BY REASON OF INSANITY by Edward L. Woodyard

By Reason of Insanity Chapter Three

Once upon a time, I looked in a mirror on the inside of an elevator taking me up to the third floor of a courthouse in Beverly Hills, California. It wasn't to comb my hair or check my teeth for a poppyseed from a bagel. It was purely to straighten the knot in my Charvet necktie.

The elevator was crowded with men and women in gray and blue suits and smelled of conflicting colognes, body washes and deodorants. In the mirror's reflection, I did recognize a young man trying not to let me suspect that he was staring at me: Geoffrey Landis. He was the plaintiff against whom I was summoned to testify. I recognized his face; for months, it had been seen everywhere in Los Angeles, as if he were the self-designated ringmaster of a media circus of his own invention.

I was listening to "Rock and Roll" by Led Zeppelin on my eFone playlist as part of my trial preparation techniques. I noticed the plaintiff aggressively pushing an already lit third floor button and methodically tapping his brown Ferragamo Balmorals. In his early 30s, Landis believed his arrogance made him smarter than anyone else before or since his divine conception.

I also recognized an overly made-up middle-aged woman standing behind him. She was dressed far too young for someone her numerical age. I knew her from somewhere, but I couldn't place where.

The elevator stopped and its doors opened. Most everyone on the elevator got out, jostling each other as they texted while they exited, not looking up to see where they were headed as they weaved through a crowd of media descending on the plaintiff.

I shut down my eFone, pulled out my ear buds and checked for messages. I had three appointments that afternoon; no one had canceled.

"Adam, over here," I heard above the din. A youthful but paunchy Cameron Whitaker was waving his arms at me over his head, signaling that he was past the horde of photographers, reporters, camera operators and press poseurs beelining for the plaintiff.

Geoffrey Landis reminded me of a wounded wildebeest stalked by a pack of ravenous hyenas. Landis was about twenty years younger than I and a few years older than my son. His lawyer, a smartly dressed woman named Hilary Albertini with whom I had sparred in two previous court cases, wouldn't acknowledge me. She ran interference with the media, shouting, "No comment. No one is making any comments."

"Adam," Cameron yelled again above the rancor. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth; he had tried to quit smoking for years. As I made my way toward him, a nondescript reporter kept pestering me, "Dr. Holliman. Dr. Holliman, would you answer. . .?"

Cameron intercepted the questioner, "Unless you're deaf, the judge has issued a gag order on this trial."

He then tugged on a sleeve of my Brioni suit jacket. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Down here. The press is everywhere."

"Just another feeding frenzy."

Cameron was pushing me away from the swarm and down a side hallway off the foyer.

"It's a major trial, Adam. A widow-and-orphans' story. And twenty-six million dollars. The only thing missing is nuns."

"And sex."

"You must've missed the morning news. Hilary just uncovered that tidbit. I almost strangled my client for withholding that she had an affair with her stepson."

"Incest is best."

"Now it looks like they were going to steal from the old man, maybe even kill him to get the money."

"So, he dies instead. But he leaves everything to her anyway, still making your client the Merry Widow," I recounted for him in an ersatz pretrial summary. Cameron gave me a sly look when I smiled at him, "It all makes for great headlines, Cam."

"And great business."

"If you win."

"That's where you come in, Adam. You're going to win this one for me."