Chapter Twenty
The next morning, I sprinted to the courts building from my parking spot on the street. I knew I’d get a ticket and that the city would probably tow my car away, but that was the least of my worries. I was late for court. I’d slept through my alarm and only woke up when one of my condo building’s security officers knocked on my door, courtesy of a call to them from the best friend and paralegal in the world. Thank God for Emily. I just prayed she hadn’t called Gino first.
Today I ran through the halls, dodging people, repeating, “Excuse me,” over and over. I hated people that did this. I hated me for doing it. I hated me.
I glanced at my watch as I hit the courtroom doors. It was 9:55. Trial was to have started with our case—our witnesses—at 9:30.
I took a deep breath to quell my nausea. And then I was inside. A hot mess in heels, clippety clopping far too loudly as I race-walked to the bench to present myself to the honorable and righteously pissed Judge Hutchison. He glared at me, his black eyes ringed with bright white in his coal-black face. Mack joined us. He was glowing.
I looked down and saw a flash of white lace bra. I pulled at the neckline of my navy coatdress until I was decent again, then spoke.
“Your Honor, I’m so sorry. I’ve been quite ill. I will be able to continue, but I had a very difficult night, and I just didn’t wake up this morning. I live alone, so there was no one around who knew I was sick, to check on me and make sure I woke up. I am incredibly grateful to my paralegal for contacting me. I beg your forgiveness, the state’s, and the jury’s, for wasting everyone’s time. I have practiced for years in the Dallas courts, sir, and this has never happened before. It will never happen again.” I prayed that a giant B for Boozer hadn’t appeared on my forehead.
Judge Hutchison leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Connell, except that it will absolutely not ever happen again, or it will be the last time you argue before me. If you are as sick as you say, you’d better not get me ill, too. Please return to your table.” He looked at me again. “You really do look awful.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”
Mack looked disappointed that the judge hadn’t spilled any of my blood, but he didn’t protest. Maybe he thought it was better for the state that the judge let a “sick” defense attorney proceed. I couldn’t disagree.
I took a seat as close as I could get to Emily, whose hairsprayed cosmetological creation kept me at bay. She didn’t look at me. Zane, however, leaned around her and winked. I noticed his attire for the day. Finally, he’d taken my advice. If I hadn’t known he was nine inches taller than Nick, I’d think he had borrowed his navy suit. It was like Zane and I had planned a matchy-matchy day.
He burst my short-lived bubble. “Rough night, counselor? Got the wine flu, or did you lose sleep knocking boots with some cowboy?”
I was too sick to punch him and the trial wasn’t over, so I gave him a wan smile. Later, I promised myself. Later. I reached into my briefcase to get my notes for my direct examinations of the witnesses this morning and my hand found something solid with sharp edges. I realized I’d fondled a handful of Zane’s grill, and jerked back like it had jolted me with electricity.
Never again, I promised myself. No more criminal trials, ever.
“Are you ready, Ms. Connell?” Judge Hutchison asked.
No, Your Honor, but I have no choice in the matter. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Call your first witness,” he said.
I wished I could stay seated, but the judge would never permit it, so I stood, careful not to jostle my brains. I needed all the cells I had left fully functioning. While the court reporter swore my first witness in, I drained a bottle of water and then concentrated on holding it down. I’d never brought a hangover to trial before. It would have devastated my mother.
“Shame on you, Katie,” she used to say when I chose badly, like when I bent the legs of Collins’ favorite GI Joe in the wrong direction until they broke.
Actually, I was pretty much ashamed on her behalf. “Shame on me, Katie,” I thought, then pushed it aside. Any more of that would border on self-pity.
The first two witnesses went fine, better than I deserved. They were our experts on the crime scene evidence. We weren’t contesting that the evidence existed—that it was his semen and shoelaces, that the shoelaces had abraded Tabitha’s wrists and ankles, and that her body had been covered with bruises. We were simply arguing that it wasn’t rape. The only important point I needed to establish with them was that nothing about the scene or her injuries precluded a conclusion that Tabitha had consented to sex with Zane. The longer I knew him, though, the less I believed in the possibility of anyone consenting to having sex with him.
In a truly shocking turn of events, Junie cross-examined the experts. What was Mack up to? She did a competent job, but they both held up quite well. Score one for defense, times two.
I began to think everything would turn out OK despite me. I hadn’t tossed my cookies, and I’d still have time to put Sherry Talmadge on before lunch. That meant we could deliver closing arguments immediately after the jury got back from lunch. If so, we could send the case to them before the end of the day. That would make the jury happy with me and meet the judge’s deadline of three days.
And then I could relax for a nanosecond and figure out what the hell had happened in my life since Bloody-Mary-thirty last evening.
I cleared my throat. “Your Honor, the defense calls Sherry Talmadge.”
A short, pregnant Caucasian woman made her way from the back row of the courtroom to the stand. This was my first time to lay eyes on Ms. Talmadge. She was cute bordering on pretty, or on used-to-be-pretty. Her straight brown hair clung to her head. The dark bags under her eyes over sallow skin told us all about her lifestyle, bun in the oven or not. I reached up and touched my own face. I shuddered.
I shook it off. It was show time. As I stood to start my direct, I looked around the courtroom for Nick. It was our last day of trial, and I hadn’t checked in with him last night. He wasn’t here. Our possibly-last trial together was almost over.
I took Ms. Talmadge through the easy parts of her testimony first—her name, her address, her occupation—while I got a feel for her rhythm and tempo. She fiddled with the cuff of her long-sleeved mauve maternity dress. She stuttered some and looked down more than I would have wanted, but testifying in trial was scary, and lots of people did far worse than she. Once we had established her presence for the events in question, I got to the point of her testimony.
I opened it wide for her. “Ms. Talmadge, please tell me what you observed and heard happen on the night in question, from the time Ms. Brown and Mr. McMillan got to your apartment, until Mr. McMillan left.”
Sherry drew a deep breath and blew it out forcefully, and took her time with both. When she spoke, she spoke rapidly, looking at Mack and Junie instead of the jury or me. “Tabitha came home and tried to lock Zane out but he pushed his way in after her and dragged her to the bedroom and shut the door and then she screamed at me to call the police because he was raping her and he threatened to kill me if I did.” She stopped speaking and looked down.
It took me a moment to realize what I had just heard, which wasn’t what I had expected to hear. It didn’t take Zane nearly as long as me. He jumped to his feet, taller by seven inches and heavier by a hundred pounds of muscle than anyone else present. His jacket fell open, exposing the shirt I hadn’t seen earlier. It read, “Ladies, wait your turn.”
“Bitch,” he screamed. “What the fuck do you mean, you lying fucking bitch?”
Everyone gasped.
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