Page 3 of Mob Saint

“I did.”

“What evidence did you find to support the fire inspector’s theory?”

It’s not a theory, fuck nut. You can’t establish a theory until you prove a hypothesis. Basic sixth grade scientific method. You haven’t proven shite that Tiernan even came to a conclusion, let alone used evidence to base it.

“The age of the water heating and cooling system didn’t match the amount of wear visible on what remained of the fan-coiled unit. It was excessive.”

“How could that happen?”

“Abrasive chemicals stored near it. Poor installation. Someone tampering with it.”

“Which of those happened?”

“I think it’s likely someone tampered with it.”

“Thank you, Ms. Furey. That will be all.”

The judge shifts her gaze to me, and I stand. Cormac hands me his phone because he must have found something when he looked Tiernan up. I glance down.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Furey. Or perhaps I should say tráthnóna maith.” I turn to the jury. “That means good afternoon in Irish Gaelic.”

Trah-no-na-mah.

It’s a tongue twister to figure out if you see it written, but I’m certain Tiernan’s heard the phrase plenty of times. She doesn’t bat an eyelash at it. She expects this. Good to know. Gareth prepped her. Let the jury think I’m a douche for expecting her to understand Irish because she has an Irish name. That’s if they even know it is one.

“You have an extensive list of credentials, Ms. Furey. None are quick to complete. With all the time taken up by school, you haven’t had more than a couple years cumulatively in the field, have you?”

“I’ve been in the industry for eighteen years.”

“If the court will bear with me, Ms. Furey, please walk me through this. Four years as a junior firefighter, so not actually fighting fires. Four in college, so not full-time. Two years in grad school, so not full-time. Three years in insurance.”

I hold up four fingers, then four more, my two thumbs, and another three fingers from the first hand as I count aloud.

“Thirteen years, so five years in the field. Four of those as a full-time firefighter but not a full-time investigator. So, cumulatively, you’ve only spent a couple years in the field investigating full-time, haven’t you?”

“No. Eighteen years is eighteen years, Mr. O’Rourke.”

“In occupations such as yours, isn’t experience usually counted in hours?”

“Yes.”

“To become a certified fire investigator, it’s two years with three-hundred hours of coursework, and one-hundred crime scenes. Of those one-hundred, how many were you the lead investigator?”

Cormac had zoomed in on that when I looked at his phone. He was fast to find the training requirements.

“None.”

“Because you weren’t yet certified, were you?”

“No.”

“Then let’s check the math again. Out of five years in the field, you spent two in training. We know you were a full-time firefighter for four of those years. With a two-year program, that means only one to two years investigating without an instructor, isn’t that right?”

“That does not negate the more than four-hundred-and-fifty scenes I’ve investigated between my certification and as a fully qualified, full-time investigator.”

“No, it does not. But it means you haven’t led that many investigations. The findings from those four-hundred-and-fifty scenes weren’t yours alone, were they?”

“No. But?—”

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