Orphan on Baker Street

Forty Seventh: Sherlock's POV

》Sherlock's POV《

I sit on the bench behind the table Mickey sits at; a very short, wooden wall divides us. We're in court for the trial, and I suppress the need to blurt out every flaw in the prosecutor's marriage. The judge - his nameplate says "Marchov" - shuffles around papers and so do the lawyers. My attention turns to the back of Mickey's head; she's wearing hairspray so the curls at the bottom of her hair will stay, but she knows that won't work; her dress is new and very tight - again, not her style; she wears simple black heels with it all.

Everyone does their thing before the victim, Schmidt, sits down in the witness chair. He's of average height with regularly dyed black hair that's parted on the side neatly; his shirt was bought for this moment yesterday, and he hasn't picked up a drink for a week or two - so since the shooting. His face is worn, free of any signs of aging, but I can still tell that he's in his 30's, maybe early 40's; his acorn colored eyes hold a softness that you wouldn't expect in an alcoholic of his nature. Never in his life would he abuse his family, but something tells me that he could hurt me if I tried hard enough.

"Mr. Schmidt," the prosecutor starts, walking slowly over to him, "what were you doing the afternoon of August 18th?"

"I was, um," he glances between the small mic in front of him and his lawyer nervously. "I was walking my dog in the park, over by the Thames. Then we walked past the playground, using the path, and got out onto the sidewalk on the main street. I didn't want to walk home, so I tried to call a cab, but they would see my dog barking and keep driving. He isn't all that used to cars yet, and I tried to get him to stop, but I eventually gave up. After that, I decided to just walk home."

"Where do you live?" his lawyer inquires.

"Over on Tucker Avenue, sir."

"How far away is that from Baker Street?"

Schmidt pauses to think. "Probably about a 10 minute walk, at the most."

"So, you were 10 minutes from home before you were shot?"

"Y-yes, sir," he mumbles.

"Could you speak up for us, Mr. Schmidt?" his lawyer booms.

"Yes, sir," the victim says more clearly.

"Describe the shooter to us, please." I hold my breath.

"Well, they were maybe about 6 feet tall with black hair; they had on a long, dark trench coat. I couldn't quite make out their face because the collar was up, but I think their eyes were a hazel color..."

"A hazel?" The lawyer glances over towards Mickey, who has green eyes. It very easily could have been the lighting that made them look more brown.

"Is that all you can remember, Mr. Schmidt?" his lawyer looks back over at him as he nods.

"Yes."

"And you say you were just walking your dog?"

"Yes."

"Was there anything you think you did that may have come as suspicious, Mr. Schmidt?"

There's a pause, but it feels different from that time he had to think about how far away his house was. He isn't thinking at all, he's debating - should he tell the truth or not?

Schmidt leans forward a bit to answer into the microphone. "Nothing that I can think of, no."

I notice Ramsey glance over at Mickey. The half of her face that I can see when she looks back at him is etched with worry. My attention turns back to Schmidt, who's apparently done on the stand.