Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

Walker smiled and gripped his gunbelt. “Y’all come on with me, children. Let Cotton go work his magic.”

Cotton said, “Thank you, Howard, but helping us might cost you some popularity in this town.”

“My daddy and brother died in those mines. Southern Valley can go to hell. Now, you get on in there and show them what a fine lawyer you are.”

After Cotton went back in, Walker took Lou and Oz in through a rear entrance and got them settled at a spot in the balcony reserved for special visitors, after receiving a solemn promise from Oz that he would not be heard from again.

Lou looked at her brother and whispered. “Oz, you were really brave to do that. I was afraid to.” He smiled at her. Then she realized what was missing. “Where’s the bear I bought you?”

“Shoot, Lou, I’m too old for bears and thumb sucking.”

Lou looked at her brother and suddenly realized that this was true. And a tear clutched at her eye, for she suddenly had an image of her brother grown tall and strong and no longer in need of his big sister.

Down below, Cotton and Goode were having a heated sidebar with Judge Atkins at the bench.

“Now look here, Cotton,” said Atkins. “I’m not unmindful of what you’re saying about George Davis, and your objection is duly noted for the record, but Louisa delivered two of those jurors into this world, and the Commonwealth didn’t object to that.” He looked over at Goode. “Mr. Goode, will you excuse us for a minute here?”

The lawyer looked shocked. “Your Honor, an ex parte contact with counsel? We don’t do those sorts of things in Richmond.”

“Well, damn good thing this ain’t Richmond then. Now, just take yourself on over there for a bit.” Atkins waved his hand like he was flicking at flies, and Goode reluctantly moved back to his counsel table.

“Cotton,” said Atkins, “we both know there’s a lot of interest in this case, and we both know why: money. Now, we got Louisa laying over to hospital and most folks thinking she’s not going to make it anyway. And then we got us Southern Valley cash staring folks in the face.”

Cotton nodded. “So you’re thinking the jury is going to go against us despite the merits of the case?”

“Well, I can’t really say, but if you do lose here—”

“Then having George Davis on the jury gives me real good grounds for appeal,” finished Cotton.

Atkins looked very pleased that Cotton had seized upon this strategy so readily. “Why, I never thought of that. Real glad you did. Now let’s get this show on the road.”

Cotton moved back to his counsel table while Atkins smacked his gavel and announced, “Jury is hereby impaneled. Be seated.”

The jury collectively sat itself down.

Atkins looked them over slowly before his gaze came to rest on Davis. “One more thing now before we start. I’ve had my backside on this here bench for thirty-four years, and there’s never been anything close to jury tampering or messing around along those lines in my courtroom. And there’s never going to be such, for if there ever was, the folks that did it will think spending their whole lives in the coal mines a birthday party compared to what I’ll do to them.” He gave Davis one more good stare, fired similar broadsides at both Goode and Miller, and then said, “Now the parties have waived their opening statements. So Commonwealth, call your first witness.”

“Commonwealth calls Dr. Luther Ross,” said Goode.

The ponderous Dr. Ross rose and went to the witness stand. He had the gravity lawyers liked, when he was on their side; otherwise he was just a well-paid liar.

Fred swore him in. “Raise your right hand, put your left one on the Bible. Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

Ross said he most certainly would tell the truth and nothing but, and wedged himself into the witness chair.

Fred retreated and Goode approached.

“Dr. Ross, sir, would you state your mighty fine credentials for the jury please?”

“I’m chief of the asylum down over to Roanoke. I’ve taught courses in mental evaluation at the Medical College in Richmond, and at the University of Virginia. And I’ve personally handled over two thousand cases like this one.”

“Well now, I am sure Mr. Longfellow and this court would agree that you are truly an expert in your field. In fact, you may be the number-one expert in your field, and I would say this jury deserves to hear nothing less.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” said Cotton. “I don’t believe there’s any proof that Mr. Goode is an expert in ranking experts.”

“Sustained, Cotton,” said Atkins. “Get on with it, Mr. Goode.”

Goode smiled benignly, as though this tiny skirmish had been a way for him to evaluate Cotton’s mettle. “Now, Mr. Ross,” said Goode, “have you had occasion to examine Louisa Mae Cardinal?”

“I have.”

“And what is your expert opinion on her mental competence?”

Ross smacked the frame of the witness box with one of his flabby hands. “She is not mentally competent. In fact, my considered opinion is she should be institutionalized.”

There came a loud buzz from the crowd, and Atkins impatiently pounded his gavel. “Quiet down,” said he.

Goode continued. “Institutionalized? My, my. That’s some serious business. So you’re saying she’s in no shape to handle her own affairs? Say, for the sale of her property?”

“Absolutely not. She could be easily taken advantage of. Why, that poor woman can’t even sign her own name. Probably doesn’t know what her name is.” He eyed the jury with a most commanding look. “Institutionalized,” he said again in the projected voice of a stage actor.

Goode asked a series of carefully crafted questions, and to each he got the answers he wanted: Louisa Mae was undoubtedly mentally unfit, according to the esteemed expert Dr. Luther Ross.

“No further questions,” Goode finally said.

“Mr. Longfellow?” said Atkins. “I suspect you want to have a go.”

Cotton got up, took off his glasses, and dangled them by his side as he addressed the witness.

“You say you’ve examined over two thousand people?”

“That’s correct,” Ross said with a lift of his chest.

“And how many did you find incompetent, sir?”

Ross’s chest immediately deflated, for he clearly hadn’t expected that inquiry. “Uh, well, it’s hard to say.”

Cotton glanced at the jury and moved toward him. “No, it’s really not. You just have to say it. Let me help you a little. A hundred percent? Fifty percent?”

“Not a hundred percent.”

“But not fifty?”

“No.”

“Let’s whittle it on down now. Eighty? Ninety? Ninety-five?”

Ross thought for a few moments. “Ninety-five percent sounds about right.”

“Okay. Let me see now. I think that works out to be nineteen hundred out of two thousand. Lord, that’s a lot of crazy people, Dr. Ross.”

The crowd laughed and Atkins banged his gavel, but a tiny smile escaped him as well.

Ross glared at him. “I just call ’em like I see ’em, lawyer.”

“Dr. Ross, how many stroke victims have you examined to determine whether they’re mentally competent?”

“Uh, why, none that I can recall offhand.”

Cotton paced back and forth in front of the witness, who kept his gaze on the attorney as an even line of sweat appeared on Ross’s brow. “I suppose with most of the people you see, they have some mental disease. Here we have a stroke victim whose physical incapacity may make it seem like she’s not mentally fit even though she may very well be.” Cotton sought out and found Lou in the balcony. “I mean, just because one can’t talk or move doesn’t mean one can’t understand what’s going on around her. She may well see, hear, and understand everything. Everything!”