Monty tells me that my predicament is the topic du jour. I read the papers and see an out-of-date photograph of myself on the television news. So be it. I know that I will emerge from this unsullied-reborn and new. The process has begun. The stage is set. They have finished with the process of voir dire, jury selection. Monty tells me voir dire is a French expression. It means “to speak the truth.” We shall see, we shall see.
I believe that I am running a fever. My head is hot and my body aches. Dreams stalk my nights. In the mornings, I awake shivering, my thin mattress soaked through with foul-smelling night sweat. And what is worse, I remember the dreams.
They were saying that I deliberately used Albert to kill Rachel. That I used Albert as an instrument of death. That is what they were saying. Now they say I killed her with my own hands. They don’t know yet that Rachel was dead to me for years before she died. And Albert, Albert is my son. He is also Rachel’s son. He is a merging of the two of us. The sum of the parts that does not equal the whole.
I feel the fever on me again; my thoughts grow unclear, confused.
THIRTY-SIX
“And we will also show that Mr. Adam Lee not only premeditated his wife’s murder, but bragged about it before the body was even cold.”
Paula loved this part. Like Leo, she loved all of it, but the opening was her favorite. It must be how an actor felt. If it was, she could certainly see the allure of stardom. Because right now, she was a star. The jury her audience. And they hung on her every word. Her every mannerism. It was tougher for a woman, but that made it just that much more exciting. A female trial lawyer walked a very fine line indeed. Any excess in any direction could be lethal. It could alienate jurors. If you came across as too confident, you might piss off the older gentleman who believes women should know their place. Too demure and you risked appearing weak in your convictions. A dress too short, you looked like a flirt. A dress too long, you looked like a spinster prude. Wear a business suit and half of them would label you a lesbian. A male trial lawyer, as long as he didn’t have obvious personality flaws, could pretty much just make sure his tie matched his shirt and go to town (and even if his tie didn’t match, there would be a woman on the jury who felt sorry for him and wanted to take care of him). But Paula had it all together. Every aspect of her image was presented in just the right doses.
Image was the most valuable lesson she had learned from her mentor, Judge Elizabeth Duran. Elizabeth Duran, who had eventually presided over the Guaraldi case, had been among the first female judges elected to the Superior Court bench in Fulton County and was a figure of aspiration for many young female lawyers. When Paula had still been a student in law school, she had applied for and gotten a coveted clerking job in Judge Duran’s office. The two clicked right away. Duran had taken an immediate liking to Paula, and at the time Paula supposed she must have reminded Duran of herself when she was younger. Even then, Paula possessed the steadfast tenacity, the near-Machiavellian determination that would be the hallmark of her legal career. Because of this and the fact that Paula was putting herself through school on a budget of poverty, Duran took Paula under her wing. She tutored Paula on the finer points of the law and courtroom politics. The woman had nothing but disdain for the people who plied the laws, but the law itself she loved. In fact, the law seemed to be her only love. She had no social or romantic contacts to Paula’s knowledge. In private, Elizabeth Duran was a salty woman, a heavy drinker not given to niceties or small talk. If she was not discussing law or some aspect of law, she simply had nothing to say.
Paula remembered an afternoon of instruction in Duran’s office. Duran paced the highly polished hardwood floors in her stocking feet, a tumbler of scotch in one hand, a cigarette smoldering away in the other. She had been talking at length of the fine line a woman must navigate to become a successful trial lawyer. She had come to the topic of cosmetics, and although she wore not even a hint of makeup herself, claiming a judge could look any way she damn well pleased, she instructed Paula on the finer points of cosmetology. (At fifty-seven, Duran’s angular features could have done with a few softening strokes of the makeup brush, but Paula wouldn’t have dared to presume to say so.) “You have to wear it,” Duran had said in her gravelly voice, sipping her scotch. “Even if you don’t need it, you have to wear it. Just so you don’t come across like a militant bull dyke. But it has to be understated. Too much, and you’re going to walk into that courtroom looking like a hooker in search of a twenty-dollar blowjob.” Over the years, Paula had found that all of Duran’s wisdom had proven to be true. Regardless of how the relationship had ended, Duran had taught her a lot.
Around the time Paula was ready to give up her clerking job for a position in the DA’s office, Duran had invited her for a weekend at her beach house on Jekyll Island. On the second night there, Duran had made a blatant, drunken pass at Paula. Paula demurred at the offer in an offhand way. Thanks, but no thanks. But Duran had insisted, claimed that Paula “owed” her something for all that she had done for her. The situation escalated into an ugly confrontation and ended with Paula driving five dark hours back to the city. They had seen each other in court several times over the years, but neither ever acknowledged what was between them.
And Paula thought of Elizabeth Duran now as she looked each of the jurors in the eye, knowing exactly how each of them perceived her. And she knew that they couldn’t help but be impressed with her. Impressed with her smart good looks and unassuming authority. There was a hardness inside her, a ruthlessness she was proud of, but that was hidden away now. They saw only what she wanted them to see. And, best of all, she was on. Everything was clicking. If she was on during the opening, it set a winning pace for her side for the whole trial. And now her favorite part was coming up. The part where you have to point. It was standard practice, but she got a secret thrill from it. If you were clicking the way you thought you were, you could win jurors over to your side before even a single piece of evidence had been presented. Just with that finger held out in accusation.
She let her eyes meet each of the jurors’. Let each of them know she was talking directly to them and was hiding nothing. Then she turned from the jury and pointed.
“Yes, this man. This man right here. Murdered his wife. His wife of twenty-one years. And tried to place the blame for the murder on his mentally retarded son.”
And she turned back to the jury. More eye contact. A dramatic pause. Let the accusation sink in. Take them back into your confidence. Wrap it up.
“And they’re going to try again. To place the blame. On a defenseless, mentally disabled man. The defendant’s own son. I’m not here today to place blame. I’m here to place the facts. The evidence. In front of you. So you can decide for yourselves. Don’t be afraid to make the right decision. Thank you.”
Paula took her seat next to Bob at the prosecution table. He smiled at her, partly because he was impressed with her performance, partly so the jury could see his confidence in her.
Judge Kenneth Cray, a small, wiry man of sixty, nodded to Monty and motioned for him to proceed with his opening statement. Monty clapped his briefcase shut, thus commanding the jury’s attention and communicating his irritation with the prosecution’s outlandish accusations.
“She’s right,” he said, at once acknowledging Paula’s words while delegating her to nothing more than a she. Not Ms. Manning, not my colleague, not the prosecution, but nothing more than an anonymous she. Monty, too, reveled in the intricacies of courtroom theater. He relished the subtle psychological war that the lawyers waged, each side meticulously manipulating every facet of what the jury would see and hear in the hopes of gaining a minute psychological edge. He knew that with his good looks alone, the minute he stepped into any courtroom he was already one step ahead of the competition. Since he had been a boy, he was well aware of the fact that his appearance just made people like him, and he used that knowledge to his benefit. People were just drawn to him. It made his everyday life more pleasant, and it was his greatest weapon in the courtroom. He knew that his fine features caused people to want to be in his favor. They wanted him to like them, men and women alike. And it was easy, so easy to parlay this need of theirs to be in his good grace into a winning judgment. It was just a question of making the other side look bad.