaponry, and so on. It’s a long list. “Keep going,” I say. He finishes with “Boxer shorts, T-shirt, white athletic socks.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely certain?”

“Yes, I’m certain.”

I stare at him as though he’s a filthy liar, then I walk to the exhibit table and pick up a large color photograph of Keestler on a stretcher as he’s being rushed into the ER. His face is clearly visible. Since the photo has already been introduced into evidence, I hand it to Keestler and ask, “That you?”

He looks at it, confused, says, “That’s me.”

The judge allows me to pass the photo to the jurors. They take their time, absorb the image, then I take it back. “Now, Peace Officer Keestler, looking at you in this photograph, what is this black stuff you’re wearing on your face?”

He smiles, relieved. Aw shucks. “Oh that, that’s just black camouflage paint.”

“Also known as war paint?”

“I guess. It has several names.”

“What’s the purpose of war paint?”

“It’s for camouflage purposes.”

“So it’s pretty important, huh?”

“Sure is, yes.”

“It’s necessary to insure the safety of the men on the ground, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“How many of the eight peace officers in your SWAT team that night covered their faces with black war paint?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Did all of our peace officers wear black war paint that night?”

He knows the answer and he figures I do too. He says, “I’m really not sure.”

I walk to my table and pick up a thick deposition. I make sure he sees it. “Now, Peace Officer Keestler—”

Finney stands and says, “Now, Your Honor, I’ll object here. He keeps using the term ‘peace officer.’ I think that—”

“You used it first,” Judge Ponder fires back. “You used it first. Overruled.”

We eventually establish that four of the cops decorated themselves with black war paint, and by the time I move on Keestler looks as dumb as a teenager playing with crayons. It’s time for some real fun. I say, “Now, Peace Officer Keestler, you play a lot of video games, right?”

Finney is back on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy.”

“Overruled,” His Honor says harshly without even looking at the prosecutor. Judge Ponder has become increasingly, and obviously, fed up with the police and their lies and tactics. We have all the momentum—a rarity for me—and I’m not sure how to handle it. Do I speed things along and get the case to the jury while they’re on our side? Or do I plod along, scoring every possible point?

Scoring is so much fun, plus I have a hunch the jury is squarely on my side and enjoying this train wreck. “What are some of the video games you enjoy playing?”

He names a few—benign, almost kiddie-like games that make him sound like an overgrown fifth grader. He and Finney know what’s coming and they’re trying to soften the blow. In doing so, Keestler looks even worse.

“How old are you, Mr. Keestler?”

“Twenty-six,” he says with a smile, finally an honest answer.

“And you’re still playing video games?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“In fact, you’ve spent thousands of hours playing video games, right?”

“I guess.”

“And one of your favorites is Mortal Attack Three, right?” I’m holding his deposition, a thick sworn statement in which I managed to hammer out the fact that he got hooked on video games when he was a kid and still loves them.

“I guess, yes,” he says.

I wave his deposition like it’s poison and say, “Well, haven’t you already testified, in a sworn deposition, that you’ve been playing Mortal Attack Three for the past ten years?”

“Yes, sir.”

I look at Judge Ponder and say, “Your Honor, I would like to show the jury a clip from Mortal Attack Three.”

Finney is turning flips. We’ve been arguing about this for a month, with Ponder withholding a ruling until this very moment. Finally, he says, “I’m intrigued. Let’s take a look.”

Finney tosses a legal pad on his table in total frustration. Ponder growls, “Enough of the theatrics, Mr. Finney. Take a seat!”

I rarely have the judge on my side and I’m not sure how to act.

The courtroom lights are dimmed while a screen drops from the ceiling. A tech guy has edited a five-minute clip of the video game. At my instruction, he cranks up the volume, and the jury is jolted by the sudden image of a bulky soldier kicking in a door as explosions rip through the background. An animal resembling a dog but with shining teeth and huge talons lunges forward and our hero guns him down. Villains appear in doors and windows, and they’re all blown to hell and back. Bullets, the kind you can see, blast and ricochet. Body parts are ripped off. Blood is knee-deep. People scream and shoot and die with great drama, and after two minutes we’ve seen enough.

After five minutes, the entire courtroom needs a break. The screen goes blank and the lights come on. I glare at Keestler, who’s still on the witness stand, and say, “All fun and games, right, Peace Officer Keestler?”

He does not respond. I watch him drown for a few seconds, then say, “And you also enjoy playing a game called Home Invasion, right?”

He shrugs, looks toward Finney for help, and finally grunts, “I guess.”

Finney stands and says, “Judge, is this really relevant?” The judge is leaning on his elbows and ready for more. He says, “Oh, I think this is very relevant, Mr. Finney. Let’s roll the tape.”

The lights go down, and for three minutes we watch the same mindless mayhem and gore. If I caught Starcher playing this garbage, I’d lock him away in rehab. At one point, juror number six whispers loudly, “Good God!” I watch them as they stare at the screen, thoroughly disgusted.

When the videos are over, I force Keestler to admit that he also likes a game called Crack House—Special Ops. He admits the cops have a locker room in the basement of the police department. Courtesy of the taxpayers, it is equipped with a fifty-four-inch flat-screen television, and for fun the boys gather there between SWAT maneuvers and play video game tournaments. Over Finney’s lame objections, I drag this out of Keestler, bit by bit. By now, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and this makes matters worse for him and the prosecution. When I finish with him, he is destroyed and discredited.

As I sit down, I look at the gallery. The chief of police is gone, and for good.

Judge Ponder asks, “Who’s your next witness, Mr. Finney?”

Finney has the hangdog look of a prosecutor who doesn’t want to call any more witnesses. What he does want to do is catch the next train out of town. He looks at a notepad and says, “Officer Boyd.” Boyd fired seven rounds that night. At the age of seventeen, he was convicted of a DUI but managed to get his record expunged later. Finney doesn’t know about the DUI, but I do. At the age of twenty, Boyd received a dishonorable discharge from the Army. When he was twenty-four, his girlfriend called 911 and complained of domestic abuse. Things were swept under the rug; no charges stuck. Boyd is also the veteran of two other botched SWAT raids, and he’s enthralled with the same video games that keep Keestler so occupied.

Getting Boyd on cross-examination could well be the highlight of my legal career.

Judge Ponder suddenly says, “We’re going to recess until Monday morning at nine. I want to see the lawyers in my chambers.”

22.