Homeland Elegies(85)

*



The chamber had nothing even vaguely ennobling about it—no vaulted ceiling, no Greek columns to remind us of the birth of democracy. There was no mahogany finish or railed balcony for onlookers. Not an echo of Maycomb or a hint of that soundstage replica of the New York court where three decades of rightful justice were meted out by the hour on Law & Order. The wood on the walls didn’t look real, though it was—broad maple planks finished with a sickly yellow varnish. No one sat upright. Not the jury, not the plaintiffs or their lawyers, not my father or those few of us, like me, looking on. We were all sinking into our scooped-out seat bottoms, our buckling spines chilled by the steady whisper of cold air trickling down through the vents above us. At one point, I started to wonder if this was what it would feel like to be trapped in the crisper drawer of a fridge—by any measure, hardly a place to battle for one’s reputation.

Father was the only person of color at either of the tables before us; I was the only person of color in the audience. There were two jurors of color, one black, the other Asian. In total, I counted thirty-six whites around us. Christine’s family was there. Her mother was going to be testifying; her widowed husband, Nick, was officially listed as the plaintiff. Nick Langford was a pale, depleted figure—unshaven, dour, with a full head of unwashed sandy brown hair. He’d come into the courtroom that morning in a bright orange hunting cap and camouflage vest. The brim of that orange hat peeked forth from one of the vest’s front pockets, and the vest was dangled over the armrest of his chair in full view of the jury. No black suit for him, I thought. He looked every bit the part of a husband broken—a half decade on—by grief. Beside him sat his lawyer, an imposing brown-haired man in a visibly threadbare suit that seemed to match, at least in spirit, his client’s attire, a plaid wool jacket pilled in places, the edge of its collar frayed from years of rubbing up against home-starched shirts. A bushy goatee encircled his lips, and he was shuffling papers before him with the disregard of a man more used to holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon—or a .45—than a manila folder. Even his name seemed to fit the role: Chip Slaughter.

The bailiff announced Judge Darius’s arrival. We stood; she made her entrance; we sat. A short woman with a sallow face behind thick lenses, she beckoned both counselors to the bench, where she addressed them in a measured tone. The court’s atmosphere, silent with expectation, was so much like that moment backstage before every show when actors are called to their places and the stage manager makes the final rounds to ensure all are ready to begin.

Quiet envelops the audience.

The lights dim.

The curtain rises:

(As the attorneys return now to their seats, the Judge looks over to the Bailiff. He rises.)



BAILIFF



The court calls the plaintiff’s first witness, Corinne Hollander.



(On the other side of the aisle in the audience, a portly, plodding lady stands and slowly makes her way down the aisle. She has a washed-out mien: her silvering hair, her skin covered with chalky powder. Against this mask of white, her thin lips are drawn in crimson. The effect is almost ghoulish—also by design, I assume. She sits just as the soughing sound coming through the ceiling vents stops. The Bailiff steps forward.)



BAILIFF



Please raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?



CORINNE



I do.



(The Bailiff returns to his seat as Slaughter rises from his place at the plaintiff’s table and takes hold of a walking cane I only now notice has been dangling from the end of the table.)



SLAUGHTER



Hi, Corinne. How are you doing today?



CORINNE



I mean…fine. Fine.



SLAUGHTER



(approaching, his gait assured despite the limp) A little nervous, maybe? It would make sense if you were, right?



(He’s standing before her now, the palm of his free hand flat against the corner of the witness box. She nods.)



SLAUGHTER



So we spoke about this last night. And last week, too, when we went through what to expect. All you have to do is answer the questions to the best of your ability.



(Slaughter’s voice is louder, clearer than it needs to be. A robust tenor whose primary audience is not Corinne but the room. Again she nods. Her eyes glance across the faces of the jury. I see her steal the briefest of worried looks in the direction of Father’s table.)



SLAUGHTER



And if you don’t understand a question either I or anyone else asks you, ask to have it repeated or clarified. Don’t be shy.



JUDGE



(interrupting) Counselor.



SLAUGHTER



Your Honor?



JUDGE



If the witness needs guidance, I’ll be the one to provide it.



SLAUGHTER



Of course. My apologies.



JUDGE



(curt) Go ahead and get started.



(He nods in a show of respect, shoots the jury a sheepish look—and a rakish smile. His appeal is undeniable.)