Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

She let out a sigh. "Well, that didn't take too long."

"You said you weren't coming back," Mason answered, trying to keep his tone neutral.

The furniture wasn't important to either one of them. It was what it represented. Life with Abby was orderly and proper. Dining room tables belonged in the dining room. Exercise equipment belonged in the basement. Life with Mason was disorderly. Orderly was predictable and safe. Disorderly was unpredictable and dangerous.

Abby shook her head, the flashlight hanging limply from her hand, spotlighting their feet. She stepped past him, running the light along the wall and up the stairs as if she was retracing her route from when she'd last been there. She sat on the bottom step, knees drawn to her chest. Tuffy lay at her feet.

"I said there wasn't a place for me in your world. That didn't mean we couldn't be together in a different world. One where there's a sofa in the living room and the windows have screens instead of bullet holes."

"I'm sorry if that's the way you see it," he said.

"Is that supposed to be an apology?"

"Would an apology change anything?" he asked.

"Not that one. You're telling me that you're sorry I feel the way I do, not that you're sorry about the choices you've made. I call that an apology with a tail. I'd expect that from Josh Seeley because he's a politician, but not from you."

Her accusation stung, reminding Mason of a judge who increases a defendant's sentence for failing to take responsibilty for his crimes. Conceding her charge, he joined her on the stairs, the flashlight between them. The beam that bounced off the far wall kept them in the shadows.

"Then why did you drive two and a half hours in a monsoon in the middle of the night?"

"You're in trouble," she said. "Did you think I wouldn't come?"

He shook his head. "You told me why you left and nothing's changed, except for the worse. That's not much of a reason to come back. Besides, it's obvious how much Seeley and his campaign mean to you."

Abby leaned back against the wall. "Pour one cup of guilt, mix with equal amount of jealousy, and stir. You don't make this easy."

"I'm not much good at easy," he said.

"Does it matter that I cared enough to drive through the storm in the middle of the night just to make certain you're all right?"

"Not if you don't stay. I'm not a patient in a hospital. I don't need visitors."

Abby sprang to her feet, the heat in her eyes visible even in the dark. She crossed her arms over her heaving chest. "What do you need, Lou? Someone to watch while you destroy yourself? I won't do that."

Mason rose. He wanted to put his arms around her again but she shrank against the wall when he stepped toward her.

"What am I supposed to do? You think I applied for the job of accused murderer?"

Abby chose her words carefully, measuring them as she spoke. "I think you don't care enough about what happens to you, which means you don't care enough about what happens to me or to us."

Mason didn't have an answer. Platitudes about the glory of the law, the duty to protect the innocent rang hollow in his mind. Pleading that he was a victim of events out of his control was weak, stupid, and untrue. No one had held a gun to his head when he said yes to Mary Kowalczyk and to Nick Burns. He had taunted Whitney King, dismissed Sandra Connelly's warnings, and ignored the advice of his own attorney as if he was checking each move off a list of ten things to do to ruin your life. Whatever he truly cared about, it was hard to prove Abby was wrong.

"I didn't mean it to be this way," he said.

Abby came to him and cupped his face with her hands. He held her wrists, feeling them both tremble.

"I love you. That's why I came back."

He lowered her hands, holding them at his sides. "Then stay," he said.

She looked down, tears rolling off her face. Mason raised her chin toward him, his hand caressing her neck, brushing against her scar.

"I can't," she whispered, grabbing his hand, pulling it from her neck, turning up the collar of her jacket, holding it to her throat. "It's why I came back, but it's why I can't stay."

Abby wiped her eyes and opened the door, her back to him.

"I'm innocent," he said.

The wind had died down, the rain slowing to a light shower. The thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm moving on.

"I believe you," she said, walking out without looking back.

Innocence is, for some, simply the blessed ignorance of reality. For others, it's a state of grace, a pass into this world revoked on the way to the next. It's the first defense of the accused and the last words of the condemned: a protective mantle thrown over their shoulders by a system that rips apart its fabric in the pursuit of justice. It was a threadbare comfort to Mason when he considered how little his innocence mattered if it couldn't be proved.

Patrick Ortiz was readying his case against Mason for the grand jury. Ortiz would put forth all the evidence of Mason's guilt he wanted the jurors to hear. Mason would not be permitted to confront his accusers, offer evidence of his innocence, or be represented by a lawyer before the grand jury. Ortiz would call Mason to testify, forcing Mason to choose between answering questions, or refusing to answer on the grounds that his testimony may incriminate him. The right against self-incrimination carried the burden of exercising it, taking the Fifth Amendment a wink shy of a confession in the minds of many.

That the grand jury would indict Mason for the murder of Sandra Connelly was certain. Grand juries were often little more than rubber stamps wielded by prosecutors who loved the grand jury for its secrecy, for their ability to control the agenda, and for the gratification of announcing indictments returned by the people, like Moses coming down from the mountain.

Mason understood that Patrick Ortiz had other reasons for choosing the grand jury over a preliminary hearing. The prosecutor knew that a trial began long before the jury was selected, the opening rounds fought in the press. Ortiz had lost the first round in the coverage of Mason's arraignment and had decided to play catch-up with a swift indictment that would dominate the headlines.

Mason knew that potential jurors who swore to their ignorance and impartiality about a case in order to be selected had often read every scrap of news they could find. Even after they were selected to serve and the judge admonished them not to read or listen to any news reports about the case, or talk about the case to anyone, many did. They weren't liars in the willful way of CEOs and their accountants. They believed in their neutrality and they wanted to serve. But they couldn't resist the news. So unless they were out of the country until the moment of their selection and were sequestered thereafter, they lapped up press coverage like a cat laps up cream.

Sitting in his office late on Wednesday afternoon, Mason admitted that Ortiz had made the right play. Mason wouldn't complain, having used the media on behalf of his own clients if he needed the edge. Besides, he couldn't do anything about Ortiz's decision except practice saying that he respectfully declined to answer the question on the grounds that his answer might incriminate him. He was glad to have the constitutional right to refuse to answer, though he couldn't shake the weasel out of the words no matter how many times he repeated them.

He'd spent the day referring his clients to other lawyers. The criminal defendants understood, treating him with a new kinship that Mason couldn't embrace. A few of his civil clients protested, saying they would stick by him. Mason thanked them for their loyalty but explained that he had to devote his attention to his defense and that they would be well taken care of by their new lawyer.