2 Brooklyn James Read Free Page A

She enunciates sarcastically.
    “Overruled,” the judge confirms, looking over the evidence provided in the prosecution’s mock-up.
    Brianna nods, turning her attention back to the witness stand. “Can you explain why the federal government and the State of Louisiana have no employment records for you, Mr. Briggs? Why they have no record of IRS withholding nor payment from one Manuel Theodore Briggs?” she reads his given birth name from her paperwork.
    He leans forward in his chair, his once permanent smirk fully extinguished. “Some of us prefer to fly under the radar, lawyer lady. Maybe you should, too,” he states, a hint of warning in his inflection.
    “Is that a threat, Mr. Briggs?” Brianna asks, her head tilted slightly to the side.
    “I don’t make threats.” His smirk returns.
    “Only promises,” she deduces.
    He holds his hands up, palms out at shoulder level, dismissively. “Those are your words, not mine, lawyer lady.”
    “Mr. Briggs,” the judge scolds. “The woman whom you are addressing is an attorney-at-law. On the basis of her education alone, you will refrain from calling her lawyer lady in this courtroom. You may address her as Ms. Castille or Ma’am, respectfully. Understood?”
    Manny nods one solitary gesture, avoiding eye contact with the judge, maintaining an underlying tone of defiance.
    “I can think of only a few reasons why a fully functional, able-bodied man would have no records, or chooses to fly under the radar, as you like to put it,” Brianna returns to her point. “You’re either, one, a recluse…anti-social, preferring to live your life off the grid. Or, two, you think you’re above the law and shouldn’t have to pay taxes the way the rest of us do in this country. Or, three, your work is illegal, thereby requiring you to live your life in stealth-mode so as not to get caught.”
    “Objection. Speculation,” the defense calls.
    “Sustained,” the judge backs him. “Get to your question, Ms. Castille.”
    Brianna approaches the witness stand, her arm casually resting on the railing. Her closeness is physically upsetting to Manny Briggs. Answering to women is a concept completely foreign to him. He all but scowls at her, his eyes laced with contempt. “Do you get paid in cash, Mr. Briggs?” she prods.
    “No.”
    “By all statutes of the law, is the work you perform illegal, Mr. Briggs?”
    “No,” he continues with his short answers, refusing to insert a title of any form in addressing Brianna Castille.
    “My sources tell me you work for one of the most notorious gangs in New Orleans…the Gambinis. Is that true, Mr. Briggs?”
    “The Gambinis are not some run-of-the-mill street gang. They’re Mafia. Get your terminology down,” he scoffs. “And no, I don’t work for the Mafia.”
    “Are you in fact, an independent contractor for the Gambinis? The muscle…the beef…Guido…whatever they’re calling it these days?” Brianna presses on, building imagery for the jury.
    He chuckles. “You watch too many movies, lawyer…” He catches himself, refraining from finishing the derogatory handle.
    The sound of her heels click off the marbled floor as she departs the witness bench. Stopping at the prosecution table, she pulls a few Polaroids from her notepad. Making her way swiftly back to Manny Briggs, she continues, “You deny working for one Vincent ‘Vinny’ Gambini?”
    “I told you, I’m an independent contractor. I work for no one, but myself,” he dodges yet another direct answer.
    She taps the Polaroids in the palm of her hand before laying them in front of him on the witness stand. She splays them out side by side, pointing to an individual who appears in all three photos. “Can you identify this man?”
    He eyes the pictures from a distance, still maintaining his disengagement with the process. “Yeah.”
    “Vincent Gambini,” she clarifies for the jury. “Or do you call him Vinny?” she adds with a perceptive smile.
    He does not