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"Can you tell me what this is, Ms. Crosby?"
Cipolla darted into another line of questioning before I could finish explaining that Brandon helped me pay off Messina. He held up a copy of the brain scan that had been included in the evidence compiled from my hospital visit.
I frowned. "Yes. It's my CT scan from when I arrived at the hospital after Mr. Messina kidnapped me."
Cipolla nodded and stared at the scan as if he were studying a work of art. "That's very interesting, Ms. Crosby," he said. "Can you tell us what the scan revealed?"
I glared at Messina, who was watching the interactions between us with more than a bit of glee.
"Objection. Ms. Crosby is not a doctor. ER 701, your honor."
"Sustained."
Cipolla looked a bit flustered, but reframed where he wanted to go: "Ms. Crosby, what is your understanding of your medical condition on the night of the incident?"
"I had a slight brain bleed from head trauma. A severe concussion from having my head bashed in by Mr. Messina."
Cipolla turned to me. "Now, isn't one of the side effects of a brain bleed potential memory loss?"
"Objection. Compound. Calls for ER 701 expert testimony from a lay witness. Move to strike counsel's testimony on the effects of her conditions."
Before the judge had a chance to speak, I answered. "I'm not a doctor," I said sweetly. "I don't know."
Behind Cipolla, Zola made a clearly irritated face. I wasn't being a very good witness––I knew better than to answer that question. Cipolla was getting on my nerves.
"You don't know..." Cipolla trailed off, and I had to grip the edge of my seat not to attack him for the innuendo.
"What about hallucinations?" Cipolla argued. "Or perhaps lucid dreams?"
I gritted my teeth. "Like I said, I'm not a doctor."
"Did you speak with any doctors about these possibilities?"
I waited a beat. "They did mention them. But I never––"
"And did you go to your follow-up appointments with your doctor after the alleged accident?"
I stopped, then looked at Brandon in the gallery, who was watching the scene unfold with obvious alarm.
"Ms. Crosby?" Cipolla looked at me with a look of faux concern. "I'm sorry, Ms. Crosby, did you forget the question?"
At that I glared. "Of course not, you just said it!"
Cipolla glanced around the courtroom, toward the jury and the gallery, as if to say, "this poor girl." It only infuriated me more.
"Let's try this again, Ms. Crosby," he said as he turned all the way back around. "Did you go to your follow-up appointment with the neurologist following your hospital stay?"
"I..." I trailed off as I realized just what he was doing. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. "No."
Cipolla smiled like a cat about to catch its prey. "And why was that?"
"I-I forgot," I admitted, as much as I hated to say it.
He cocked his head in sympathy. "And isn't it possible, that in an even shorter timeframe after your accident, in which symptoms for a head injury are that much more acute, you may have forgotten the actual events that led to the injury?"
"I-of course not! I know what happened to me!"
"How long after your abortion last May did you tell your fiancé about it?" Cipolla broke off onto a completely different line of inquiry.
