Home Front(109)

He came around to her side and opened the car door.

She panicked.

“You can do it,” he said evenly, reaching for her hand. She clung to him, stepped out onto the sidewalk. As she stood, clouds wafted overhead, blocking out the ineffectual sun, sending a smattering of rain to the sidewalk.

“Can you carry my crutches?” she asked. “I might need them later.”

“Of course.”

She began the long, slow walk to the courthouse. In no time, she was breathing hard, sweating. She concentrated on each step, ignoring the pain caused by her blisters.

She was slow, and none too pretty in her movements, but she was doing it: walking by herself to the courthouse. Michael’s hold on her arm was only a balance point.

At the start of the stone steps, she paused, winded, and looked up. The concrete stairs rose like Chichén Itzá into the gray sky. “If you’re going to be late—”

“They’ll wait for me,” Michael answered easily.

This time she held his arm and let him steady her as she slowly, slowly climbed upward. Step. Lift. Swing. Plant.

She didn’t know how long it actually took—minutes probably—but it felt like hours. Finally, though, they were in the courtroom. Michael guided Jolene to a seat behind the defense table.

“Good luck,” she said.

He smiled down at her. “Thanks.”

And then he was moving away from her, joining the eager young associates gathering at the table.

The courtroom filled up around her. She saw reporters milling about outside, microphones at the ready. It must be a big case. She should have asked him about it.

At the same time the bailiff entered the courtroom, so did four marines in dress uniforms. They moved in unison, sat down shoulder to shoulder beside Jolene, their backs straight, their faces grim. Before she could wonder about it, really, the defendant came into the room.

He was just a kid, probably no more than twenty-five. But she knew by looking at him that he was a vet. She could see it in his eyes.

The judge entered the courtroom, banged his gavel, and began the proceedings. The prosecutor stood and began to tell the state’s side—a story of bloodlust and anger, of a love gone tragically wrong, of a girl shot in the head by the man who had vowed to love her. For a simple story, it went on for more than an hour, so long Jolene’s leg started to ache. Pain pulsed in her missing foot.

Finally, it was Michael’s turn. He stood and addressed the jury. Unlike the prosecutor, Michael was relaxed with them, almost friendly. “Keith Keller is no monster. That would be easy, a monster. We could put a monster away and feel good about ourselves. Keith is something scarier. Keith is us. He is your brother, your son, your next-door neighbor.” He looked at the jurors one by one. “He was a popular kid at Wenatchee High, a star football player. After a year of college, he married the girl of his dreams, Emily Plotner, and found a full-time job at a local feed store. His employers and fellow workers will tell you what a great guy he is. Keith thought his life was going along on a pretty good track. He and Emily had begun to talk about children.

“Then came September Eleventh. I’m sure you each can remember where you were when you heard about the attacks. Keith was at work. He learned almost immediately that his best friend had been on Flight Ninety-three.”

Jolene found herself leaning forward.

“Most of us wanted to do something. Keith actually did. He joined the marines and went to fight terrorism in Iraq, where he saw some of the worst fighting of the war. Every day he saw friends killed or maimed; every day he wondered if the next step he took would be his last. He saw children and women smile at him and then blow up. He picked up the pieces of his best friend after a roadside bomb blew the young man apart.

“Keith is a soldier. I didn’t used to know what that meant, but I should have, because my wife is a soldier, too. I sent her off to war without a clue as to what that meant.” Michael turned, looked at her. “I’m proud of her service.”

Jolene caught her breath. He was talking to her. That was why he’d wanted her here today. So that she would listen.

“Heroes,” Michael said softly. The world seemed to fall away until it was only them, looking at each other across a crowded courtroom. “They are heroes, our soldiers, the men and women who go into harm’s way to protect us, our way of life. It doesn’t matter what you think of the war, you have to be grateful to the warriors, of whom we ask so much. To whom we sometimes give too little.”

Slowly, he turned back to the jury.

How long had it been, when he’d been talking to her, only her? A few seconds? A moment? It felt like forever. How long had she waited to hear that from him—I’m proud of you? Tears stung her eyes; she wiped them impatiently away.

“A soldier is taught to be strong and brave,” Michael said in a voice in which only she would hear the hoarseness, the emotion. “Not to need anyone. But Keith Keller did need help. He came home damaged beyond repair, suffering from nightmares.” Here, Michael looked at Jolene again, and there was an understanding in his eyes she’d never seen before, a compassion that had nothing to do with pity. “He wouldn’t let anyone help him, although his wife tried. But how do you help someone deal with horrors you can’t imagine? And how does a soldier come home from war, really? As a nation, these are questions we need to ask ourselves. In the case of Keith Keller, he might be sitting right there in front of you, but in a very real way he never came home from Iraq…”