"I did. He was wearing a sort of orange tunic ..."
Someone whispered in his ear. Oliver Symmes heard and shook his head.
"... You are personally acquainted with the defendant?"
"I am. We worked for United Anthropological Laboratories before he ..."
"Objection."
"Sustained."
The blackness of the judge's robe puzzled him. A vestige, an anachronism, handed down from centuries before. White was the color of truth, not black.
"You swear that you found the defendant standing over the body of the deceased woman on the night of ..."
"Not standing, sir. He was bending over, kissing ..."
"Your witness."