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y’know how awful everything got, sounds bouncin’ around ...”
“And did you find all the bullets?” “Not sure, sir, but we found three: one in
the deceased’s body and two in the concrete wall behind him. Those two were
mostly fragments, though. And if there were any more, we just couldn’t find ‘em.”
    “And did you or Agent Sullivan return fire?”
    “No, sir. There were just too many civilians around. And the
assailant had turned and run, anyway. He’d stopped shooting.”
    During this exchange, Charley and Liv would be seated at the
defense table quietly. It was tough to be in-character with someone who was
just sitting. Unlike statues, seated people had body-motions, and nods, and
breathing patterns that could be very subtle. But Jill believed she had Liv, in
this scene, nailed. Charley would lean forward, as if he were about to stand.
He’d look up with an odd, startled expression on his face, and Liv would glance
at him, and give him a thin but reassuring smile.
    Jill was ready, as the commercial voice concluded its pitch
by saying kidney pie was rather tasty, and those viewing the commercial, if
they were so inclined, might be interested in considering this sturdy product
of a proud island for their tables.
    She assumed the alert seated posture Liv had shown in the
real trial two years before, and readied her mouth for thin smiling. The
half-second black screen cut to the courtroom. Just then, Jill’s gamelight
turned on.
    Jill was ready; she was always ready. But wait! Something
was different. There was Liv’s thin but reassuring smile, which Jill duplicated
on her own face, but what was she smiling at? Charley hadn’t looked up, hadn’t blinked,
hadn’t startled, because that second and a half had apparently been cut out of
the film.
    She felt thrown off-balance, but stayed in character as Liv
Saunders. Yes. She had caught her mental balance and was anticipating Liv’s
expressions and movements as Liv prepared to cross-examine Officer Gardner. Liv
rose from the defense table in a way that implied, wordlessly, Gardner was not
to be believed, hero or not. At the same time at home, Jill got up from her
chair.
    Liv cleared her throat. Her face had just begun to register
sympathy for the Chief’s wound, but the careful sympathetic expression and
gesture were more formulaic than real. Jill had picked up on the difference,
and was pretty good at mimicking Liv’s exact expression and tone of voice, as
she would say 6.7 seconds later, “I’m sorry about your….” Jill cleared her
throat at the same time Liv did.
    Jill’s gamelight stayed on, and started blinking. She
concentrated hard not to be thrown off-character by her suddenly being watched
by the show’s computer – because she knew, very quickly, she had duplicated her
thousand-dollar win from the year before, and more.
    She was now the attorney, and Liv’s copycat. Jill now felt
completely in control of the courtroom as Liv strode to face the witness with
the bored-cop look.
    Jill / Liv began to cross-examine the officer. Jill’s
gamelight was still blinking. One hundred fourteen and a half seconds later,
the gamelight went out. Jill collapsed into her chair, shaking and not daring
to understand what she had done, how much money that could mean.
    She knew there would be publicity, fans, blogposts, tweets.
In season one, Truda Vallon and Duane Rondo had, separately and as two
different characters, stayed “lit” for almost a minute, and had won something
over half a million dollars and become famous. But no one had ever lasted
longer than that. Now Jill had.
    Even before the show was over, Producer Frank Dickstein
himself, and Hub Landon the director, had each video-mailed her their
congratulations. As the episode ended, an announcer said no one had equaled the
performance of Ms. Jillian T. Hall of Pimmit Hills, Virginia that night. Jill
had won not only $50,000 for winning or tying the most T-slices for any agonist
playing Liv that