The door leading to the courtroom opened then, and Sam Weisman appeared. In the months since his trial began, Jeff had learned to read more from his lawyer's posture and expression than from what he said. At sixty, Weisman's thick hair was snowy white, and his shoulders tended to sag as if carrying the weight of every case he had handled. "They're ready," he said, and though his tone was neutral, there was something in his stance that made Jeff wonder if, finally, something good might be about to happen.
"What's going on, Sam?" he asked as the correction officer unlocked the gate of the cage and swung the barred door open.
Weisman hesitated, as if weighing his response, but then simply shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said. "I've just got a feeling, you know?"
The brief flicker of hope faded as quickly as it had flared up. Sam Weisman had had a "feeling" when the jury stayed out for more than one day, and he'd had a "feeling" when they filed back into the jury box the following afternoon. The jury had found him guilty on every count he'd been charged with.
So much for Sam Weisman's "feelings."
Now, with the cuffs removed from his wrists, Jeff stepped through the door and into the courtroom, Sam Weisman right behind him.
Jeff felt suddenly disoriented. They were all there-the prosecutors at their table, Sam Weisman's assistant at the one next to it.
The same people sat on the spectators' benches-his parents behind the defense table, and Cynthia Allen's parents behind the prosecutor's. The same smattering of reporters who had covered the trial were in the rear, present now to witness the final act.
And Heather Randall was sitting by herself at the end of the bench his parents occupied, just as she had every day of the trial.
"Why don't you sit with my folks?" he'd asked when she visited him after the first long day in court. Heather had shrugged noncommittally, and the impenetrable look she always adopted when she was hiding something dropped over her face. He realized that he knew the answer to his own question. "Dad's blaming you, isn't he? He thinks that if it hadn't been for you, I would have stayed in Bridgehampton."
"Wouldn't you have?" she asked.
Jeff shook his head. "He might as well blame Mom-she's the one who made sure I went away to college."
"Easier to blame the summer people," Heather replied. "And God knows, as far as your father's concerned, that's all I'll ever be."
"He'll change his mind. When all this is over, he'll see."
And now, this morning, it was all over, but obviously Keith Converse had not changed his mind.
One thing in the courtroom was different today, though: except for the day she had testified, this was the first time Cynthia Allen was present. Looking diminished and helpless, she sat stoically in her wheelchair. Her husband stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders as if to shield her from any further harm. One of Cynthia's hands covered her husband's, the other was clasped by her father, who sat on the bench next to her chair. All three were staring at Jeff with such coldness that he shivered. Still, as he walked to the defense table, he held Cynthia's gaze, praying that even now she might remember what had really happened, might see in his eyes that he'd never intended to do anything but help her.
All he saw was her hatred of him.
He lowered himself into a worn wooden chair, only to rise again as the bailiff's voice began to drone and the door from the judge's chambers opened. A moment later, as Judge Otto Vandenberg settled himself behind the bench, Jeff sank back into his chair.
Vandenberg, a large, gray-haired man whose body seemed even more enormous in his black robes, began shuffling through the stack of papers that lay before him. Finally, he peered over his half glasses at Jeff. "Defendant rise," he said in a voice so low-pitched that people had to strain to hear it, yet carrying such authority that no one ever missed a word he uttered.
Jeff rose to his feet, Sam Weisman at his side.
"Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?" he asked.
Jeff hesitated. Should he try one more time to convince the judge that he was innocent? What good would it do? The jury had already decided. But there was one thing he had to say-one thing he'd never had a chance to say during the trial. He turned and once more met Cynthia Allen's gaze. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry I didn't get there a few minutes earlier, so maybe none of this would have had to happen to you at all." He held her gaze until she looked down into her lap. Then he turned back to face the judge once more.
Otto Vandenberg gave no sign that he'd heard Jeff's words.
"I've listened to all the testimony in this case, and I've read the recommendations of both the prosecution and the defense. While the crimes of which you've been convicted are very, very serious indeed, and certainly are not to be taken lightly, I have also chosen to take into account the fact that this case-as do so many-comes down to one person's word against another's. I also have to take into account that prior to this case you have been an exemplary citizen, and that none of your psychological evaluations indicate that you are anything other than a perfectly normal young man."
The flame of hope in Jeff flared up again.
"I therefore remand you to the custody of the Department of Correction for a term not to exceed one year, including time already served."
Seven months! He would be out in just seven more months-maybe even less!
"I was right!" Jeff heard Sam Weisman whispering exultantly. "I had a feeling, and I was right! He believed you, Jeff!"
But then he heard another voice, which rose furiously from the back of the courtroom.
The voice of Cynthia Allen's husband.
"A year?" he bellowed. "After what he did, you give him a year? I swear to God, I should kill him myself!"
Jeff whirled around to face the furious man.
"That's what you deserve," Bill Allen went on. "You should be dead." Before anyone could react to his words, Bill Allen turned his wife's chair around and pushed it out of the courtroom.
What do you mean, you don't want to do anything about it?" Keith Converse asked. Though his voice remained steady, the tension in his face betrayed the anger he was feeling at the sentence the judge had read moments ago.
"Keith, you have to calm down," Mary said, nervously eyeing the vein throbbing in Keith's forehead. "Losing your temper won't help."
Keith's eyes moved around the crowded conference room. Jeff sat at the end of a worn table with Sam Weisman flanking him on one side, Heather Randall on the other. Mary was sitting opposite their son, while a correction officer stood by the door, her expression utterly impassive. "Do you mind if I ask just what is going to help at this point?"
As if no one in the room was familiar with the case except himself, Keith Converse began reciting the events of the past few months. "First they arrest Jeff while he was trying to help that woman. Then, instead of letting him go and giving him a medal like they should have, they charge him with everything they can think of. Then they find him guilty, just because the same woman looks like she's half dead, and everyone feels sorry for her." He held up a hand against the protest he could see rising in Mary. "I'm not saying I'm not sorry for what happened to her. I am. But you know her being in that wheelchair influenced the jury, and now Jeff has to serve a year in jail for something he didn't do. And is the victim even happy that someone got convicted? Oh, no-her husband threatens to kill Jeff!" He shook his head in disgust, and his gaze settled on Sam Weisman. "You're supposed to be a lawyer-can't we charge him with something? He can't just threaten Jeff like that, can he?"
"He was upset, Dad," Jeff said before Weisman could answer. "He didn't mean it literally."
"Good God, will you listen to yourself?" Keith sighed, shaking his head. "I swear, sometimes I don't understand what makes you tick. You've been convicted of a felony, and it doesn't bother you that someone just threatened to kill you, too? Don't you have any idea what kind of spot you're in?"