Title: Love, Honor, and Obeah Author: Martin Ross Email: rossprag@fgi.net Rating: PG-13 Category: X-Files/The Practice crossover, casefile Spoilers: Fresh Bones Archive: Anywhere after two weeks at VS11 Disclaimer: Fox , Chris Carter, the usual suspects. Summary: When The Practice's Alan Shore tries to prove the murder of a shaman was self-defense, he'll need some legal magic and an assist from Agents Mulder and Scully Eighth Circuit Court of the Commonwealth Boston, Mass. 10:34 a.m. "And how does the defendant plead?" Judge Harrod inquired cautiously, prepared for anything. Alan Shore smiled blandly. "Your Honor, my client would like to plead innocent by reason of self- defense. Specifically, defense of another." Harrod frowned. "Approach the bench." Shore glanced at ADA Roland Hill, then back at the stone-faced judge. "Excuse me, Your Honor. Mr. Hill or myself?" "Now, Mr. Shore," Harrod growled, eyes afire. Shore smiled at his client and strolled past the stenographer. He peeked over the top of Harrod's bench. "Like what you've done with the feng shui here, Your Honor." "You are not pleading self-defense, Mr. Shore." Shore's eyebrows rose, and he blinked innocently. "Well, I believe we just did." "Your client shot an unarmed victim point-blank, in front of more than a dozen witnesses, in the lobby of a downtown office building." "Yes." "Where was the imminent threat? And who were the others your client claimed to be defending?" "His family, Your Honor. His wife and his 11- year-old daughter." "And they were present at the time of the shooting?" "No, sir." "They were in the building?" "I believe they were in Camden, visiting Mrs. Dutton's mother. She's been having a touch of bursitis - my assumption would be too much fatty fried foods -- and..." "Mr. Shore, a few months ago, your colleagues Mr. Young and Mr. Berluti secured the acquittal of a woman who cold-bloodedly murdered a drug dealer by convincing a jury to disregard the basic tenets of the law." "That's just shocking," Shore tsk'ed. "You listen to me, Mister," Harrod leaned in. "I've had it up to here with your firm's antics and gamesmanship. You are not pleading self-defense. You are not pleading defense of others." "Mr. Dutton believed his family was in immediate and imminent danger," Alan Shore explained slowly, as if the judge were a child. "Mr. Delacroix, the victim, was an Obeahman - he practiced a form of Jamaican mysticism. Mr. Delacroix had threatened my client's wife and daughter, and my client shot him before he could place a spell on them. I'd guess you'd call it a spell, but then again, I was up watching Bewitched on TVLand last night. Well, that resolved, may we proceed?" Young, Frutt, and Berluti, Attorneys-At-Law Boston, Mass. "Alan," Tara, the firm's paralegal and de facto office manager, informed Shore. "Your 'expert witness' has arrived. He's in the conference room. I offered him some coffee - he preferred some Earl Grey with organic honey." "I would appreciate it if you didn't use parentheses when referring to my case consultants. It implies doubt about their credibility and authority." Tara raised a dry eyebrow as she smirked. "And I would appreciate it if you addressed your comments to my face, rather than to other portions of my anatomy." "Do we even have organic honey?" The paralegal sighed and turned on her heel. Alan deposited his Louis Vuitton briefcase on his scarred desk and headed for the conference room. Gene Young blocked his way, his expression just a shade cooler than Judge Harrod's had been when he'd set a trial date for Mark Dutton. "Eugene!" Shore beamed. "How'd it go?" Gene asked frostily. "I assume Harrod knocked down your defense. Maybe you could go for diminished--" "We're dandy, actually. Judge Harrod was quite reasonable. I believe he feels I'll make a complete idiot of myself and the firm. The prospect seemed to delight him." Gene's jaw tightened "And how do you intend not to make complete idiots of yourself and this firm?" Shore looked hurt. "You appear skeptical." "This case already has a higher profile than we need at this point. This...voodoo...angle you plan to introduce..." "Obeah," Shore corrected. "Just," Gene said through his teeth, struggling for composure, "just dispose of this case with a minimum of spectacle. You think you can do that?" "Absolutely." Gene glared at Shore, who smiled brightly back. Head shaking, the senior partner stalked back to his office. Alan shrugged at Jamie, who'd jumped at the clatter of Gene's door. "Dr. Romanisch," Shore greeted, extended a hand to the rotund man at the conference table. "I'm delighted you could come by today. You read my report of the case, right?" The cultural anthropologist nodded eagerly. "Fascinating, and while it's atypical here in the U.S., I could cite you a half-dozen anecdotal examples of violence, even homicide, associated with obeah practices in the Caribbean." "Excellent. And these cases are well-documented?" "Indeed," Romanisch said. "I plan to include them in my next book. I've established key linkages between obeah and other Caribbean religious rituals and the electromagnetic convergences within Bermuda Triangle by tracking UFO reports throughout the region." "That is fascinating, just absolutely fascinating," Shore murmured. He stood. "Would you excuse me for just one moment, Dr. Romanisch? I want to check the progress on that Earl Grey." J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. One month later "Excuse me, Mr....Shore?" Mulder asked, leaning forward, his eyes alert. "Did you say obeah?" Scully, leaning against a nearby file cabinet, arms crossed, pursed her lips. Mulder studiously avoided establishing eye contact with her. "Obeah," Alan Shore nodded with a Mona Lisa smile. "I understand you have some experience with African-Caribbean religion and witchcraft." "I wouldn't call it witchcraft, precisely," Mulder corrected. "It's generally viewed as a sort of religion or shamanism. Obeah is one of the more unknown and obscure African traditions of sorcery. While Santeria, Umbanda, and Candomblè have become relatively popular in the Caribbean - almost mainstreamed -- Obeah is still veiled in secrecy. Even the word 'obeah' is clouded in secrecy. The Obeahman is considered something of a cross between a voodoo witchdoctor, a medicine man, a root doctor, and an occult spiritualist. And because of the secrecy of the practice and the alleged power the shaman holds, some less reputable Obeahmen have used that power as a form of extortion." "Which is where my client enters in," Shore said. "The trial begins in three days, and you're the most unimpeachable witness I can think of - a federal government agent who not only validates obeah but has had actual experience with it." "Agent Mulder theorizes about the validity of obeah," Scully amended, "and his experience actually involved alleged voodoo practices at an Army detainment camp - charges that were less than definitively proven." "Tomayto, tomahto," Shore shrugged. "Do you even believe in obeah yourself?" Scully challenged. "Oh, God," the attorney laughed. "No." "So this is just some kind of scam, a sleazy legal tactic." Shore's smile faded. "Mark Dutton believed in obeah. He believed Robert Delacroix practiced obeah. And at the time he shot him, he believed Delacroix posed a direct and immediate threat to his family. I'd merely ask Agent Mulder to testify to the persuasiveness of obeah, to the possibility that a rational businessman might believe in its power." "Well, that's not so unrea-" Mulder began. "I've done some checking up on you, Mr. Shore," Scully interrupted. "Until recently, you were an antitrust attorney with one of Boston's most prestigious legal firms. You left that firm suddenly to join a criminal law firm that, charitably, must be described as ethically challenged. You then narrowly escaped disbarment after betraying a client's confidence. And let's not even discuss your getting a double-murderer off on diplomatic immunity." The smile returned. "Agent Scully, has anyone ever told you your nostrils have a very erotic flare to them? Sorry, that was very inappropriate, and you probably could have my last 10 years' tax returns audited. So what do you say, Agent Mulder?" Mulder's eyes darted uneasily back toward his partner. "Well, I don't know how my assistant director would feel about my testifying about paranormal phenomenon, especially in a high-profile case like this." "Skinner will have an aneurysm," Scully affirmed emphatically. Shore brightened. "Well, how about if I subpoenaed you? Then you'd have to testify, and your boss couldn't be angry. It's a win-win." Mulder looked hopefully up at Scully. She opened her mouth, closed it, grabbed a pile of folders, and left the office. "Well, then," Shore concluded happily. Eighth Circuit Court of the Commonwealth Boston, Mass. 9:22 a.m. "Obeah is a folk religion of African origin practiced throughout much of Latin America," Alan Shore instructed the jury - an ethnically and economically eclectic group. "In Brazil, they call it Umbanda, Condomble de Congo, or Angola. In Jamaica, they often call it Kumina. In Guyana, Muslims, Hindus, and Christians use obeah to perform powerful magic and weave spells. "Those who practice obeah sometimes help people with problems concerning their work, romance, their home life, and health. They can also harm people upon whom they seek revenge or are jealous of. I consider myself an educated, enlightened man who appreciates the cultural folkways of others. So when my client first told me about this fascinating cultural phenomenon, my reaction, of course, was that it was complete crap and that Mark Dutton was a total looney-bird who was one pill short of a prescription." A murmur moved through the galley, and the jurors pulled straight in their seat. The lawyer sighed. "My problem, as I interviewed Mr. Dutton, was that he was clearly not a looney-bird. He was absolutely convinced that Robert Delacroix was a practitioner of this religion and that he had the power to bring disease and death upon his wife and his child. And, worst of all, Mr. Dutton had compelling personal evidence upon which to base his conviction. When Robert Delacroix confronted Mark Dutton in the lobby of his office building and told him that he would harm his family, Mark Dutton believed unequivocally that he would. "You can choose to believe that obeah is complete crap. It's natural for us to view other cultural beliefs with suspicion or skepticism. But come on: Look at what we believe. We have any Catholics here? Mormons? Methodists?" "Mr. Shore," Judge Harrod snapped. "We'll talk later," Shore winked at the jury pool. "The Civil Rights Act of 1964 states that to be a bona fide religious belief, entitled to protection under either the First Amendment, a belief must be sincerely held. In 1985, the District Court of Virginia ruled that Wicca - witchcraft -- was, quote- unquote, 'clearly a religion for First Amendment purposes.' "We can all scratch our head or chuckle about the idea of voodoo dolls or chicken sacrifices or part- time witches chanting Latin. But I'd like you to respect one thing: Through a very unorthodox series of events, Mark Dutton - stockbroker, devoted husband, loving father - became a true believer in obeah. So much so that when Robert Delacroix threatened his family with harm, he viewed that threat with the seriousness of a gun to his wife and daughter's heads. Mr. Dutton's belief was very, very sincerely held." ADA Hill watched Shore return to his seat next to a sober Mark Dutton, rose with dignity, and approached the jury box with a benevolent smile and a shake of his head. "Mark Dutton first became acquainted with Robert Delacroix in September, when Mr. Delacroix picked the defendant up in his taxicab downtown," Hill began. "Dutton noticed an amulet hanging from the victim's rearview mirror, and, being a basically amiable man, asked Mr. Delacroix about it. Unbeknownst to Mr. Dutton, that's when he became Mr. Delacroix' mark. Mr. Dutton had no way of knowing that Mr. Delacroix had a lengthy record of arrests for conducting a variety of confidence games and occasionally extorting money from poor suckers who believed his stories of obeah and witchcraft. "Delacroix began mysteriously encountering Mr. Dutton on the street, at the local diner the defendant frequented, in the lobby of Mr. Dutton's office building, offering his services, spells to improve Mr. Dutton's health and professional fortunes. By this time, Mr. Dutton's interest had waned, and he finally filed a police complaint against Mr. Delacroix. The victim was visited by police officers at his place of employment and, as a result, was terminated by the cab company. "Now, this should have been the end of the story. But Mr. Delacroix wasn't deterred: He began haunting the office building where Mr. Dutton worked, calling Mr. Dutton at all hours both at work and at home. The snappy patter of the conman gave way to more ominous hints and innuendoes. Finally, the other shoe dropped: Mr. Delacroix wanted money to leave Mr. Dutton alone, and, he implied, to leave Mr. Dutton's family alone. Mr. Dutton rejected the offer, and again called the police. But Mr. Delacroix was good at his game and there was nothing much the police could do but once again warn Mr. Delacroix to keep his distance from Mr. Dutton. "Then the family cat died. Mr. Dutton's little girl came home from school on Halloween, of all days, to find her beloved pet dead, apparently poisoned. What frightened the Duttons about their cat's untimely death was that the unfortunate animal was found inside a closed closet within their locked home. Instead of assuming the animal had ingested some household cleaner, as was very likely the case, Mr. Dutton blamed Mr. Delacroix, in fact reported Delacroix had somehow broken into his home, across town from this now-unemployed man, without leaving a trace of evidence. Delacroix had no clear-cut alibi, but the police had no cause to make an arrest. "And then, two nights later, the final cruel twist of coincidence occurred. Brittani Dutton, Mark Dutton's 11-year-old child, quit breathing. The paramedics were called, Brittani was placed on oxygen and transported to St. Eligius Hospital. She had had no history of asthma or allergies, and both her pediatrician and the doctors at St. Eligius were baffled. And then, two hours later, after Brittani had become cyanotic, she recovered completely. Later, she told her parents that it was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. Whatever happened to his daughter, a beleaguered Mark Dutton again assumed that his nemesis, Robert Delacroix, was at the root of it. A steady campaign of harassment, a stressful situation, and an unregistered gun Mark Dutton had purchased two weeks earlier. A recipe for disaster. "In any event, Mark Dutton had had enough. With calculation and in cold-blooded rage, he emptied two .38-caliber bullets into Robert Delacroix' brain, then calmly waited for the police. Roland Hill glanced back at the defendant, a trim, fit, balding 36-year-old, and shook his head, this time sadly. "A tragic tale? Certainly. A cautionary tale for those who would talk too freely to strangers or who would attempt to prey on the weakness of others? Absolutely. But people, don't be taken in by defense counsel's fairy tale. Robert Delacroix was no witchdoctor with mystical powers - he was a pathetic career felon. Mark Dutton was a fundamentally decent man driven by urban paranoia to commit murder. This is neither a religious issue nor a case of self- defense, as Mr. Shore attempts to assert. The only constitutional right Mr. Dutton is entitled to is due process, and the only belief I ask you to subscribe to that in our basic prohibition on murder." Commonwealth Taxi Boston, Mass. 10:02 a.m. "And we are here, why, exactly?" Scully complained as Mulder examined the politically incorrect, five years out-of-date calendar on the back wall of the dispatcher's cubicle. "Mulder, when Skinner said you were on a tight leash, what precisely did you think he meant?" Mulder tore his eyes from the blonde on the fly-spattered wall. "Look., if I have to testify..." "Have to?" Scully snorted. "You practically begged like a schnauzer for a Milk Bone." "If I must testify," Mulder repeated with dignity, "then maybe it would be good to know if this is a genuine case of obeah. If it is, then we're dealing with an actual X-File. That's our job right?" Scully sighed. "I will admit that the circumstances of the case are very unusual. The Duttons' veterinarian could find no specific cause of death for, ah, Mr. Puffy." "And Dr. Erlich at St. Eligius told me they ran tox screens, allergy tests, blood workups, the whole routine on Brittani Dutton. Nothing. A healthy 11-year-old suddenly suffers an inexplicable respiratory episode - after Robert Delacroix hinted that Dutton's family was at risk." "Down, boy," Scully breathed as the rail-thin company manager came back down the hall with a battered manila folder. "Bob was bad news day we hired him," Pat O'Faolan grunted with a thick, tobacco-filtered Boston accent, handing Scully the victim's personnel file. "The stalkin' thing, that was just the straw busted the camel's balls. He always had some scam workin' - shady characters comin' and goin', askin' after him. Bookies lookin' for him. Even had his girlfriend showin' up here at work. Some classy broad - sorry there, ma'am - classy young babe. Too sharp to be a workin' girl, but definitely not Bob's type." "Better," Scully murmured. "This girlfriend, did you get a name?" O'Faolan sucked a molar and shook his head. "But I think she mighta been in show business or somethin'. Swear I seen her somewhere." "What about obeah?" Mulder inquired, drawing a look from both Scully and the cab manager. "Oh, he followed orders good enough, when he wasn't drunk or hung over," O'Faolan said. "No. Witchcraft. Did Mr. Delacroix ever mention having a knowledge of magic or spells?" He looked disgusted and puffed his stubbled cheeks. "Always talkin' how his pop and his grandpop were some kinda hotshot shamuses back on the island." "Shamuses?" Mulder murmured. "Shamans?" "Yeah, yeah. When he came in a few weeks after I canned him to get his last check, he told me he knew a witch more powerful than him would mess my ass up," O'Faolan's grunted. "Said he found a way to cash in on his voodoo bullshit." "Obeah," Mulder amended. "Yeah," Scully yawned. "Obeah bullshit." Eighth Circuit Court of the Commonwealth Boston, Mass. 1:11 p.m. "At first, I thought he just some kind of lunatic burnout," Mark Dutton said nervously, eyes scanning the crowd in the courtroom galley. "He just started showing up wherever I was, offering to 'help' me. I'd told him I was a stockbroker, which I guess was a mistake, and he told me he could help me pick the right investments, the right time to buy and sell. At first, I told him I wasn't interested - you know, I didn't think it would be good to upset him." "But he didn't take no for an answer," Shore prompted. Dutton sighed. "No. I finally got fed up and called the cops, the police. They said he hadn't really done anything criminal, that I ought to just ignore him. Then Delacroix came to me, said I got him fired. He said I owed him, and if I didn't give him 'severance pay' - that's how he put it - bad things would happen. I told him to go to hell." "But then, bad things began to happen." "Well, the next day, a couple of clients called and cancelled some fairly large orders. They wouldn't explain why, just cancelled. My credit card turned up missing at lunch, and my car wouldn't start that afternoon. Of course, I didn't think Delacroix was responsible, but then, it just kept going on. Misplaced files, small things missing from the office and at home. I was getting less and less sleep, and even though I was eating regularly, I noticed I was starting to lose weight." "Then Brittani found the cat." Dutton nodded, glancing at his anxious wife, seated behind his chair at the defense table. "I remember thinking, he did it. Delacroix. I knew it sounded absurd, but I couldn't shake it. By this time, I'd been reading all about obeah, and there were all these cases of people getting sick, dying in weird ways. When we took Brittani to the hospital and they couldn't find anything, I knew I had to do something." "And what was that?" "I decided to pay him, Delacroix, off. He wanted $50,000 to leave us alone. I had well more than that in some assorted funds, so I liquidated some holdings for the cash. I had his payment with me the day he confronted me in the lobby." "Refer the court to the item marked Defense Evidence G - a cashier's check for $50,000," Shore called to the bench. "Why, the next day, didn't you simply pay Mr. Delacroix his money and part ways?" "He wanted more -- $100,000," Dutton related. "He said the check wasn't enough for him." It was a slight change of phrase from his original interview with Dutton, but Shore caught it. "Sorry," he smiled. "At that point, what did you tell Mr. Delacroix?" Dutton's jaw tightened. "That I'd reached my limit. That it was $50,000 or nothing. That my family would not be held hostage. He laughed at me, and said he was going to give me a demonstration of what would happen to my little girl if I didn't come up with another $50,000. Then he started going into some kind of trance, mumbling something I couldn't make out. He reached into his pocket, I assumed for that amulet he used to have in his cab. I begged him to stop, but he kept chanting. Then I remembered the gun. I forgot where I was for a moment, and I pulled it out. I told him to stop, I was practically screaming. Then he grinned at me, and said . . ." "Yes?" "And said he wasn't finished yet, that she wasn't finished yet. That's when I shot him. I couldn't let him kill my daughter." Alan Shore nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Dutton." ** "Detective McGuire," Roland Hill asked, "what precisely did you find in the righthand pocket of the windbreaker Mr. Delacroix was wearing when Mr. Dutton murdered him." "Objection," Shore sang. "The prosecution's just being juvenile, now." "Sustained," Harrod responded through his teeth. "And I would like future objections to be phrased more in keeping with the decorum of this court." "Absolutely." "When Mr. Delacroix was shot," Hill rephrased, "what was in his righthand pocket?" "A cell phone which I entered into evidence," the homicide cop stated. "It had been stolen from a Starbuck's downtown two weeks earlier and reprogrammed. We believe Mr. Delacroix purchased it illegally from a fence." "And that was it?" Hill inquired. "No amulets, no chicken feet, no eye of toad?" "Your Honor," Shore sighed. "I strenuously object to prosecution's demeaning and borderline racist characterization of the victim's religious practices. His sarcasm, too." Hill held up a palm. "Just the phone, Detective?" "Just the phone," McGuire said. "Thank you." Shore strolled to the witness box. "Good morning, Detective. Mr. Delacroix' cell phone - did it have a redial feature?" "Yes." "And did you or any of your fellow officers check the last number Mr. Delacroix dialed?" "Yes. It was the number for a pay phone at the corner of Barrington and Freeman Aves., where a shopping plaza had recently been torn down." "And when was this last call placed?" "At 8:21 a.m. the morning Mr. Delacroix was shot. Cell phone records established the time." Shore smiled. "And could you refresh me on the time of the shooting?" "Witnesses fixed it at about 8:25." "You checked records for that phone booth Mr. Delacroix called?" "Nobody picked up, so there was no record of the call going through." "Now, why do you think Mr. Delacroix might have been calling a phone booth in an abandoned parking lot while he reportedly was about to cast a spell on Mr. Dutton's daughter?" "Detective McGuire is not a psychiatrist!" Hill snapped. "Psychiatrist?" Shore questioned, raising a brow. "Never mind." Mark Dutton residence 5:15 p.m. Boston "No, hon," Teri Dutton told Brittani gently but firmly. "I'd like you to stay close to the house until this is resolved with your dad, OK?" Brittani, a profusely freckled redhead, started to scowl, then glanced at Mulder and Scully and nodded sullenly. The girl bounded into the hall of the two- story suburban home and up the stairs. Teri sighed and waved the agents to a tasteful floral couch. "This has been tougher on Brittani than it has on me, I think," Mark Dutton's wife told the pair. "She's somehow got it into her head that if she hadn't gotten sick that night, Mark wouldn't have killed that horrible man. I suppose I have my share of guilt, as well: If I'd only seen how bad things were getting with Mark, maybe I could've gotten him into counseling." "I wouldn't blame myself," Mulder said, scanning a collection of framed photos on the coffee table. "'Bad' obeah practitioners are as adept at conning their victims as they are at sorcery and spells." "Mrs. Dutton," Scully interjected, "What do you think happened to your daughter? Could she have been poisoned or accidentally inhaled or ingested some toxic substance?" "She hadn't eaten anything unusual at school or at home, and I called some of the other parents from her school to see if anything was going around I can't imagine what it could have been," Teri said. "Nothing." "How about the cat?" "Again, I'm mystified. Brittani finding Mr. Puffy dead that way was one more trauma for her. He was like a familiar...I mean, a family member." Teri paused. "If you don't mind, why is the FBI interested in this case?" "I'm testifying at your husband's trial," Mulder explained. "I'm sort of an expert in obeah, witchcraft, the black arts." "How interesting," Teri said uncertainly. The agent picked a photo from the coffee table. A younger Teri Dutton was surrounded by a group of beaming women and an older man. "This your family?" The smile froze on her lips. "Yes." "Six sisters? That's a lot for the Baby Boomer generation," Mulder grinned. "We're a very prolific family," Teri supplied. "You the baby?" Teri stared at Mulder for a moment. "You're very observant. Hey, I better see what Brittani's up to. Would you excuse me?" "Certainly," Mulder said, watching her move swiftly to the stairs. Scully turned to her partner suspiciously. "What was that all about? The family interrogation?" Mulder glanced at the now empty staircase, and grabbed a small 3X5 photo of Teri and Mark from the table and pocketed it. "What are you doing?" Scully gasped. "Possibly getting me out of having to go to court." Eighth Circuit Court of the Commonwealth Boston, Mass. Three days later 11:45 a.m. "We'd like to call Pat O'Faolan," Alan Shore announced as his forensics expert left the stand. "Pat O'Faolan?" Roland Hill posed, flipping through his legal pad. "I don't see any Pat O'Faolan on the list." "Yes, Mr. Shore," Judge Harrod said, a gleam materializing in his eye. "Who is this O'Faolan?" Shore didn't look up from his own pad. "Mr. O'Faolan would be Robert Delacroix' former employer. My apologies for just springing him on the prosecution, but a boy has to have a few secrets." "Mister, you are flirting dangerously with contempt," Harrod warned. The attorney looked up. "And I hoped I was flirting coquettishly. I believe Mr. O'Faolan should be able to cast some light on the true nature of this case, if the court would indulge me." "Any other surprise witnesses?" Hill asked. "Just one of the Duttons' neighbors, a Tod Moraine, and then I plan to recall Mrs. Dutton." Mulder, sitting in the back row of the galley, watched Teri Dutton's head pop up. He quietly exited the courtroom." "All right," Harrod sighed, grudgingly. "Bring up your witness, Mr. Shore." "Thank you, Your Honor." Shore scanned the galley and frowned. "The only problem seems to be that Mr. O'Faolan is not present. May I have a brief recess to check on him?" "It's close to lunch. I want your witness on the stand at 1:30, or we move on. Clear, Mr. Shore?" Shore smiled. "Bon appetit." As the courtroom cleared, the lawyer corralled Teri. "Mrs. Dutton, I'd like to have a word with you in the conference room at the end of the hall. OK?" "Sure," she drawled, eyes narrowing. ** "Hi, Teri," Fox Mulder greeted as she entered the dusty conference room. "Have a seat." She studied the agent. "Where's your partner?" "I sent her on an errand," Mulder confided. "Just you and me for a minute or so. We can talk about Tod Moraine." "What are you talking about?" Teri asked unconvincingly. "I think you know. In a few hours, that courtroom will know about you and Tod Moraine. Tod's already told me, practically bragged about your little affaire du suburbia once the cat was out of the bag. Which reminds me, how did it feel to kill your child's pet and then send her to the E.R.?" "You're insane. So what if Tod and I had a relationship? You've seen how emotionally unstable Mark is, how easily manipulated he is. Adultery's no crime." "But that's what it was all about. You wanted a divorce from Mark, but you knew the affair would come out and screw up your chances of taking him to the cleaners. That's when you hatched your little plot with Robert Delacroix." "That two-bit conman?" "Pat O'Faolan told me Mr. Delacroix' 'girlfriend was an attractive, classy woman who seemed familiar to him," Mulder continued. "My guess was he'd seen you on TV - your husband's trial has gotten a lot of sweeps month coverage. He recognized you immediately when I showed him your photo. What he didn't realize was that you and Delacroix weren't up to hanky-panky, at least of the romantic kind. You hired him to pick up your husband, to start up a relationship with him. He was to harass your husband and then put a little scare into him." The agent took a long breath and loosened his tie. "The problem, Teri, is that Robert Delacroix is a complete and utter fraud. His brother, his father, the detectives who've dealt with him, swear the magic gig is a total con. Before he came to this country, Delacroix was a busboy at an island resort. I was right about this case involving genuine witchcraft, but I didn't know which witch was which. "The other day, when I was talking about obeah and sorcery, you committed a small Freudian slip. When you told me Mr. Puffy was a member of your family, you accidentally said she was a 'familiar' - a common term for a witch's companion, usually an animal. When I saw that picture of your and your six sisters, I became curious. And then you told me you were the youngest in the family, and that your family was very prolific. A few calls and I found out your mother was also the youngest of a large group of siblings." Teri Dutton stared at Mulder, mute. "The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter," Mulder stated, swallowing. "Seven is a very significant number in the occult world. According to ancient myth, the seventh son of the seventh son or the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter possesses supernatural powers. It's a common legend in several cultures and religions. "The little misfortunes that befell your husband after encountering Robert Delacroix were your doing - who else had the access to his office and home necessary to sabotage his car and his accounts? But when you needed the stakes raised to force Mark to cough up some marital 'severance pay,' you needed a beard, somebody who'd appear to have the power to kill your pet and make your daughter ill without showing any detectable medical symptoms. That cell call Delacroix sent to that phone booth as he was talking to your husband was a signal to you, to conjure whatever curse you two had planned next. But Delacroix finally decided whatever petty percentage of the take you were offering him wasn't enough to merit him losing his job. He thought he could bluff your husband, but you two had done too good a jo-" Mulder's eyes popped as his words choked off. Suddenly, he stopped breathing. He simply forgot how to inhale or exhale. The agent looked desperately to the woman at the other end of the conference table. Teri smiled serenely at him. Mulder's face was turning blue when the door clattered open and Scully leveled her gun at Teri Dutton. "Mrs. Dutton!" Scully yelled. She caught Mulder's eye. Even as he struggled for oxygen, her partner nodded. Scully's eyes widened momentarily, but she caught herself and cocked the trigger. "If I have to, Mrs. Dutton, I will kill you. Let him go. Now." Teri's focus on Mulder broke, and she glared up at Scully. What she saw made her turn back to Mulder. He gasped, and oxygen rushed hotly back into his lungs. Mulder leaned back and gulped gallons of air as Scully cuffed Teri. "You think you can sell this fairy tale in court?" Mrs. Dutton sneered, her cheek on the table. "Actually," a voice said from the doorway, "all I have to establish is that you conspired with Mr. Delacroix to victimize your husband and that you somehow tried to poison Agent Mulder here the same way your daughter almost died." Alan Shore kneeled next to Teri's face. "Jury nullification - when they hear what you two did to Mark, what you drove him to, the jury will simply ignore the court's instructions and bring in an acquittal." The attorney sighed as he looked to a recovering Mulder. "What a waste: A hot young suburban housewife who cheats and is into asphyxiation. By the way, how was it for you?" Young, Frutt, and Berluti Two days later 8:23 p.m. "Voluntary manslaughter, time served," Ellener Frutt nodded, settling before Shore's desk. "I can't believe Hill went for a deal this late in the game." "He knew there was good odds the jury would cut Mark loose after Teri confessed," Alan Shore suggested. "At the same time, my confidence in jury nullification was beginning to wane. All in all, what's Eugene's favorite expression? Good outcome." The phone warbled, and Shore plucked the receiver from its cradle. "Pep Boys Attorneys, Shore speaking...What?...When did--...Do they think...? Yes, I'll be right down." Ellener regarded Shore's now-pale expression with concern. "Alan? Alan, what is it?" Shore blinked at his friend. "That was county lockup. They just found Teri Dutton dead in her cell. It looks like a heart attack." "The stress..." Ellener ventured. "You think she might have been poisoned? Maybe one of Delacroix' family?" Shore shook his head. "She only had one visitor today, about an hour ago. Mark didn't want to talk to Teri, so he waited for her." "Who, Alan?" Shore pushed absently from his chair. Ellener could barely hear him mumble, "Brittani..."