'We're only saying it raises some interesting points,' Nesbitt said.
'I'm not interested in them. It seems to me they caught the guy, now they're figuring out how they're going to let him go.'
'Well,' the woman who'd made the earlier comment said, 'if she did have enemies, and we all know she did-'
Welsh wasn't having it. 'If she did, it wasn't one of them. It was this kid.'
Jackman felt he ought to intervene. The young doctor was in the grip of his emotions. He wasn't used to the endless debate which was the cornerstone of nearly every gathering of law students and which could, Jackman silently agreed, in fact get wearisome. 'We all agree with you, Jonas.'
'That's funny. It doesn't sound like that.'
'We were all outraged by the events in court today. I think you heard that during the arraignment. We all walked in there having heard about the confession, wanting blood, believing that Mr Burgess was guilty. I think we all believe it still.'
Nods from around the table.
Walsh had remained standing, now nodding in acknowledgment. Suddenly a shadow seemed to cross his face. He bit down on his lip, brought a hand up to his mouth. 'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I can't…' He shook his head again, got some composure, managed to speak. 'Excuse me.' Then he was out the door.
Treya Ghent excused herself as well, pushed back her chair, got up, followed him.
As her steps receded down the hallway, the room grew silent. Several of the students exchanged glances – an awkward moment. The woman spoke up again. 'The grieving man and his comforter.' But this time there was no appreciative chortle from the group.
'If it were me,' Nesbitt began. His voice told it all. He was in debate mode. He addressed the seated students. 'I think I'd go along with Mr Jackman's comments. It's important to nail the case down against every possible doubt. Eliminate every other possible suspect. Disprove every alternative. Do any among you not feel that way?'
There weren't any takers.
The thin voice pressed the point. 'And yet Dr Walsh, apparently, has no interest in that pursuit. Which could mean… what?'
Jackman wasn't in the mood to listen to any more theorizing. Nesbitt's hypothetical point was the bloodless logic of the academic. Welsh's genuine emotion was much more real – he was simply too upset to deal rationally with the case. In any event, the table would be cleared soon, and the last of his guests dispersed.
Time was money. He had to go back to work.
Treya saw him turn into Elaine's old office, across from her cubicle. He'd closed the door and she knocked, waited, knocked again – no answer. She turned the knob.
'Jonas?' Whispering.
The shades were drawn and the room was dim, but she had no trouble making him out, slumped in Elaine's chair, feet up on her desk, hands over his eyes. Treya quickly checked the hall in both directions, saw no one, and slipped inside. She closed the door again behind her.
'Are you all right?' 'Yeah, sure. Great.' He drew a deep, audible breath. 'I don't want to hear about her enemies.'
'I know.'
She waited, standing by the door. When her eyes had adjusted more to the light, she crossed the small room, removed some of Elaine's files from where they sat on her usual chair, stacked them on the file cabinet next to the desk. Sitting, she waited some more.
He barely lifted his head. 'Pretty mature display, huh?'
'Could have been way worse. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.'
'I think I'd have to get some to lose it.'
'Well, when you do.'
She'd known Jonas for a little over three years, since he and Elaine had first become an item, and although over time he had ceased to be among her favorite people, early on they had bonded as co-conspirators. This was because in the first few months of dating between her black activist boss and her white doctor boyfriend, the relationship had been extremely clandestine – secret meetings in hotel rooms, daytime trysts where Treya would loan them her apartment, lunch in this room at the firm.
All this was before Elaine had been ready to commit, and Treya hadn't been able to blame her, though at first, before she'd seen his ego and tantrums and selfishness, she did feel for the pressure it put on Jonas.
As the daughter of a prominent African-American US senator, Elaine had been informally claimed by the Bay Area black community as one of its new generation of leaders. The political side of her – she did, after all, have her mother's blood – loved it. In the first couple of years after she left the DA's office, she had been squired around to her fundraising appearances and campaign dinners by a succession of high-visibility black men. Over the years, the Chronicle's society column had linked her romantically with not a few of her clients, with a city supervisor, with a running back for the 49ers, with a co-anchor on one of the nightly news programs.
Elaine had liked each of them for various reasons, though none of these or several other boyfriends had lasted more than a couple of months. This wasn't a matter of much concern to her – she'd been in love once when she was younger and she knew what it felt like, and it wasn't this. She assumed it would only be a matter of time before she met the right man again, and then she would marry him and settle down.
Working at Rand and Jackman, speaking at neighborhood organizations, black business seminars, inner city development projects, she was leading a full, busy life that only rarely intersected with the white community.
Treya knew that Elaine didn't think much about this segregation. It was simply a fact of her life. She had no strong prejudice against white people – the man who'd raised her, Dana Wager, had been white – but except for formal gatherings, there was little opportunity to meet anyone, socially or otherwise, who wasn't black.
Then she came down with a stomach ache that sharpened and deepened – right side, localized – over a two-day period. On the third morning, she was at her desk trying to work when Treya came in with some papers and gently brushed against her. Elaine screamed, nearly blacking out from the pain as her appendix burst. The fever peaked at 104.
Jonas was the emergency room surgeon, and he saved her life.
But in the first months, Elaine didn't trust the feeling. It wasn't at all like the earlier, star-crossed love she'd experienced with Chris Locke, the older, married District Attorney. No, Jonas was young, brilliant, sexy. And the feeling, she'd confided to Treya, was nothing like anything else – it was much better. In fact, she thought, it was too good to last.
And since it would have to end, Elaine was at first afraid to threaten her standing in the community over a few moments of passion. Terrified of losing clients, clout, and credibility, she wanted to keep the affair hidden until it blew over, as it surely would.
But it didn't.
They went public, and despite Elaine's concerns, the whole race thing turned out to be pretty much a non-issue. About the only fallout she'd experienced at all was that she'd lost a jihad-oriented Islamic student she'd been mentoring, and that Elaine had come to view as a blessing. Finally, a year ago, she and Jonas had announced their engagement.
Treya, for her part, certainly understood the original attraction. Jonas had movie-star looks and projected a super-confident maleness that was undeniable. She hadn't been completely immune to it herself on some level. But after she got to know him, she wasn't completely thrilled that this man had been Elaine's life choice.
His world, she discovered, revolved entirely around himself and his work. During the courtship rush, he'd made time for Elaine whenever he could, but when that ended – once he'd won her love and commitment – he reverted to his old schedule and his main passion, which from Treya's perspective was himself.
She told herself that maybe she was being unfair. And to be truthful, Elaine really didn't seem to mind. They both worked long hours under great pressure. Obviously, they had reached some accommodation where stolen late-night hours or a rare weekend when Jonas could get away was enough for both of them. Each was, in their own way, a trophy, a catch – Treya understood that this was no small part of it for either of them. Maybe they were a true match – two narcissists locked in a centrifugal dance around the image each admired. But that really wasn't the Elaine that Treya knew.