Andrew Price - Without A Hitch

Corbin checked the patio door to see what view the neighbors had. When he turned back to the room, he could see into her bedroom. Like the living room, it appeared sparsely decorated. Molly stood before a mirror, attaching an earring.

“If you want a beer or something, there’s some in the fridge,” she called out.

His mouth was dry. “No thanks. I’m driving, remember?”

She didn’t respond.

Corbin returned to the kitchen counter. A pizza box leaned against the garbage can.

“I hope your car is big enough,” Molly said, as she emerged from the bedroom behind Corbin. She had added a heavy black overcoat, black loafers and earrings to her outfit, but no necklace. Draped over her shoulder, she carried a bag almost as long as she was tall. It was shaped like a dry cleaner’s bag, only larger and opaque, with what appeared to be a separate compartment at the bottom.

“What’s in the bag?” Corbin asked.

“The world’s ugliest dress.” She laid the bag over the sofa and reached for her purse.

Corbin furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“The world’s ugliest dress,” she repeated. She pulled lipstick and a mirror from her purse.

“What’s the dress for?”

“Wearing.”

“Yeah, I got that, but why?”

“Top secret.” She began applying the lipstick.

Corbin’s breathing became shallow. It took everything he had to remain calm and not demand answers, even though he knew she would eventually get there on her own as she had proved incapable of keeping secrets. “Guess I’ll never know then,” he said, trying to sound hurt, but actually sounding annoyed.

“Want to see something?”

Corbin shrugged his shoulders.

Molly put away the lipstick and moved to the front of the sofa. She unzipped the separate compartment at the bottom of the bag and fumbled around inside. A moment later, her hands emerged from the bag holding a garish, gold-colored shoe with numerous straps and a massive heel that would make her a little taller than Corbin.

“Aren’t they awful?” she asked, scrunching her nose.

“I assume they match the dress?”

“Gold taffeta with puffy sleeves and a big honkin’ bow on the butt.”

“Sounds like a match. But if you hate these things so much, why buy them?”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Because that’s what you do when you’re invited to a wedding.”

Corbin’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to Philadelphia for a wedding?!”

“Yeah, what did you think I was doing?”

“I don’t know, you didn’t tell me. . what about the ‘interview’?!” Corbin blurted out.

“Who told you that? It was Stuart wasn’t it? That little eavesdropper.” Molly returned the shoe to the bag.

“So there is an interview?!” Corbin stopped breathing and his eye twitched.

“No. My girlfriend, the one getting married, had an interview this week. She wanted me to wait to come up until after her interview.” She stood up again. “Seriously, you listen to Stuart?”

Corbin shook his head. He still hadn’t breathed. “Wait a minute! Why was the wedding such a big secret?”

Molly frowned. “I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like telling anyone. Besides, who needs to put up with all that ‘always a bridesmaid’ crap. Then everyone will want to see the pictures. Do you know how tall these shoes are going to make me? Between that and the awful gold dress, I’m going to be the Jolly Gold Giant. I don’t need to deal with that at work.”

Suddenly, it all made sense to Corbin and the tension immediately left his entire body, nearly causing him to collapse to the floor. He began laughing uncontrollably as he struggled to remain standing.

“What?” Molly asked.

Corbin was bent over at the waist, laughing so hard tears appeared.

“Stop it! It’s not funny,” Molly said in a wavering voice that indicated growing insecurity. She had no idea why Corbin was laughing, but clearly she assumed he meant some insult.

“I’m sorry,” Corbin said between gasps.

“Seriously, stop it!” She now sounded hurt.

Corbin gasped for air. “I’m sorry. . I’m not laughing at you. . I swear.” He took two steps toward Molly and suddenly hugged her.

“Hey!” Molly protested, though she didn’t try to push him away.

“You have no idea how happy you just made me,” Corbin said without thinking.

When Corbin regained his composure, he let her go. She was staring at him with a huge smirk on her face.

“‘How happy I made you’?” she repeated.

Corbin only now realized what he’d said. He stared at her, trying to come up with some plausible explanation.

“We’re not going anywhere until you explain that,” she insisted.

Corbin bit his lip. “I just meant I’m glad you’re not leaving the office.”

“Uh huh,” she said, as she rolled her hand in the air, indicating she wanted him to continue. “Keep talking.”

“All I meant was it would be pretty boring without you around.”

Molly’s smirk widened. “Wanna know what I think?”

Corbin braced himself.

“I think you like me.”

Molly enjoyed the drive to Philadelphia much more than Corbin did.

Alvarez picked up the phone, but didn’t say a word. He knew it was Corbin from the caller ID. He also knew today was the day Corbin went to meet Molly. What he didn’t know was how far Corbin had gone to solve “the Molly problem.”

“It’s ok,” Corbin said without introducing himself.

“‘Ok’ ok, or ‘done’ ok?”

“It’s ok. She’s going to a damn wedding.” Corbin let out a sharp laugh as he said this.

“No interview?”

“No interview.”

“No trial?”

“No trial.”

“We’re clear with her?”

“Yes.”

The following morning, Corbin and Beckett sat in the now-familiar plastic chairs in the jail visitation room. Beaumont sat across from them in his orange jumpsuit and shackles. They were explaining to Beaumont what would happen at trial, which was two days away.

“The guards will let you change into a suit at the courthouse. Did you arrange to have a suit brought to you?” Beckett asked.

“Yeah, I got a suit,” Beaumont replied.

“It’s not pimped out, right? You need to look respectable to the jury.” One of the lessons attorneys learn fairly quickly is that clients often have no idea how to dress for court and many show up looking exactly like what they’re accused of being.

“Ain’t no pimp suit.”

“It’s conservative, right? Like something you’d wear to church, right?” Beckett pressed.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ pimp suit!”

“They’ll keep you shackled, except when the jury is in the room. Do not, I repeat, do not do anything stupid when they unshackle you. Don’t make any sudden moves. Don’t walk away. Don’t even joke about doing anything stupid. The bailiffs will take you down without a second thought.”

“I ain’t stupid,” Beaumont retorted.

“We’re going to meet in the judge’s chamber before the trial begins. He’ll go over some last minute issues. Let me do all the talking ,” Beckett stressed this last point.

“I know what I’m doin’,” Beaumont said, rolling his eyes.

“Then we’ll move to the courtroom. We’ll pick a jury and do opening statements. The state calls their witnesses first. They should start with the two cops. Then they’ll probably call the bank witnesses, their handwriting guy and their ‘victims’.”

“What we got?” Beaumont asked.

“It depends on who they call and what we can do with them.”

One of the problems with trying a case is that it’s impossible to predict what will happen. Facts vanish into thin air. Others appear that neither side expected. Juries will respond to minor points which no one thought would matter, or will completely dismiss what everyone assumed would be the “smoking guns.” Witnesses are even worse. Some witnesses never show up, even though they’re subpoenaed. Others change their testimony. Some become less sure of what they saw or even recant, while others become more sure, even fanatical. There is something about sitting in the witness box, raised slightly above ground level, with dozens of eyes focused directly upon you, that turns it into a stage and which causes people to react strangely. All of this makes it difficult to explain to clients exactly what the plan is, because good attorneys know to expect the unexpected and come prepared to change their plans at a moment’s notice; only bad attorneys stick rigidly with their plans. Unfortunately, the one thing clients crave is certainty.