Small Great Things(135)

She enters a computer printout into evidence. “Is this a post from your Twitter account, made last July?” I nod. “Can you read it out loud?”

“?‘We all get what’s coming to us,’?” I say.

“Then I guess your son got what was coming to him, right?”

My hands clench on the railing of the witness stand. “What did you say?” My voice is low, hot.

“I said your son must have gotten what he deserved,” she repeats.

“My son was innocent. An Aryan warrior.”

She ignores my response. “Come to think of it, I guess you got what you deserved, too…”

“Shut your mouth.”

“That’s why you’re accusing an innocent woman of a death that was completely and utterly arbitrary, isn’t it? Because if you believe instead what’s really true—namely that your son carried a genetic disease—”

I stand up, fuming. “Shut up—”

The prosecutor is yelling, and this bitch lawyer is yelling over her. “You can’t accept the fact that your son’s death was absolutely senseless and nothing more than bad luck. You have to blame Ruth Jefferson, because if you don’t, then you’re the one to blame, because you and your wife somehow created an Aryan child with a flaw in his DNA. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bauer?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Odette Lawton walk toward the judge. But I’m already out of my seat, leaning over the rail of the witness box. The monster that has been sleeping inside me is suddenly awake and breathing fire. “You bitch,” I say, going for Kennedy McQuarrie’s throat. I am already halfway over the railing when some blockhead fake cop bailiff tackles me. “You’re a f*cking race traitor!”

Distantly, I hear the judge banging a gavel, calling for the witness to be removed. I feel myself being dragged out of the courtroom, my shoes scuffing on the floor. I hear Brit calling my name, and Francis’s rally cry, and the thunderous applause of the Lonewolf.org posters.

I don’t remember much after that. Except that I blinked, and suddenly I was no longer in the courtroom. I was in a cell somewhere with cement-block walls and a cot and a toilet.

It feels like forever, but it is only a half hour before Odette Lawton shows up. I almost laugh when the deputy opens the cell door, and she is standing there. My savior is a black woman. Go figure.

“That,” she says, “was beyond foolish. There have been numerous times I’ve wanted to kill a defense attorney, but I’ve never actually tried.”

“I didn’t even touch her,” I say with a scowl.

“The jury does not care. I have to tell you, Mr. Bauer, that your outburst in there undid any advantage the State might have had in this case. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks at me. “The prosecution rests.”

But I won’t. Ever.





IF I COULD TURN CARTWHEELS into Judge Thunder’s office, I would.

I leave Howard sitting with Ruth in a conference room. There is an excellent chance I can get this entire case tossed out. I’ve filed my motion for judgment of acquittal, and I can tell, as soon as I get into the judge’s office, that Odette already knows she’s sunk. “Judge,” I begin, “we know this baby died, which is tragic, but there’s been absolutely no evidence of any willful, wanton, or reckless conduct by Ruth Jefferson. The allegation of murder made by the State isn’t supported, and as a matter of law, it must be dismissed.”

The judge turns to Odette. “Counselor? Where’s the evidence of premeditation? Of malice?”

Odette dances around a response. “I’d consider a public comment about sterilizing a baby a strong indicator.”

“Your Honor, that was the bitter response of a woman who’d been subject to discrimination,” I argue. “It became uncomfortably relevant in light of later events. But it still doesn’t point to a plan for murder.”

“I must agree with Ms. McQuarrie,” Judge Thunder says. “Spiteful, yes; murderous, not by the letter of the law. If attorneys were held accountable for the vindictive comments you make about judges after a case doesn’t go your way, you’d all be charged with murder. Count One is dismissed, and, Ms. McQuarrie, your motion on judgment of acquittal for murder is granted.”

As I walk down the hallway toward the conference room to tell my client the excellent news, I check behind me to make sure the coast is clear, and then skip a little in my heels. I mean, it’s not every day the tide of a murder trial turns in your direction; and it’s certainly not every day that happens with your first murder trial. I let myself imagine how Harry will call me into his office, and in his gruff way, tell me I surprised him. I picture him letting me have my own share of the big cases from now on, and promoting Howard to cover my current duties.

Beaming, I let myself into the conference room. Howard and Ruth turn to me, hopeful. “He threw out the murder charge,” I say, grinning.

“Yaaaas!” Howard pumps his fist in the air.

Ruth is more cautious. “I know this is good news…but how good?”

“Excellent,” I say. “Negligent homicide is a whole different animal, legally. The worst-case scenario—a conviction—carries almost no jail time, and honestly, our medical evidence was so strong that I’d be shocked if the jury doesn’t acquit—”