breath and slowly let it out. “I hope you’re not planning to take that attitude onto the witness stand with you.”
“Depends.”
“Vince … be reasonable. You and I are on the same side. We both want the same thing. We want justice. We want the bad guys locked up and the good guys safe. That’s why I’m prosecuting this case, and that’s why you’re testifying. And your testimony could make the difference between winning and losing.”
“That’s beautiful. I’m supposed to fine-tune my attitude and edit my testimony to win your case, and Mickey Williams goes scot-free to rampage anytime his hormones sound the hunting horn.”
There was a silence that reminded Cardozo of that speak-or-forever-hold-your-peace moment in wedding ceremonies.
“Believe me,” Tess said, “Mickey’s not going to go free. That is absolutely not going to happen.”
“How can I be sure of that?”
Tess rose and walked to the window. After a moment she turned. “Because you have my word of honor.”
Anne saw wooden benches. No cushions. No armrests. There must have been two hundred long-faced jurors and potential jurors trying to get comfortable on those benches. Half of them—obviously veterans—had slipped earphones over their heads. Their Walkmans made mysterious squeaking sounds, like a rain forest of insects at nightfall.
A middle-aged man with dyed red hair sat at a desk clipping his nails. The desktop held a microphone, three telephones, and jumbled stacks of paper.
Anne fixed a smile on her face. “Excuse me.”
The man’s eyes flicked up. “You wish.” Barely a glance.
“I’m Kyra Talbot.”
“What do you expect me to do about it, Kyra—dress up as a snow leopard and sing Turandot?”
“I’m expecting my lawyer—I thought he might have asked for me?”
“He hasn’t been asking me for you, honey. And when he does, you’ll be the first to know. Now, why don’t you go park your tush.”
She found an empty seat. She sat down and glanced at the New York Post that someone had left behind.
“Day two at the twiddle-your-thumbs club.” A woman dropped into the seat beside her. “How are you holding up?”
Anne looked at the stranger blankly.
“You Kyra, me Donna? Remember? Donna Scomoda? Hey, you look great. Is your hair different?”
“A little.”
“Changes you.” The stranger’s dark eyes scanned her face without embarrassment, as though she were a photograph. “Don’t mind me, it’s my medical training: always eyeball the patient.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Used to be a nurse. Nowadays I freelance. TV commercials.”
In all her nights of channel-surfing, Anne couldn’t remember ever seeing anything like Ms. Scomoda’s six-ties-throwback bouffant.
“You haven’t seen me. But you’ve heard me. I record voice-overs.”
They chatted the better part of an hour. Donna did most of the talking; Anne threw in the occasional “uh-huh” and smiled her best Kyra smile. She kept looking around the benches for Mark. Damn . Has something gone wrong?
Up at the front of the room, a phone rang. Somehow, the man with red hair knew instantly which of the three to answer. He bent toward the mike. “Sandro—Sandrovitch. Please present your summons to the clerk in the courtroom, right through those doors.”
A man in a denim shirt pushed up from his seat and lumbered toward the next room. Mark Wells bumped into him in the doorway, eyes searching and anxious.
Anne jumped up. “Mark!”
He came and embraced her. There wasn’t even a hint that he recognized her. “I’ve been waiting an hour in there. Didn’t they page you? Come on. I’ve fixed it with the prosecutor.”
He took her arm and steered her into the courtroom.
“If it please Your Honor,” he called out. “Could we approach the bench?”
The judge was a middle-aged woman with close-cropped silver-blond hair and an extraordinarily erect carriage. She fixed Mark with a quizzical stare.
He introduced himself. “I
“Depends.”
“Vince … be reasonable. You and I are on the same side. We both want the same thing. We want justice. We want the bad guys locked up and the good guys safe. That’s why I’m prosecuting this case, and that’s why you’re testifying. And your testimony could make the difference between winning and losing.”
“That’s beautiful. I’m supposed to fine-tune my attitude and edit my testimony to win your case, and Mickey Williams goes scot-free to rampage anytime his hormones sound the hunting horn.”
There was a silence that reminded Cardozo of that speak-or-forever-hold-your-peace moment in wedding ceremonies.
“Believe me,” Tess said, “Mickey’s not going to go free. That is absolutely not going to happen.”
“How can I be sure of that?”
Tess rose and walked to the window. After a moment she turned. “Because you have my word of honor.”
Anne saw wooden benches. No cushions. No armrests. There must have been two hundred long-faced jurors and potential jurors trying to get comfortable on those benches. Half of them—obviously veterans—had slipped earphones over their heads. Their Walkmans made mysterious squeaking sounds, like a rain forest of insects at nightfall.
A middle-aged man with dyed red hair sat at a desk clipping his nails. The desktop held a microphone, three telephones, and jumbled stacks of paper.
Anne fixed a smile on her face. “Excuse me.”
The man’s eyes flicked up. “You wish.” Barely a glance.
“I’m Kyra Talbot.”
“What do you expect me to do about it, Kyra—dress up as a snow leopard and sing Turandot?”
“I’m expecting my lawyer—I thought he might have asked for me?”
“He hasn’t been asking me for you, honey. And when he does, you’ll be the first to know. Now, why don’t you go park your tush.”
She found an empty seat. She sat down and glanced at the New York Post that someone had left behind.
“Day two at the twiddle-your-thumbs club.” A woman dropped into the seat beside her. “How are you holding up?”
Anne looked at the stranger blankly.
“You Kyra, me Donna? Remember? Donna Scomoda? Hey, you look great. Is your hair different?”
“A little.”
“Changes you.” The stranger’s dark eyes scanned her face without embarrassment, as though she were a photograph. “Don’t mind me, it’s my medical training: always eyeball the patient.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Used to be a nurse. Nowadays I freelance. TV commercials.”
In all her nights of channel-surfing, Anne couldn’t remember ever seeing anything like Ms. Scomoda’s six-ties-throwback bouffant.
“You haven’t seen me. But you’ve heard me. I record voice-overs.”
They chatted the better part of an hour. Donna did most of the talking; Anne threw in the occasional “uh-huh” and smiled her best Kyra smile. She kept looking around the benches for Mark. Damn . Has something gone wrong?
Up at the front of the room, a phone rang. Somehow, the man with red hair knew instantly which of the three to answer. He bent toward the mike. “Sandro—Sandrovitch. Please present your summons to the clerk in the courtroom, right through those doors.”
A man in a denim shirt pushed up from his seat and lumbered toward the next room. Mark Wells bumped into him in the doorway, eyes searching and anxious.
Anne jumped up. “Mark!”
He came and embraced her. There wasn’t even a hint that he recognized her. “I’ve been waiting an hour in there. Didn’t they page you? Come on. I’ve fixed it with the prosecutor.”
He took her arm and steered her into the courtroom.
“If it please Your Honor,” he called out. “Could we approach the bench?”
The judge was a middle-aged woman with close-cropped silver-blond hair and an extraordinarily erect carriage. She fixed Mark with a quizzical stare.
He introduced himself. “I
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