helps those who help themselves. And for added comfort, give it time, you did the right thing, it only hurts for a little while, life goes on.
There it was in a nutshell, she thought: the wisdom of the ages condensed into three small words—life goes on.
Jess gathered her papers together, glancing over her shoulder as the defendant shook hands with each of the jurors in turn. The jury members carefully avoided making eye contact with her as they filed from the courtroom minutes later, the woman juror with the intelligent face and soft gray eyes being the only one to say good-bye to Jess. Jess nodded in return, curious as to what part this woman had played in the jury’s final decision. Had she been convinced of Douglas Phillips’s innocence all along, or had she been the reason for the lengthy deliberations, the final holdout for a guilty verdict, giving in only when her obstinacy threatened to force a mistrial? Or had she satthere, impatiently tapping her foot, waiting for the others to come to their senses and see things her way?
Not guilty.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Neil asked.
Jess shook her head, not sure whether she was more angry or sad. Later there would be plenty of time to analyze and discuss whether they could have done things differently. Right now, there was nothing anyone could do. It was over. She couldn’t change the outcome of the case any more than she could change the facts of the case, and the fact, as Greg Oliver bad clearly stated the day before, was that no jury in the land was going to convict a man of rape when the woman wasn’t wearing panties.
Jess knew she wasn’t ready to return to the office. Quite apart from the unpleasant certainty of having to acknowledge Greg Oliver’s superior savvy, she needed time alone to come to terms with the jury’s decision, time to accept it before moving on, time to deal with her anger and frustration. With her loss. Time to get her mind ready for her next case.
Ultimately that was the biggest truth about the American justice system: One person’s life was just another person’s case.
Jess found herself on California Avenue with no clear memory of having left the courthouse. It was unlike her not to know exactly what she was doing, she thought, feeling the cold through her thin tweed jacket. The weather forecasters were still predicting the possibility of snow. Predicting a possibility, she repeated silently, thinking this an interesting concept. She bundled her jacket around her and started walking. “I might as well be naked,” she saidout loud, knowing nobody would be paying attention. Just another casualty of the justice system, she thought, a sudden impulse guiding her aboard a number sixty bus heading for downtown Chicago.
“What am I doing?” she muttered under her breath, taking a seat near the driver. It wasn’t like her to act on impulse. Impulses were for those who lacked control over their lives, she thought, closing her eyes, the steady hum of the motor vibrating through her.
She wasn’t sure how long the bus had been in motion before she reopened her eyes, or when she first realized that the woman juror with the auburn hair and soft gray eyes was sitting at the back of the bus. She was even less sure at what moment she decided to follow her. It was certainly nothing she had consciously planned. And yet, here she was, approximately half an hour later, exiting the bus several paces behind the woman, following her onto Michigan Avenue, trailing her from a distance of perhaps twenty feet. What on earth was she doing?
Several blocks down Michigan Avenue, the woman stopped to look in a jewelry store window and Jess did the same, gazing past the display of precious gems and gold bracelets, finding her shivering, quizzical reflection in the glass, as if her image were trying to figure out who she was. She’d never been into jewelry. The only jewelry she’d ever worn had been her simple gold wedding band. Don had given up
There it was in a nutshell, she thought: the wisdom of the ages condensed into three small words—life goes on.
Jess gathered her papers together, glancing over her shoulder as the defendant shook hands with each of the jurors in turn. The jury members carefully avoided making eye contact with her as they filed from the courtroom minutes later, the woman juror with the intelligent face and soft gray eyes being the only one to say good-bye to Jess. Jess nodded in return, curious as to what part this woman had played in the jury’s final decision. Had she been convinced of Douglas Phillips’s innocence all along, or had she been the reason for the lengthy deliberations, the final holdout for a guilty verdict, giving in only when her obstinacy threatened to force a mistrial? Or had she satthere, impatiently tapping her foot, waiting for the others to come to their senses and see things her way?
Not guilty.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Neil asked.
Jess shook her head, not sure whether she was more angry or sad. Later there would be plenty of time to analyze and discuss whether they could have done things differently. Right now, there was nothing anyone could do. It was over. She couldn’t change the outcome of the case any more than she could change the facts of the case, and the fact, as Greg Oliver bad clearly stated the day before, was that no jury in the land was going to convict a man of rape when the woman wasn’t wearing panties.
Jess knew she wasn’t ready to return to the office. Quite apart from the unpleasant certainty of having to acknowledge Greg Oliver’s superior savvy, she needed time alone to come to terms with the jury’s decision, time to accept it before moving on, time to deal with her anger and frustration. With her loss. Time to get her mind ready for her next case.
Ultimately that was the biggest truth about the American justice system: One person’s life was just another person’s case.
Jess found herself on California Avenue with no clear memory of having left the courthouse. It was unlike her not to know exactly what she was doing, she thought, feeling the cold through her thin tweed jacket. The weather forecasters were still predicting the possibility of snow. Predicting a possibility, she repeated silently, thinking this an interesting concept. She bundled her jacket around her and started walking. “I might as well be naked,” she saidout loud, knowing nobody would be paying attention. Just another casualty of the justice system, she thought, a sudden impulse guiding her aboard a number sixty bus heading for downtown Chicago.
“What am I doing?” she muttered under her breath, taking a seat near the driver. It wasn’t like her to act on impulse. Impulses were for those who lacked control over their lives, she thought, closing her eyes, the steady hum of the motor vibrating through her.
She wasn’t sure how long the bus had been in motion before she reopened her eyes, or when she first realized that the woman juror with the auburn hair and soft gray eyes was sitting at the back of the bus. She was even less sure at what moment she decided to follow her. It was certainly nothing she had consciously planned. And yet, here she was, approximately half an hour later, exiting the bus several paces behind the woman, following her onto Michigan Avenue, trailing her from a distance of perhaps twenty feet. What on earth was she doing?
Several blocks down Michigan Avenue, the woman stopped to look in a jewelry store window and Jess did the same, gazing past the display of precious gems and gold bracelets, finding her shivering, quizzical reflection in the glass, as if her image were trying to figure out who she was. She’d never been into jewelry. The only jewelry she’d ever worn had been her simple gold wedding band. Don had given up
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