“Frauling has two kids. Recently separated. That’s the outline of the case. I’ve sent you all a file with the videos and posts.”
Chris said, “On behalf of the other members of Boomerang, I want to thank Giraffe for their tireless work on this case.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Let’s take the vote,” Chris said. “All in favor of moving forward on Kenton Frauling?”
All voted “Aye.” This was the sixth and final case presented to the Boomerangs today. The rule was, if two members voted nay, the troll was left alone. Of the six cases today, five had passed. The only one that had been rejected involved a pretty-boy reality star getting hounded online. Panther had presented, but the pretty boy was a fairly unsympathetic victim, so they chose to spend their energies on the more deserving.
The Boomerangs’ motto was an obvious one: Karma is like a boomerang—whatever you give out will come back to you. The group carefully selected their targets after a thorough application and vetting process. In his previous guise as The Stranger, Chris had learned the hard way that you only seek justice when there is no question—no reasonable doubt at all—that the perpetrator deserves it. To be absolutely sure, Chris would now comb through Giraffe’s full file to make sure all the details fit the presentation. Doubtful that there would be an issue. Giraffe was the most anally thorough of them all.
“Okay,” Chris said, “let’s talk response. Giraffe, what hurricane category do you want to go with?”
Giraffe did not hesitate. “If there was ever a monster crying out for a Category 5…”
“Aye,” Panther cut in. “Category 5.”
The rest quickly agreed.
The Boomerangs did not go to Category 5 often. Most trolls came in more at a Category 2 or 3, in which case their punishment would involve hurting credit ratings or emptying a bank account or perhaps blackmail, something to teach the troll a lesson but not destroy them.
Category 5, on the other hand, was cataclysmic. Category 5 wasn’t so much about damage as total annihilation.
God may offer mercy, but for Kenton Frauling, the Boomerangs would not.
Chapter
Four
Four months later
Hester Crimstein, celebrity defense attorney extraordinaire, watched her opponent, prosecutor Paul Hickory, adjust his tie and begin his closing statement.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is not only the most obvious and clear-cut murder case that I’ve ever prosecuted—it’s the most obvious and clear-cut that anyone in my office has ever seen.”
Hester resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn’t time.
Let him have his moment.
Hickory lifted the remote with a flourish, pointed it at the television, hit the on button with his thumb. The screen came to life. He could have had the image already up on the monitor, but no, Paul Hickory liked a little pizzazz, a little showmanship. Hester put on her bored face, so that if any jury members sneaked a glance at her, they would see how unimpressed she was.
Sitting next to Hester was her client, Richard Levine, the defendant in this murder trial. She had discussed with Richard at great length how he should behave, what his demeanor should be, how he should react （or more importantly, not react） in front of the jury. Right now, her client, who would spend the rest of his life behind bars if Hickory got his way, had his hands neatly folded on the table, his gaze steady.
Good boy.
On the screen, there were maybe a dozen people crowded together near the famed arch in avant-garde Washington Square Park. Paul Hickory made a production of clicking the play button. Hester kept her breathing steady as the video started up.
Show nothing, she reminded herself.
Paul Hickory had, of course, played this video before. Several times. But wisely, he hadn’t overexposed it, hadn’t shown it ad nauseam until the jury became numb to the brutality of what they were witnessing.
He still wanted it to be a gut punch. He wanted it to be visceral.
On the tape, Richard Levine, Hester’s client, wore a blue suit with no tie and Cole Haan black loafers. He walked up to a man named Lars Corbett, raised a hand that held a gun, and without the slightest hesitation, fired two shots into Corbett’s head.
Screams.
Lars Corbett collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Paul Hickory hit the pause button and spread his hands.
“Do I really need to sum it up more than that?”
He gave his rhetorical question time to echo through the chamber as he strolled from one end of the jury box to the other, locking eyes with those who looked his way.