Free Dying Declaration by Randy Singer Page A

should be taking notes, she thought.
    “Yes, Your Honor.”
    “You will serve as the court’s special advocate for the children during this process.”
    “Yes, Your Honor.” She sucked in her slender stomach and squared her shoulders. She would have to make it home tonight in time to watch the eleven o’clock news on the NBC affiliate. If they were smart and cared about ratings, they would use the video of her as their B roll.
    She looked again at the two kids sitting all by themselves in the spectator section. The little girl was cute and prissy. She had bright eyes and curly blonde hair. She wore a tattered light blue dress and scuffed-up black dress shoes.
    Her brother looked scared or ornery, Nikki could not tell. His blue pants were so short that they hiked halfway up his cowboy boots. He wore a stained white shirt and a clip-on tie. He had the biggest blue eyes Nikki had ever seen. And she thought she could detect a glint of moisture as he blinked hard to hold the tears at bay.
    Those poor kids, Nikki thought. They looked so innocent and naive. And they had no clue that they were about to be manipulated by the masterful cross-examination of a lady that defense lawyers called “the Barracuda.”

    Tiger felt small in the gigantic conference room with no windows and the stern-looking adults. He climbed bravely into the high-backed leather chair where he had been told to sit. His feet dangled over the front edge, not touching the floor. He tucked his hands under his legs and stared down.
    He determined not to look across the table at the woman who reminded him of a mean Sunday school teacher he once had. He did sneak a glance at the pretty lady named Miss Nikki, who was sitting next to him. His mommy told him that Miss Nikki was there to help him answer a few questions.
    Miss Nikki shot him a quick smile, then reached over and rubbed his head. He hated it when people rubbed his head.
    “What’s your name, young man?” asked the lady sitting across the table.
    I thought she already knew.
    “John Paul,” he said softly, with a slight hint of an attitude, still staring down. “My friends and family call me Tiger.”
    “Can I call you Tiger?” the Mean Lady asked sweetly.
    Who does she think she is?
    Without looking up, he shook his head no.
    “Well then, John Paul, we will need to get some ground rules straight. Do you see that lady typing over there?” The Mean Lady pointed to a lady typing on a tiny little machine. Tiger snuck a quick glance. “She is writing down on paper everything you say. And it’s very important that you tell us the truth. It will be very important for me. And it will be very important for your mommy and daddy.”
    The Mean Lady paused to let the weight of the responsibility settle in on him. She did not have to tell Tiger this was important;
he could sense it. He was determined to pass this test, to get all the answers right. He knew that somehow his folks were depending on it.
    “Now, do you know what it means to tell the truth?”
    That’s an easy one. “Yep,” Tiger said, pleased he was off to a good start.
    “Do you know what happens if you don’t tell the truth?”
    “Yep.” He nodded again, clearly on a roll. “I get a spanking.”
    “Who gives you a spanking, Tiger?”
    The little guy was so focused on the questions that he didn’t even notice she had used his nickname. These questions were easy, and he was anxious to answer.
    “My daddy.”
    “Does your mommy give you spankings sometimes too?” the lady asked.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Tiger said. “If I’m bad.”
    “And does your mommy hit you with her hand, or does she use a stick like some other mommies do?”
    Tiger scrunched his face. This is tricky. “Nope,” he said.
    “No, she doesn’t use her hand? Or no, she doesn’t use a stick?”
    He was stumped again. This time he shrugged.
    “Let’s do it this way,” the sweet voice of the Mean Lady said. “What does your mommy use to spank you