to make an effort not to laugh. Brian Tate bolted from his chair and railed at the jury. “How could you find him innocent when he was driving with a 0.15 blood alcohol level? Witnesses said he drank seven beers before he crashed into our car and almost killed my wife and kids!” Tate’s wife, Judy, sat next to him with her arm in a plaster cast. The twelve jurors seated in the jury box averted their eyes and didn’t reply to him. Tate turned and stared at Caxton and his client with the righteous fury of someone who had been cheated out of justice. Judge Emerson slammed his gavel down. “Order! Sit
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