Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Wiping under her eyes, Missy sucks in a deep breath, her shoulders shaking as she holds back a sob. I’m quick to grab the square box of tissues and hold them up to her.
“I realize this is a difficult time, Miss Parks.” She nods, greedily accepting the tissues and playing the part of a mourning woman. Someone shocked by the actions of her on-again, off-again boyfriend. But the twenty-four-year-old won’t get much sympathy from this jury. It’s filled with married women much older than her and the evidence of the defendant’s past led to one very obvious question: why was she still with him? And the manner in which it’s presented points to a conclusion: she was the one who had control over him and bailed him out, but then left him to rot when she couldn’t handle it. She called the shots, at least in her relationship.
“So why wasn’t he with you on the night of August fourteenth? Why didn’t you expect him to be there?”
“I lied,” the young woman blurts out, blinking rapidly as she looks me in the eye, tears still clinging to her lashes. Hope blooms that maybe she’ll confess. She speaks clearly, “I did expect him.” She nods quickly and repetitively and then speaks to the jury, not to me. “I don’t know why he didn’t show up and I was expecting him.”
“Why lie and say you weren’t?”
“I just… I didn’t want to hurt his case anymore.”
Anymore.
The word lingers and I allow a space of time to pass. I let it hit the jurors one by one. In my periphery I see the juror in the back row on the left, a man in an old brown suit, tilt his head, the question marring his forehead with a deep crease.
I could ask how she’d already hurt his case; I could push her more. But this dance is delicate. I have to play my part as well.
With a soft nod, one of sympathy, I announce that I have no further questions.
Let the jury think I’m inadequate by not pushing for more. After all, my gender and race already do that for some of these men and women. Let them be angry that I didn’t interrogate her. That I didn’t ask the obvious question. Because the implication is already there. The defendant’s girlfriend knows he’s guilty.
I know it. They know it. And that’s what I needed from her.
Glancing at the defendant, I catch sight of his anger and more importantly the betrayal in his eyes as he stares at her, his ill-fitting black suit sagging on his slight frame. Now he’ll talk. I’m not the only one who knows she drove. Nothing in this world is more spiteful than a scorned lover.
I make a mental note, as the nineteen-year-old holds his girlfriend’s gaze for as long as he can while she exits the stand, to offer him the deal again. To give up the getaway driver in exchange for a lighter sentence.
Tapping my pen to the untouched legal pad on the table in front of me, I think, I’m damn good at my job. If nothing else, at least I’m damn good at this.
A familiar prick at the back of my neck follows me all the way back to my office. I offer tight smiles to everyone I pass as I make my way to the elevator, both hands on the handle of my twill briefcase. Chills flow down my shoulders, the kind that make your insides churn. Glancing over my shoulder when I feel eyes on me again, I know there’s no one there, but I can’t help it. I half expected to see Missy. Maybe to give me damning evidence, maybe to tell me the truth and offer to make a deal since she has to know he’s going to throw her under the bus now that she’s given up defending him. Goosebumps run down my arms when there isn’t a soul in sight. I stare a moment longer, looking past the empty hall and toward the large bay windows.
People pass quickly, walking on their own or in pairs beyond the glass. Not a soul sits still. There’s no one.
Ding. The elevator arrives, snapping me back to the here and now.
Shaking off the nerves, I keep my head in the game. Sometimes this happens. The brutality of what I deal with gets to me sometimes. The doors shut and in privacy I snag a mint from the pocket of my tailored jacket. Sucking on candy or mints helps at times. I read an article about how breathing affects the nervous system and sucking on candy is one of the ways to control breathing. I chose mints after learning about that little trick.
With the small mint on the center of my tongue, I suck, pressing it against the roof of my mouth as the doors open, once again announced with a ding. It’s all very mundane and repetitive. Day in and day out, I do the same thing. To the office, to the courtroom and then home; or to the bar first and then home. Day in and day out. It’s the way it goes and the sight before me is one I’ve seen time and time again. The emotions though, the charge of energy, the relief at times and the disappointment at others… there’s nothing mundane about that.