James Bell - Deadlock

The court reporter, a young woman, pulled up the steno paper and repeated the question for Sarah Mae.

“So you went over your testimony with your lawyer, correct?” Winsor clarified.

“Yeah.”

“And still you are conveniently remembering some things and not others.”

“Objection.” Charlene was operating on pure instinct.

“Sustained,” said the judge, surprising her.

“Your Honor,” Winsor said, his voice theatrical, “I have no more questions for the witness.”

“I can’t stand this waiting!” Millie said. She and Holden were in the hospital parking lot, getting air. The afternoon was hot, dry, just like Millie felt. As nice as Holden had been, she was beginning to want to be alone. She stared blankly at the high school banner across the street. Home of the Blades.

“I know how hard this must be,” Holden said.

“Do you?” The words came hard and fast. “I need to talk to her.”

“You’ll get your chance.”

“How do you know that?” she snapped. And she knew several things at once – that he didn’t deserve her tone, that he was comforting her as his profession demanded, but that she didn’t care to hear platitudes at this moment.

“Just believe it,” Holden said.

“It’s not that easy.”

“No, it’s not easy,” he said.

She looked into his eyes and saw some long ago darkness there, shadowy and shapeless.

“I’ll call Royal,” Holden said. “The folks at the church will want to be praying.”

“Not yet,” Millie said. It sounded selfish. It was, partly. “I don’t want anyone coming up here. I want my time with her.”

“Sure. Will you excuse me for a little while? I’m going to the chapel.”

“Chapel?”

“I want to do some praying myself. You know where to find me if you need anything.”

She watched him go. When was the last time she had prayed? Millie remembered praying for kids to stop teasing her. Didn’t happen. She hadn’t taken prayer seriously since.

But then it occurred to her she had prayed recently, in a way. In her vision. Hadn’t she spoken God’s name?

And when her mother was sprawled on the kitchen floor, hadn’t she called the name of God over and over? She had been crying out for help. Now, on reflection, it seemed simply irrational. A product of stress.

Still, Millie looked up into the blue sky, as if seeking an answer. None came. The sky was just there, hot and oppressive. And never-ending.

On his way up to his office, Lawrence Isadore Graebner paused in front of the twelve-foot sculpture of the judge and bowed slightly, ironically. The limestone figure with a stern expression and a full British wig presided over the main courtyard of Yale Law School. His Honor always appeared ready to declare a cosmic mistrial.

Larry Graebner, however, liked to think of him as merely waiting for the right man to come along and take the law into new venues of justice. Graebner, ever since joining the Yale law faculty in 1975, considered himself that man.

At sixty-one, a time when many of his colleagues were looking toward retirement, Graebner was at the peak of his career. He was on the short list of every Democratic administration for appointment to the Supreme Court. Unfortunately, he was also at the bottom of that list. He knew why. He was a “lightning rod of controversy” according to the New York Times . He had simply said and written too much. If and when the Democrats commanded a larger majority in the Senate, and the right president was in place, he just might make it through.

Until then, he was content to offer advice and step into legal challenges he found stimulating.

One of his stimulants called just after five.

“It’s Winsor.”

“How’d it go today, Beau?” Graebner put his feet up on his African mahogany desk.

“Beautiful,” Winsor said. “The plaintiff wilted under the heat.”

“How is that young lawyer doing?”

“She’s lost. Young and lost. I tried to talk sense into her, but you know these crusading types.”

“Hey, never underestimate the power of ideals, even if we think they’re wrongheaded.”

“Ideals don’t win cases. Good lawyering does.”

“Since you are on the scene, sanity will prevail?”

“One never knows what a jury will do, but this jury looks pretty solid.”

Graebner reached for his espresso, fresh from the gilded machine on his credenza. “I’ve been doing some thinking about that, Beau. And I think it would be best if we took it out of the jury’s hands altogether.”

“Why?”

Noting a hint of wounded pride in Winsor – I am a great trial lawyer, let me handle it! – Graebner spoke with modulated patience. “Juries get publicity. It’s a media fascination. And then they get interviewed. They show up on network news or O’Reilly. Win or lose, it’s publicity.”

Winsor cleared his throat. “But how do we do it?”

“I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll e-mail you the details. You have a little work to do.”

“What are you e-mailing?”

“A little bombshell we’re going to hand your opponent.”

Charlene Moore looked out at the lights of the big city. From her room it almost looked like a theme park. Some magical kingdom. But this was no fantasy place. This was an impersonal world that didn’t care about what happened to a teenager in an abortion mill.

She wanted them to care. They had to care. If they didn’t, the world would continue to spin out of control, downward.

Lord, give me strength for the rest of the trial. I am your woman! Go before me in power!

She heard a soft knock on her door. It was Sarah Mae. Her eyes were red. Charlene brought her to a chair and sat her down.

“What is it?” Charlene asked.

“Sorry I messed it up,” Sarah Mae said.

“You didn’t mess anything up. You were fine.”

“No I warn’t. I seen your face. Did I make it bad for us?”

Charlene knelt and patted the girl’s knee. “God is in this with us. Do you believe that?”

Sarah Mae nodded. But it was a weak nod. “Mama says we should stop now and make that settle…”

“Settlement?”

“Yeah. Like we almost did.”

“I thought you didn’t want to.”

“I don’t know no more. What if we lose?”

Charlene felt like someone had kicked her. That was, of course, the big question in any trial. You could do everything right, the evidence could be on your side, and still a jury could do the opposite of what you expected.

“No,” Charlene said. “We’re not going to lose. Not with God on our side.”

Sarah Mae looked at her with eyes that wanted to believe it.

“Trust God with me,” Charlene said. “He has called us to this trial.” She could feel tears of passion coming to her eyes. For two years she had lived this case, day in and day out, losing sleep, putting up practically all the money she had in costs.

“You crying, Miss Moore?” Sarah Mae said.

“I’m all right.”

“You sayin’ God’ll do right by us?”

“He does right by those who trust in him.”

“What’s gonna happen tomorrow?” Sarah Mae said, heaving a deep breath.

“The defense will put on its case. Then we’ll have a chance to put on what’s called a rebuttal. I’ll call your mother to the stand for that.”

“Mama’s nervous. Think you should?”

“Yes.”

“I’m still scared.”

“You’re not alone in that, Sarah Mae. Trust me, will you?”

Charlene took Sarah Mae’s hand. It was soft, and so like a little girl’s.

It was nearly eight o’clock at night when Dr. Weinstein returned, motioning to Millie and Jack Holden, who sat in the waiting room. Millie moved faster than she had in weeks, ignoring the shooting pains, to get to the doctor.