Last Flight Out

By George Lynn

A disillusioned lawyer and an aspiring journalist are thrown together in the wild, mountainous and unpopulated region of western Maryland in a duel with a terrorist militia organization. The journalist has discovered of their illegal, death dealing operations and plans to expose them. But the militia has learned of her as well, wanting her and anyone with her dead before she can pull off her coup. Their first attempt is very close to successful. She is pretty banged up, but lives with the care and aid of a strange man, living secluded in the mountains. But now, she and her rescuer must flee in front of the militia pursuit, to get past their much better armed and equipped forces who will shoot on sight. They must run, fight, and stay hidden, a difficult task for a person who has just survived a plane crash. The race is on and on the way, the two discover something in the person with whom they are fleeing. Or is it something they discover in themselves? Will they survive to see what it is? It will be difficult. There are many in pursuit and only the two of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Lynn
• Release date: Mar 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301176649

Book preview

Last Flight Out

By George Lynn

Published by George Lynn at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 George Lynn

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

George Lynn

Last Flight Out

Chapter I

Alvin Trigger Donahue turned left at the light in downtown Little Rock for perhaps the fifteenth time and immediately looked toward the spot he was ordered to park the dark blue, nondescript Toyota he was driving. The windshield wipers continued their steady sweep, the left one making a tiny, but irritating screech when it moved from one side of its half of the windshield to the other. The same white Chevy occupied the space. A muscle in his cheek twitched as soon as he saw it.

Once again, he drove slowly past, glancing out the side window to see if anyone might be in the car making preparations for leaving. He was ordered to park in that precise spot and in no other before turning off the engine. Turning it off would activate the fifteen minute timer. There was no one in the other car, but the thought of the timer made him glance over his shoulder at the rear seat. It was fake. Under the camouflaging fabric was a huge bomb.

If anyone should happen to sit on it, they would know immediately that something was wrong. The extremely heavy material beneath the concealing fabric was shaped like a bench seat with regular backs, extending behind and into the trunk, with all of that cubic space filled, too. It was a heavy load. Extra strong springs and shock absorbers had been added to support it.

The timer was in the main compartment of the briefcase, which he placed on the floor in front of the fake back seat, near the passenger side door. He knew it was unlikely anyone would even take notice of it. For that matter, without getting in and sitting, no one would take notice of the seat. He knew that with total certainty, but still fretted.

His hands sweated on the steering wheel. He felt it steadily building up in the pits of his arms and on his forehead, too. He quickly looked forward again, but knew his eyes would continue to be drawn to the massive bomb concealed there before he parked. He took his right hand briefly from the wheel and ran it through his short, crew cut hair, feeling even more perspiration there, and then put it back.

At the light, he turned right, instead of left the way he had on all earlier circuits of the block, hoping that a change in routine might also bring about a change of luck. He had to get out of the car soon and stop making one block circuits before some small incident occurred which could prevent the successful completion of the mission.

Someone might run out from between two cars, scurrying in the rain. He might not see them until it was too late. If caught, his lack of identification or ownership papers for the car would put him in a world of trouble. He would be forced to flee on foot and activate the bomb on the spot. If that happened, his own life would be in deep jeopardy and at the very least, his identity might be at great risk of being learned.

He turned right at the first light, halfway through yet another circular route. The wheels splashed water toward the curb and he heard someone shout. He had barely noticed the figure standing there. In the rearview, he saw the blue uniformed shape of a police officer, fist raised in the air, shaking it at his back. In reaction, Trigger accelerated, but slowed when he realized what he was doing and saw that the cop was staying where he was.

He hoped he had not gotten his tag number and called it in, for he would be certain to learn that the car Trigger was driving had been stolen. They had taken it several weeks ago so they could modify it and install the explosives, then kept it carefully hidden until time to take the long trip from Pennsylvania to the front of the Little Rock courthouse. He swallowed and tapped the forefinger of each hand on the wheel. Just before his next turn, he glanced at the rearview mirror and got one final glimpse of the cop turning away.

Trigger breathed a sigh of relief, but realized that the officer turning away did not really mean anything. He jumped when thunder cracked, then swallowed again. As he approached the last turn before the assigned parking spot, he moaned.

Please car, be gone. Please, be leaving or gone. Please, please, please, then stopped when he rounded the final corner. Sweat trickled into his right eye as he leaned left and forward to look.

At that precise second, a brake light on the car lit up and Trigger sighed with relief. He slowed to allow the driver time to pull out, then tapped the wheel with impatience when it looked as though the operator was waiting for him to pass before pulling out. He leaned forward and flicked off the light switch as a signal that he wanted to park, then turned it instantly back on. The little white Chevy inched slowly out in the lane.

Trigger waited, stopped in traffic. He drummed his fingers with impatience when the car’s backup lights came on again and while the driver maneuvered her way to get out. He glanced around to see if anyone was paying any overt attention to him. There were few people about. Everyone was trying to stay inside and out of the rain.

At last, the space was vacant and minutes later, Trigger was parked in it. He pushed the gear shift to park, turned off the lights, and looked at his watch. He had slightly over a half hour to wait, a close call as far as he was concerned. His orders were to turn off the engine in the designated spot at precisely ten forty-five. The deposition of the traitor was scheduled to begin at eleven. Even if it started a little late, he was sure to be there, attorneys in tow.

The senior militia officer had told him that they not only wanted to be certain of the traitor’s death, but also that of any and all persons to whom he might have given any information about the militia. The bomb behind him was large enough that it should take out the vast majority of two city blocks. It was sure to get the traitor. That thought made him look to the rear again, glance at the bomb pretending to be a seat, then turn back forward to look at his watch again.

He started when he realized he had not fed the parking meter and looked around. There was no one. He dug the spare set of car keys from his trouser pocket and opened the door. Rain deluged him as he locked and slammed the door closed. The engine purred beneath the hood and he was drenched before getting to the curb.

He glanced around to see if anyone was looking at him, but the sidewalks remained all but deserted. After fishing a pair of quarters from his pocket, he put them in the meter and went back. The instant the door was closed to the rain, he looked at his watch again. Twenty-five minutes to go. The time seemed to drag by with eternal slowness.

Trigger wished he had thought to bring along a rain slicker or a waterproof jacket of some kind. When he left the car without one, he was more likely to attract attention than if he had something to protect him from the falling water. Too late, he thought. Too late. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen more minutes and I’m out of here. Thirty minutes until the bomb goes off. In a half hour, this place where I’m sitting will be a crater.

Of course, he and the others in the militia who were involved with this mission all knew that there were many people besides the traitor who would get killed. He didn’t know how the others felt about it, but he didn’t personally care. While serving in the Army over in Saudi Arabia, he had finally admitted to himself that he was heartily sick of how politicians ran the United States Government.

The politicians should be stopped from screwing up everything the way they did. The setup had to be changed. It should be the opposite of what it was. Instead of the senators and congressmen and president running the military, it should be the other way around. In fact, he was not even sure the president, congressmen, and senators were necessary at all. Just let the military do it all. When he had returned and been approached by the Southwestern Pennsylvania Free Militia, after being told what their ultimate goal of a new world order was, he had joined them with open arms.

His military explosive training is what they most wanted and he had given it freely. In the army, he had never gone higher in rank than spec three. Already in the militia, he had achieved the rank of enlisted man second grade. Most with his time in the unit were no more than grade four. Even better, they told him that when the mission he was currently on had been successfully completed, he could very well be bumped up again.

Ten minutes to go, he thought, and looked around again, but had to wipe steam that had accumulated on the inside of the windows because of his own wet body and clothing, before able to see that the sidewalks were still almost vacant. Reassured that no one was paying him undue attention, he picked up the flesh colored Playtex rubber gloves off the seat and put them on. When finished, he picked up the old tee shirt that had been under them.

Mostly out of habit, he began wiping the steering wheel, the dash, the spare keys, all the door hardware. He assumed he would not get all of the places he had possibly touched, but wanted to get as many as possible, just in case there were pieces large enough to be identified and fingerprinted when they did their inevitable investigation after the explosion. When finished, he reminded himself to wipe the keys in the ignition after turning off the engine, then glanced at his watch. Three minutes.

He jumped when a dark shape moved past the passenger window, then breathed a sigh of relief when it continued onward. He resisted the temptation of looking at his watch again, knowing only seconds had passed since the last time, then gathered himself and tried to stop his hands from shaking. It’s almost time. I must be calm.

He hoped the timing device worked. He prayed he had not screwed up anything which would make the bomb detonate as soon as the ignition was turned off. He needed for no one to pay him the slightest attention when he made his way in a casual manner away from the car. He wanted to get away clean. Otherwise and he could be dead. That would happen if the bomb did not explode the way it was supposed to or if he was stopped by someone for as little as a routine check.

He looked at his watch and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the minute hand on nine and the second hand creeping the final few seconds toward twelve. Hands shaking regardless of his attempts to stop them, he reached to the steering column, grasped the keys, and turned off the ignition.

Seconds passed and he expelled his breath, not even aware he had been holding it. He removed the keys and wiped them off with the tee shirt, dropped them into the glove compartment with the other set, grasped the latch, and opened the door. He locked the door after stepping out into the hard rain and firmly closed it.

Trigger walked away, rushing to remove the gloves, head down, trying to make it look as if the only reason he was hurrying was because of the rain. He walked parallel to the courthouse steps at a fast pace and paused at the pedestrian crosswalk as if he remembered something. Seconds later, he turned to face the street and began walking again at a fast clip.

His foot was in mid-stride towards the step off the curb when a voice from behind made him stop. It was almost a yell. Hey! You there!

He turned and found himself looking into the eyes of a grim faced police officer. He felt the blood drain from his face, felt the shaking of his hands begin anew, felt his stomach roll over. He also felt something warm running down the inside of his leg.

The officer asked, Did you just get out of that dark blue car back there?

Unable to speak and feeling his eyes bulging, he swallowed and nodded. If the cop tried to take him in or anything, he knew he would be in deep trouble and would be unable to so much as defend himself. He was unarmed and had absolutely no identification on his person, on purpose, just in case he was apprehended and searched.

The cop sneered and said, I want to thank you for splashing water all over me when you went past on the other side of the building. It was real considerate of you.

Trigger swallowed, then a second time, but was still unable to speak. He blinked and turned to leave. He tried to control the shaking, but it became too much for him. After taking several steps, he looked over his shoulder at the cop, saw he was moving after him, faced back forward, and took off running.

From behind, he heard, Hey! You! Hold it! Halt! Trigger ran even harder.

Wind and rain were blowing in his ears, his heart was thudding rapidly, and he began panting at once. It did not stop him from hearing the pounding, splashing feet to his rear. A low moan escaped his gaping teeth as he struggled for air and for one fleeting second, he wished he had kept up with his physical conditioning, instead of spending all of his time tinkering around with timing devices, mercury switches, and a wide variety of explosives. The immediacy of the moment swiftly swept away the thought.

He focused his attention on what he was doing. He ran, slid around a corner and nearly collided with a little lady with a gray hairdo holding an umbrella. She had a startled look of surprise on her face. He sidestepped her and was past. He changed direction again. He had not the slightest idea where he might be. Ahead, he saw a break between two buildings, risked a quick look to the rear, saw the cop was losing ground to him, and decided to chance the alley.

At the opening, he slowed, almost falling, arms pin wheeling, and made the turn. He quickly accelerated and his footsteps echoed back at him from the close brick walls on both sides. He passed a closed door, another, and saw a blank wall ahead. He stopped with his palms spread against it and heard footsteps come to a smacking halt behind him.

He turned around and faced the sneering policeman, who stood with his hands on his hips. His right hand was only inches away from his pistol. However, Trigger’s eyes suddenly focused on something outside the brighter entrance to the short alley, on the far side of the street. It was a dark blue Toyota. His mouth dropped open in horror and he felt his eyes bulge.

Well now. Isn’t it a fine day to be taking a jaunt down the alley? Why don’t you put your hands back on that wall and just slide your feet back. Don’t be making any fast… and the world at the end of the narrow, little alley erupted in white light.

Trigger had his mouth open and lungs full of air, but had no time to so much as scream.

Chapter II

When Stu Ready turned around, still shrugging his arms into the sleeves of his dark brown suit coat, he discovered Dan Nopper leaning with his back against the door frame of his office. He automatically tensed, as he always did with the near presence of another male, and pushed back the ever recurrent vision of the dark tent’s interior on that long ago night in his youth, during a winter Boy Scout camping trip. He shivered, but concealed it with the continued motion of putting on his coat and straightening it.

Dan, a senior partner in the law firm where Stu worked, stood looking down at the name plate on Stu’s desk. Stu resisted allowing a frown to appear on his face and was uncertain if he was entirely successful, but Dan seemed not to notice. He had a propensity for making little jokes about Stu’s name and Stu didn’t like it, not one little bit. He knew he should be inured to it, for it seemed to happen all the time and not only with Dan, but it still irritated him.

For a brief second, Stu almost wished Dan had been with the team that had gone to Little Rock to represent the defective militiaman, but immediately dismissed the thought. He could not wish that on anyone, no matter how irritating they might be.

Dan interrupted his thoughts when he said, You all ready with the defense for the Hobb’s trial, Stu? and twisted his lips, as if trying to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upward in a smile.

Stu glanced down to finish closing the briefcase. He had gathered and put any potentially needed documentation into it when first arriving in his office. He straightened with the briefcase in his hand and looked at Dan, feeling confident that he had himself reasonably under control. However, he did not return Dan’s small smile when he replied.

I don’t think the prosecution has a leg to stand on and yes, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. This one is in the bag. He mentally added that he didn’t like it very much, but could not say it aloud.

Really? Good, Dan chuckled, then added, I guess you’re always pretty much ready, aren’t you, Stu? He chuckled again, as if he had invented something supremely humorous, and ducked his head back out of the door. He walked away, still chuckling.

Stu glared at the back of Dan’s head until he was out of sight. As he had expected, it was another pun about his name, as if he had not already heard that particular one several million times, it seemed. Through the anger, he wondered why Dan was sitting with him in court today, for he had not attended the case at all during jury selection and was not even remotely familiar with it.

Stu continued to seethe within as he walked out of the building to his car. Even though irritated at the name pun, he realized that the joke itself was not the underlying reason for the anger. The real reason was his life, his job, and what he was about to do.

Lately, for the past few months, he began to feel as if he no longer believed in himself. He had always thought of himself as honest and trustworthy, but the tactics he was forced to employ in his job were undermining that belief. True, he was uncomfortable when dealing with or merely in the presence of other men, but that was only because of the assault he had endured while still a boy and knew it. He tried hard to keep it buried deep inside.

He wondered if that might also be at least part of the cause for his inability to have a close and personal relationship with a woman. He shook his head and wondered, is there something wrong with me? Why can’t I find someone I really care about and with whom I can be comfortable? Why can’t I ever be happy? They were not new questions. He had asked himself the same things many times.

He drove away, lost in thought, and started when he realized he had missed the first entrance into the parking lot of the Montgomery County Courthouse. He immediately pulled into the left turn lane for the second turn off. Seconds later, he pulled into a vacant spot and turned off the engine. Before getting out, he sat in silence, trying to remember the drive from the office to the courthouse and was unable to recall any detail of it. He shivered, swallowed, and forced himself to move.

A feeling of dread spread through him as he walked into the building. He’d felt the same dread a week ago after winning the last case, for the former client he had gotten off on a procedural impropriety. In celebration, the client then went out that very night and killed a police officer. Of course, he ended up losing his own life, but that didn’t bring the dead officer back to life to live with his wife and three children.

Stu had been unable to look at himself in the mirror for days. He had cut himself shaving five times before he could force himself to watch what he was doing again, only the day before yesterday. He still had one remaining nick on his chin. Also during that time, he had driven himself like a madman when working the weights and running on the treadmill. It was almost as if he were punishing himself for what another man had done and wondered if that could be a regular trait of his own personality. He stopped walking and daydreaming when he stood facing the closed double doors of the courtroom.

One of the two police officers standing on opposing sides of them glanced at him, but did not speak. Their eyes were without expression, dead or shark eyes, almost. The other kept his gaze purposely to the front. Stu could not blame them for their obvious reactions to him. He was the glib tongued attorney who had smoothly convinced the judge to set the man free so he could go back out and kill one of their fellows.

The officer’s eyes narrowed and in them, Stu saw the blooming flower of accusation. They seemed to ask questions, as well. Well, Mr. Hot Shot Lawyer, the eyes said. Who are you going to have set free today? You going to put another criminal back out on the street to kill or maim again? Who will the victim be this time? Another cop, like me? Or maybe this time it’ll be a mother and her baby. What do you think?

Stu looked away, unable to continue looking at his accusing stare, especially since he knew the officer was right. That was precisely what he was going to do. He was about to move past and away when a familiar voice called out from behind.

Stu! Wait! Hold on a sec!

When he turned, he discovered Marsha Holt hurrying toward him. The sight of her did nothing to relieve him, although he had to admit that she really looked good. In fact, she always looked good. It was unfortunate that she simply was not his type and briefly wondered if there was such a thing. They had been seeing each other off and on for some time. It had not taken him long to learn of their different tastes. The hard part was that she either had not learned of it also, or was unwilling to admit it.

She was far too much of a socialite for his tastes, but was pursuing him without shame. On almost every occasion they were alone, she tried to seduce him, as if having sex would somehow convince him that she was the right woman for him. That very act could be what turned him off to her. He wondered what she was doing in the courthouse, wondered if she was coming to witness his shame when he confronted the key and primary witness in the case that was about to be judged. He struggled to keep his face neutral and did not immediately acknowledge her greeting.

Stu, Darling, you can’t go in there looking like that. Your hair is messed. Either let me straighten it or go in the men’s room and do it yourself, but she didn’t wait for him to exercise the option. Her hands went up to both sides of his head and he felt her fingers moving, smoothing whatever it was she had seen, if there really was something. He wondered if she might just be making it up so she could put her hands on him.

At last, he spoke. What are you doing here, Marsha?

Her hands left his head and the right one patted his cheek on the way down. I was in this area to pick up my passport and saw you coming in here. I didn’t know you had a court appearance today.

For a couple of months, Marsha had been trying to talk him into going with her on a trip to Mexico. She even went so far as to apply for her passport and against his better judgment, had allowed her to talk him into doing the same thing. His had come back a week earlier, although he decided pretty certainly that he was not going to go. If he did, it wouldn’t be with Marsha, although she didn’t seem to know it.

He turned away from her and saw the police officer looking back and forth between the two of them. He was unable to keep a frown from appearing.

Yes, Stu said, eyes still on the officer. Well, unfortunately, I do.

The officer’s expression changed. He looked startled, as if it had not occurred to him before that a successful criminal defense attorney might not always relish what he did for a living. Mirroring the officer’s expression, Marsha’s voice sounded surprised when she said, Unfortunately? What do you mean unfortunately? I thought…Isn’t this what you like to do, Stu? I thought you were happy with your career.

He looked back to her. You know, I watched the very end of a basketball game the other evening, about the last 30 seconds. The home team trailed by one point, but they had possession of the ball. They moved swiftly down court for the winning goal. A defensive error left one of the home team forwards open right under the basket. He leaped toward the rim, rotating his body around one-and-a-half revolutions for a backward slam dunk. The ball hit the rim and bounced maybe fifteen feet high above the rim. That poor judgment play cost them the game. The announcers later stated that that showboat play was not exactly the play of the game.

She no longer smiled, as when first approaching. Her eyes moved back and forth between his, searching. Is that what you’re saying, that you’re not exactly happy with your career?

Give that girl the grand prize. She got it on the first try. Look, Marsha. I’m feeling pretty cynical today. Sorry to burst your balloon, but I’ve got to be getting inside.

You had also better get yourself together. You look like you’re on your way to the gallows. Call me later, Stu. I’ve never seen you like this. You have me worried.

She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. He nodded without speaking, cleared his throat while turning away, and walked between the two police officers with downcast eyes. Inside, he made his way to the defense table and sat immediately beside Dan Nopper, who in turn, sat to the right of the defendant.

He felt like a lump. Marsha was right. He felt as if he were on his way to the gallows. Only, the part she had misinterpreted was that he felt as if he were on his way to them in the role of the executioner, instead of the victim. He was still sitting that way when the courtroom became silent and the clerk intoned, All rise. The Honorable Kathleen O’Brien presiding. The Circuit Court for Montgomery County is now in session. You may be seated.

The judge looked between Stu and Dan, eyes boring at them over the top of her reading glasses, which were resting on the bulging outer portion of her nose. She glanced down at the bare table in front of Stu, but then shifted her eyes until they were looking solely at him. She said, The first matter on the docket is the State of Maryland against one Douglas Hobbs. She glanced at the table again, then back up. Their eyes locked. Is the defense, ah, ready to proceed, Mr. Ready?

Stu could just detect the faintest twinge at the corners of her mouth, as if she were trying hard to suppress a smile. He had no trouble at all suppressing one. He had even less trouble when he heard someone snicker to his rear. He glanced to his side at Dan. He was holding the corners of his mouth immobile with his fingers, trying to disguise the grin. Inside, Stu seethed again, but forced himself to keep it invisible as he looked back forward to the judge. Her tentative smile was gone and had been replaced by a frown. She watched him with single minded intensity.

The defense is ready, Your Honor, he said and was almost proud at the well modulated control of his voice, if it was possible to be proud when loathing one’s self so completely. The anger was well hidden as he resumed his seat.

Stu removed the necessary papers from his briefcase while the prosecution’s Heidi Lang also answered ready and then, it was time for the trial to begin. The first person called to the witness stand was Miss Terry Walker, one of, if not the, prosecution’s key witness. She was also the victim.

Stu sat looking down at the table while she was being sworn in. He could not look at her. He barely listened as she was questioned by Heidi, scarcely paid attention to anything she said in response. The only thing that firmly registered with him was when she began crying, for he knew without doubt that she would do much more of it, not only when he began cross examining, but for the rest of her life.

Stu knew all about Terry Walker, undoubtedly more than she thought anyone might know. He knew of her bitter divorce and trying to make a good home for her two children. He knew she was well thought of by her employer, her fellow employees, and by all of her neighbors. He was well aware she was trying hard to make a good life for herself and her children. She had turned her life around. Unfortunately for her, Stu had also found that from which she had turned it.

When Heidi had finished and was seated, Stu tapped the eraser of the pencil he held like a drumstick, then tossed it on the table to his front. From somewhere behind, he heard someone shuffling papers. Someone else coughed. People shifted positions in their seats. He frowned, made himself ignore all of it, then pushed himself up and slowly walked over to stand in front of Miss Walker. He looked up and forced himself to meet her still damp and red rimmed eyes for the first time. He was trying hard to hide his discomfort at facing her. He felt a slight film of perspiration on his forehead.

For a brief second, he remembered lying in bed that morning, thinking of the upcoming trial. He resisted the attempt his face was making to frown, the way he had at the time he had drawn the analogy between himself and the big bad wolf. He remembered it vividly. In it, he was going to prove her house was made of straw and blow it down.

The vision he’d earlier had of her breaking into tears in front of the packed courtroom flashed briefly in front of his eyes and was just as quickly gone. He placed one hand on the rail in front of her and leaned on it casually, not really caring if he looked to be more casual than he felt. However, the rehearsed examination of Miss Walker went nothing near to the way he had imagined it.

Miss Walker? he began. I wonder if you could please tell the court and jury if you have ever... and his throat swelled shut. He choked and could not finish the sentence.

He was supposed to have asked the critical question that would ruin her life right at the onset. He could not do it. He had asked similar questions of other people before, regardless of whether he had liked it or not, exactly as he had been taught and directed. Miss Walker’s was not the first life to be destroyed. He felt terrible shame. However, it seemed as if it was all over. He could not get the words past his conscience.

The expression on Terry Walker’s pretty face was one of teary eyed puzzlement. There was nothing he could do about it. Or is there? he wondered.

Stu stayed momentarily frozen in place, feeling his tightly swollen throat, perspiration on his brow, a small bit of tremble. He looked at the judge, regardless of the feeling that his eyes were bulging, just as she spoke. Her eyebrows had taken on the shape of an upside down hockey stick, with the blades toward the bridge of her nose.

Yes, Mr. Ready? Please go on. The witness cannot answer the question if you do not ask it. She looked at Stu a little closer and while leaning forward, added, Are you all right, Mr. Ready? You look rather, shall we say, peaked.

Blinking fast, he returned the judge’s gaze, raised a fist to his mouth, and attempted to clear his throat. It felt as if he only had a minimal amount of success. It still felt blocked. He looked at Miss Walker, back to Judge O’Brien, and stepped up toward the bench.. As soon as he was away from Miss Walker, his throat began loosening.

He leaned toward the judge and she leaned forward to meet him, a look of perplexity on her face. She glanced away and motioned for Heidi Lang to join them. When she too had approached the bench, Stu saw that her expression was even more befuddled than that of either her witness or the judge. It was very understandable that no one seemed to know what was going on but him.

Stu looked back forward when the judge asked, Well, Mr. Ready. Would you please tell the court what the hell exactly is going on?

Stu had presented cases before her