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“If it please the court, the defense calls Angela Carlson-Maher,” Jennifer called out.

It was almost 10:30 on Friday morning. The court was running late because there had been a huge argument in chambers this morning.

Tony Carvelli had found two trans girls who were willing to testify. Both had been processed into the transgender affirming treatment by the same route as Robbie. Both had been pushed along by domineering mothers and the administration of Margaret Sanger Middle School. Both had expressed serious reservations about it which were ignored.

They were also willing to testify that they had written threatening letters to Dr. Friedman. Of course, the letters were done after the fact and never acted upon.

The prosecution argued vehemently, and with justification and persuasively, against it. Their testimony was irrelevant to the issue of guilty or not guilty. Too prejudicial and insufficiently probative.

Since they were Jennifer’s witnesses, she argued for the defense. Three hundred complaint letters held three hundred suspects. The defense had not only a right to bring this to the jury’s attention, they had an obligation to do so. Robbie was fighting for her life. There were other suspects that Lucy Compton admitted the police ignored.

The argument went back and forth in Judge Fosters chambers for almost an hour. This was long after Foster should have allowed it. In the end, Foster took the safe, non-appealable by the defense route. He agreed to let one of the two trans women testify. Since both were going to tell the same story, it was a win for the defense. By the end of the day, it would be a moot point.

A tall, almost six feet, heavyset, unattractive woman was escorted into the courtroom. The large woman in her mid-twenties was sworn in and took the stand .

Her birth name was Andrew Maher and she had legally married another trans woman. Angela provided half of the surname Carlson-Maher.

Jennifer spent three hours with both Angela and her wife, Ava, the evening before. Uncertain as to whether either of them would be allowed to testify, Jennifer prepared them both.

“What was your birth gender and your name on your original birth certificate?” Jennifer asked getting to it right away.

“I was born a boy, my birth name was Andrew Samuel Maher, after both of my grandfathers,” she answered.

“How old were you when you began to think you were a female in a male’s body?”

“When I was around eight or nine. But it wasn’t my idea. I mean, somewhere, sometime probably when I was even younger than that, I may have said something to my mother. It was when I was eight, I think, she started telling me I was a male in a female’s body.”

Jennifer was able to prod her along with short, open-ended questions. Angela, at first obviously nervous, quickly became relaxed and told her story. It was almost an exact repeat of Robbie’s.

A domineering, progressive mother, submissive father, took total control of Andrew’s life. The only significant difference was Andrew’s athletic skills. He was never a star, but at an early age he displayed athletic competence. No matter, his mother saw a girl.

Andrew went through the same transgender route as Robbie although seven years older. Sanger Middle School, a school nurse who secretly hated boys, Dr, Andrea Brie’s progressive psychologist predecessor, a man who agreed with his mother. Then a series of counseling sessions with Dr. Phillip Friedman.

When she finished, when she became Angela, she testified that she looked back with anger. In her heart, she harbored misgivings. But everyone else was so certain she would find inner peace and happiness, she, as Andrew, eventually went along with it.

“Did you ever write a letter, a complaint letter, to anyone? By that I mean Dr. Friedman or Dr. Miller? ”

“Yes, when I was nineteen, I realized I was attracted to girls. They took that away from me. So, I wrote a nasty letter to Friedman letting him know I hoped he died a painful death. I said I wanted him dead.”

“Did you threaten to kill him?” Jennifer asked.

“That was what I implied. I’m sure he knew it.”

Jennifer picked up a single page, handwritten letter, asked permission to approach the witness and showed it to her.

“That’s it,” Angela said.

Jennifer put the letter into evidence and returned to the table.

“At the end of your gender affirming treatment what was your opinion of Dr, Friedman?”

“I grew to hate him. He was a pervert…”

“Objection, the witness is not qualified to make a diagnosis of anyone’s sexual predilections.”

“Overruled. She can give her opinion,” Foster said.

“Why do you say he was a pervert?” Jennifer asked.

“Because he was hitting on me once I had completed the surgery and had healed. He even suggested he wanted to take my virginity.”

“Objection, hearsay,” Hughes said.

“Exception, the person making the statement is not available,” Jennifer said,

“Sustained, the jury will disregard the witnesses last comment.”

“Do you know any other patients of Dr. Friedman?” Jennifer asked.

“I know of at least one other…”

“Objection, she’s about to introduce hearsay,” Hughes said.

Gotcha , Jennifer thought.

“No, she is not,” Jennifer said. “Allow me to inquire to clarify this, your honor.”

“Carefully,” Foster said.

“Do you know a transgender woman named Ava?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What is her legal last name?”

“Same as mine, Carlson-Mathis. ”

“Who is she to you?”

“My wife.”

“Is it her you were about to tell us about?”

“Yes, it is.”

“May we approach?”

“Come up.”

At the bench Jennifer said, “They either withdraw the objection or I’ll insist we be allowed to put Ava on the stand.”

“Mr. Hughes?” Foster asked.

“And I’m not putting her on the stand for a restricted purpose. She tells her story of this sick twist, Friedman,” Jennifer said.

“Keep your voice down,” Foster told Jennifer.

“Withdrawn,” Hughes conceded.

When they reached their respective tables, Foster told the jury the objection had been withdrawn.

“What was your answer, what were you about to say before the interruption?” Jennifer asked.

“I know of at least one other trans girl who went through the exact same route I went through at Sanger Middle School and then with Friedman.”

“Would that be Ava?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing further, your Honor,” Jennifer said.

“Mr. Hughes?”

“Ms. Raines will do the cross examination, your Honor,” Hughes answered.

“Ms. Carlson-Mathis, you were extremely angry with both Dr. Friedman and Dr. Miller, weren’t you?” Raines asked.

“Yes, I was.”

“And your mother who you said pushed you into transgender affirmation treatment, isn’t that also true?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did you murder her?”

“No, I did not.”

“How about Dr. Miller, did you murder him?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you try to murder him?”

“No. ”

“How about Dr. Friedman? Did you murder him?”

“No.”

“Did you try to murder him?”

“No, I did not.”

“You were mad as hell, weren’t you?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“Resentful?”

“Yes.”

“Regretful of what they did to you, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you did not physically harm anyone as a result, did you?”

“How about Ava?”

“Objection,” Jennifer said.

“Sustained, move on, Ms. Raines,”

“You were angry, resentful, mad as hell, so you wrote a serious complaint letter to both doctors then, let it go, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“You even found love, a partner to marry and live with, didn’t you?”

“Yes!”

Raines just about kept going but decided she had elicited enough for their closing argument.

“I have nothing further.”

While the courtroom was emptying for the lunch break, Jennifer asked Marc for his impression.

“Both sides scored. We can still argue that there are plenty of suspects out there. The police did a half-ass job investigating.

“They can argue that yes, people can get angry but don’t have a murder weapon found between their mattress and boxspring.

“Sorry, Robbie,” Marc said.

“It’s okay,” Robbie replied.

“The defense calls Blake Craig, your Honor,” Marc proclaimed.

It was almost two o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Marc and Jennifer had done a good job of scheduling witnesses. Blake was the ending. The last one, a biased character witness to give the jury a last minute something to think about during the weekend.

Of course, as his father, he would have nothing but glowing things to say about his son. Probably the best part was when Blake took full responsibility for allowing his son’s mutilation. Mutilation being Blake’s word.

He went on for almost two hours talking about Robbie’s life as a boy. His difficulty making friends, his poor athletic ability and Priscilla’s nagging about wanting a daughter.

“Could Robbie have done this?” Marc asked toward the end.

“No, never. He was always too kind, too willing to defer to others. Eager to help and please even when being bullied at school, which he was. Just because he wasn’t much of an athlete, a lot of boys aren’t. They don’t become crazy, angry murderers.

“In fact, I can guarantee, Robbie did not commit these crimes,” Blake looked squarely at the jury and said.

Marc ended it there and passed the witness to the prosecution.

Hughes gently tossed a softball question at him to begin his cross examination. A distraught father is normally not someone to hammer in front of a jury. Of course, he will say nice things about his son. To verbally beat him up in front of a sympathetic jury would be foolish.

“You love your son, don’t you, Mr. Craig?” Hughes politely asked.

“Of course,” Blake replied.

Hughes hesitated for a moment then mildly asked and in so doing broke the cardinal rule of questioning a witness. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to before you ask it.

“I’m curious about something, though. You testified that you can guarantee that Robbie did not commit these killings. How can you guarantee that?”

Without hesitation Blake looked directly at the jury then said, “Because I did them. I did them all for what they did to my son. And that’s the last thing I’ll say about it.”

His answer hung in the air over a totally silent courtroom. What seemed like several minutes but was only three or four seconds passed by like this. As if no one could quite grasp what they had just heard.

When it did finally come to realization, bedlam broke loose. It started with the media in the front rows. Almost all of them jumped up to get to the door. They had a story to call in and woe be unto anyone who got in their way.

Thirty minutes later, the lawyers, Judge Foster and George, the reporter were in Foster’s chambers. Raines and Hughes were in their normal chairs. In front and to Foster’s left. Jennifer, looking a bit stunned, was in her chair while Marc stood behind where he normally sat leaning against the back of the chair.

Once the crowd was shut down, Hughes tried his best to question Blake. True to his word, Blake simply repeated his right to refuse answering under the Fifth Amendment. Hughes asked him at least a dozen questions, repeating several only to receive the same response.

Judge Foster even threatened Blake with contempt. Eventually, he had a deputy put him in a holding cell near the courtroom.

While Hughes was trying to question Blake, Robbie wrote a note and passed it to Marc. When Hughes, out of frustration, gave up trying to question him, before Blake was taken to the holding cell, Marc stood up.

“Your Honor, I have one question for redirect.”

“Objection, your Honor, the witness refused to answer my questions. . .”

“And you passed him to me,” Marc said.

“He has a point, Mr. Hughes. Go ahead,” Foster said.

While still standing behind the table, Marc asked, “Did you give Robbie a drug of some kind, such as Rohypnol, on the nights you committed these murders so she would have no memory of the nights they occurred?”

With a shocked look on his face, Blake’s eyes darted about the courtroom and he nervously fidgeted on the stand. After ten to fifteen seconds of this, he stammered, “I refuse to answer, um, under the ah, Fifth, fifth um, Amendment because it might, um, incriminate me.”

After that, a deputy took Blake away and the lawyers recessed to Judge Foster’s chambers.

“What do we do now?” Foster asked the others.

“Forget it,” Marc said when Hughes looked like he was going to ask for a mistrial. “No mistrial.

“Your Honor,” Marc then said, “you can’t let this go to a jury. That statement creates reasonable doubt. Period. This needs to end now.”

“We’ll try the father,” Hughes said.

“Go ahead,” Marc replied. “He’s not my client. You know you can’t win something like that. If you try it and lose, I’ll take the civil suit against Hennepin County for prosecutorial misconduct. Then I’ll retire to Hawaii on what Hennepin County will pay me.”

“Tom, I’ll give him another chance to recant…”

“If you had anything to do with this,” an exploding Tom Hughes yelled at Marc.

“Be careful who you slander,” Marc calmly replied.

“Stop!” Foster said.

“Sorry,” Hughes meekly apologized .

“I’ll give him another chance to recant what he said. If he refuses, I’ll have no choice but to dismiss the charges,” Foster said.