Chapter 4
Sept 1947
[Genénérique | Miles Davis]
Ask anyone who steps off the train at Union Station, Lady Metropolis, even on her worst days, is hypnotizing. Big City lights, Big City promises, every fantasy you hold you can fulfill in Metropolis. Step off that train and start over. Like a brand new baby, you're mesmerized by the colors, the gleam of the marble, the steel, the glass, the brass. You think every shiny coin is gold and every smiling face and open hand wants the best for you. You never realize you've been rolled for your wallet. You'll never feel that shiny new knife challenging the structural integrity of your vital organs. You never realize any of it, until it's too late. It happens, ask Blaine Anderson.
September was colder and wetter than I could remember. The weather seemed vengeful somehow, the wind slashing at your face and the rain feeling like tiny projectiles lobbed, unrelentingly, from on high. Metropolis seemed to shrug a collective shiver and hunker down for the winter ahead. I'd given up most attempts to "dress appropriately" and wore trousers more often than a skirt. My one concession was to have the pants tailored, that was Tina's idea. She'd even got a pair of the high-waisted tweed pants for herself and was quite taken with them, especially on days when the women of Metropolis walked around in clinging, cold, damp nylons, cursing the wind and rain. Artie said pants on women outside the garden would never catch on. Artie said…
I stepped from under the blue and yellow awning of the Metropolis Memorial hospital, resisting a blast of wind that tried to rob me of an umbrella. In Metropolis, even the wind is out to cheat you. I sidestepped an incoming red and white ambulance and pulled my collar up against the hateful Metropolis wind. It was noon and the skies were bruise purple and threatening rain, again. I had a fifteen block walk between me and the office, but after visiting Artie I needed that time to myself. We visited him every day, Tina in the morning, me at lunch, sometimes again in the evening. It'd gotten so I couldn't sleep without hearing the steady wheezing sound of the ventilator in his room. The nurses were kind; my visits were outside of visiting hours, but they winked, looked the other way, and left an extra blanket and pillow for me. There were bright spots even Metropolis couldn't rub out.
It was hard to know how much hope to hold out for Artie. In the beginning, we camped out at the hospital and got hourly updates. When a week went by without much change, we went back to work. The nurses called Tina daily with less than stellar updates. Then they called weekly. Then, well, it'd been two weeks since the last call. I tried not to read too much into that. People get busy. Simple as that. People get busy, that's all.
I walked quickly through the outer office, hoping to make it to my own desk before Tina could see my tear streaked face. She'd gotten used to the routine after I came back from a visit with Artie, but today I heard her protest as I stepped into my office and shut the door behind me, conscious not to look at Artie's closed door.
"So Lopez, when do I get the exclusive interview?" Noah Puckerman said. He was lounging casually in my chair and smoking a cigarette from the stash in my top drawer. His dark brown hair was clipped short on the sides but the unruly waves on top were barely submitting to taming by pomade. He had the makings of a matinee idol with his brooding hazel eyes and Erol Flynn-worth chin. With his feet up on my desk, he made quite the picture in his vested brown suit, French cuffed shirt, and plaid, perfectly Windsor-knotted necktie.
"Make yourself at home, Puckerman," I said as I hung my overcoat and umbrella on the coat tree. I kept my back to him as I washed my face in the sink next to the door. Tina must have been trying to warn me.
"Thanks, thought you'd say that. Tina made you coffee," he said taking a sip, "I didn't think you'd mind. You should ask her to bring another cup." Puckerman's broad pearly grin got him out of most of the trouble his open mouth usually got him in. Despite the many years I'd known that trick, I still found it hard to suppress a smile.
"The Anderson trial starts next week, you know," Puckerman said, taking a drag on a stolen cigarette and flipping through the newspaper on my desk.
"I'm testifying, of course I know." I dried my face on the hand towel above the sink and waited to see where this was going. Puckerman was my friend, but he was also a reporter, we'd never tested which title he valued more. He'd been 'friend' long before 'reporter', but I wasn't sure chronology counted here. Even though he'd given me a month long reprieve from commenting on the Anderson murder because of Artie's condition, I knew the moratorium would expire eventually. I just wasn't going to make it easy for him. I'd done enough favors for him in the past that guilt wasn't legal tender here.
"Talk around the courthouse says it's even odds she'll switch her plea from not guilty to an insanity plea…sounds like the case is pretty airtight…" Puckerman said, searching. "I mean, a man with a successful club, a twenty grand insurance policy, no kids, and a wife that doesn't like him very much. It adds up." He paused to allow me to answer. When I didn't he added, "Off the record…no response?"
"I did respond. I arched an eyebrow," I said turning away from the sink mirror. "See? I did it again. You can quote me on that." I walked behind my desk and swatted Puckerman with the rolled up newspaper. "Get out of my chair!"
"Ha! Ha! Okay! Okay!" he said as he held his arm up to shield his face. He jumped from my chair nearly knocking his cup of coffee over as he relocated to the small couch under my far window. As he sat down, Tina knocked twice and came in bearing a second coffee cup and a steaming pot of coffee I could smell from across the room.
"I figured you could use another," she said, looking at me as if to ask if I was okay with Puckerman being there.
"Thanks, Tina," I smiled and winked. "Puckerman was just saying how great your coffee is. Weren't you?'
"I was! I was!" Puckerman stood and strode across the room, taking the coffee pot from Tina's hand, pouring a cup for me while refilling his own. "You know, if you were enterprising about it, I bet you could charge three or four times the going rate for a really good cup of coffee like this. I'm talking thirty, forty cents for a single cup," he said speaking with his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.
Tina and I looked at each other incredulously, "I'm sure the Carnegies and the Rockefellers would play along, but the John Smiths of the world would laugh me out of town!" Tina replied.
"Just be sure while they're laughing you sell them a cup of water while you're at it!" I added.
"Yeah, sell them water! Charge a commission on the air, too!" Tina laughed
Puckerman frowned and looked genuinely hurt as he sat back down on the couch, crossed his legs, and flicked his cigarette at the ashtray next to the couch. "Sure, sure, laugh it up! You people don't recognize genius when you hear it," he growled and took another sip of his coffee.
"Noah," I said smiling, "you've been reading too many futuristic Buck Rogers comic strips. Maybe you can call your special coffee 'Buck Rogers Starship Coffee'? People might pay extra for starship coffee." I smirked and winked at Tina who was holding in a guffaw. Puckerman groused.
"Need anything else? I need to buy a few things- stamps, envelopes and typewriter ribbons," Tina said topping off both of our coffee cups. I shook my head 'no'. "Okay, I'll be back in an hour."
"Seriously, Lopez, how are things?" Puckerman asked.
"I'm fine. It's Artie and Britt Anderson you should be worried about."
"Yeah, how is Artie?" Puckerman asked. Artie and Puckerman had known each other longer than I'd known either of them. Although neither ever said a bad word about the other, I always got the sense something had happened neither had quite gotten over.
Sensing Puckerman wanted the easy answer I said, "Artie's the same, knock wood."
Puckerman leaned towards the windowsill and literally knocked. "Yeah, knock wood." I could almost hear him counting to ten in his head to allow the appropriate amount of time before changing the subject. "So, worried for Britt Anderson, huh? Color me confused. The one who clobbered you and ventilated her husband? Why should I be worried for her?"
If Artie had been here, I'd have discussed what I knew about that night a hundred times before today, but up 'til now I'd felt like this songbird was better off keeping her song to herself.
"Tell me what you've heard about the case, Puckerman," I said as I offered a cigarette to him from my desk drawer.
"Well," he said standing and walking to my desk to accept the cigarette, "I've heard a lot, what do you want to hear first?" He pulled a lighter from his vest pocket to light my cigarette.
I nodded thanks and squinted at him, "It's your stage Puckerman, spin the tale any way you wish."
"How about we switch from coffee to whatever you've got in your desk and I'll tell you everything I know," Puckerman said with a knowing wink.
I can't remember the last time someone had to ask me twice to share a drink; the shot glasses were on my desk and filled to the brim before he finished his sentence. I made a mental inventory of the status of my liquid reserves. It was fair to say I'd kept my back teeth floating the weeks after Artie was shot and Blaine was killed. Call me foolish, but a whiskey-colored reality was all the realism I could stand at the time. But even the deepest sea fish had to surface and Tina had seen to it that I emerged from my libations-only diet tout suite.
Puckerman tossed back the first glass and shuddered. "Leave it to you to not waste money on the good stuff."
"Can't taste anything after the second or third drink, why bother?" I said pouring, us both a second glass.
"Touché," Puckerman said clinking his glass against mine. "Where to begin…how about the police report?" I nodded and Puckerman sat back on the couch and began.
Chief Hudson must have questioned the mice at the Soirées Noires that night; he'd laid out a timeline that was impressive, even to me and I'd been there. Rehearsals for the hurricane party had ended late that evening, close to 6PM. The fireworks I'd seen between Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were nowhere in sight at rehearsal. According to the orchestra and the chorus girls, the Andersons got on well all afternoon. After rehearsals, no one had specific information about their whereabouts, because like everyone else they were scurrying about trying to get ready for the hurricane party. Everyone seemed to remember seeing them, but with no specific idea of the time.
Tex Williams and a few of the other bands stranded by the hurricane said Blaine was still at the club a little before 8PM that night. Blaine had been there to greet them and told them he'd put them up for the night in exchange for a quick set. The kitchen staff said Mrs. Anderson had checked in with them and the bartenders a final time around then to make sure the menu was satisfactory and that they had enough rum and juice for the hurricane cocktails. She'd taken some chamomile tea and a glass of water back to her dressing room, everyone assuming she'd take her headache powder and sleep until just before the show, as usual.
"And this is where you come in," Puckerman said, blowing a smoke ring into the air. "They checked all the phone records of the club and seems you called here at about 8:45PM. Sound about right?"
"If that's what Chief Hudson says, who am I to argue," I replied. My mind flashed to an image of Artie saluting as he got into his beloved Celine and drove off. The last time I saw him smiling. The last time anyone but the bastard who shot him saw him. I poured another drink and focused on Puckerman.
No one saw either of the Andersons until Mrs. Anderson began greeting guests and Mr. Anderson blew through the front door after 9:30. Dozens of star-struck guests reported the two of them saying hello and shaking their hands just a few minutes before they both disappeared to get ready for the show. Mr. Anderson had his usual pre-show snack of a sardine sandwich and beer. Mrs. Anderson had a cup of hot water and honey. Nothing unusual.
Mr. Anderson talked to the orchestra before they went on and told them to give it their all tonight, a pep talk from their captain. They remembered him being extra antsy about the performance and assumed it was because some producers where in the audience. There was rumor of an offer for a radio show to be broadcast live from the Soirées Noires. The Noir Orchestra and the Andersons took to the stage at 10 and Mr. Anderson's pretty songbird sang her heart out. Instead of the two song set they had rehearsed, Mrs. Anderson left the stage after the first song. Mr. Anderson let the new drummer loose on a piece they'd been practicing and left the stage after her. After that another band performed and the storm kicked up, so no one could quite put their finger on what happened when.
Puckerman said that according to the police report, the lights kept flickering on and off and one of the waiters wanted permission from Mr. Anderson to start filling the kerosene lanterns. When no one answered either Mr. or Mrs. Anderson's locked dressing room doors, they got worried, the storm and all, and busted Mr. Anderson's door down. Nothing seemed out of place, but Mr. Anderson wasn't there. The waiter knocked on the door adjoining Mrs. Anderson's dressing room and thought he heard a whimper. The waiter says he thought maybe they were canoodling so he backed away embarrassed and went to get the kerosene. Turns out Mr. Anderson is every fire marshal's friend and he had the kerosene in a locked fire cabinet. With the power flicking off for longer periods of time, they decided they couldn't wait. The staff drew straws and one of the cigarette girls, Anna, won the privilege of interrupting the Anderson's petting party to get the key.
Around midnight, with half the staff waiting in the hallway snickering, one of the waiters jimmied the door lock, and Anna opened the door joining the two dressing rooms. When she screamed loud enough to wake the gods on Mt. Olympus, they all came running. They were more than familiar with the snowy white scene of Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, so no doubt they were thrown by the red hell before them. Three bodies, all covered in blood, Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, and me. Most people would be surprised how much blood one body contains, no one could blame them from assuming all three of us were dead. They made no attempt to enter the room and after finding the phone lines were down, someone drove to fetch the police. They reached the station at 12:15AM.
The power was completely out by then and along with it the air conditioner. No doubt the metallic sweet smell of warm blood was overpowering when the first detective stepped into the room with only a flashlight to light his way. Sweeping the light through the room, Mrs. Anderson's dress and the mirror throwing his beam back at him. Mrs. Anderson was lying with her back against the wall near the back of the room, her face, dress, and hands bloodied, a broken knife in her lap. His beam settled on Mr. Anderson, lying on his stomach near the door, his trademark red glasses crushed beside him. His face was viciously slashed, his eyes gouged, and his mouth lay open contorted in a horrific grimace of pain. At the time, no one knew the identity of the cocktail dress-wearing third body. The detective described a wound the size of his hand, open and bleeding in the midst of the black mass of hair.
"Poor guy got the fright of a lifetime when you started moving," Puckerman said.
"Imagine my side of the scenario," I replied, taking a sip of whiskey. "You get a look at that police report or did they type you out a copy special?"
"A steel trap, better than a mimeo," Puckerman said, tapping his temple.
"How do you keep it from rusting with all the rain we've been having?" I said.
"Funny gal," Puckerman replied. "If you're curious, the coroner took a look at the picture of your noggin and the crime scene photos and is pretty sure you got crowned with the lead crystal ashtray they found next to you."
"An ashtray? Some nuts do say smoking is bad for your health," I laughed. "What did the coroner say about Mr. Anderson?"
"Not much to say, really. He was stuck more than a dozen times, probably bled out in seconds. She slashed up his face, his eyes, pretty gruesome stuff," Puckerman continued. "She was vicious about it too. Heard the saying 'stick the knife in and twist it'? Yeah, well she did. Coroner said each wound was wider than the knife, she must've worked it around while it was in him. She broke the blade off with a blow that hit his spinal cord. Even if he'd lived he'd be a vegetable."
"I see. Sounds like you've heard everything I could possibly tell you. I don't remember anything after the blow to the head and Hudson's timeline is golden. I can't argue with any bit of it," I said, coming around to the front of my desk and sitting on the edge.
"Glad to see Hudson earns his paycheck," Puckerman said, coming to stand in front of me after extinguishing his cigarette. "There was one thing though. Phone records say you called here at 8:45, 9:30, and 10:30. That sounds like surveillance to me. What were you working on? Who hired you?"
"When Tina gets back I've got to tell her to get the painter out her to make that sign on the door bigger- the private part," I said looking Puckerman square in the eye. "You know I can't tell you that anymore than you would reveal a source."
"So you were working. Fine, that's all I needed to know," Puckerman said, smiling and taking his coat and hat from the tree.
"Noah, before you go. Any word on Artie's case? Any leads?" I asked. I was a detective, don't think I hadn't spent the few sober hours those first few weeks trying to figure out what had happened to Artie. He never called in to Tina, so we don't even know if he made it to the Anderson's apartment. With the hurricane, not too many people were out on the streets, so no matter how many doors I'd knocked on no one could remember seeing him or his car. They'd found Celine wrapped around a telephone pole a few blocks from the hospital. He must have been trying to drive himself there and then fell unconscious. No clues where or by whom or why he was shot. The only person who had any idea was strapped to a machine that was doing the vital business of breathing for him. The police were caught up in the Anderson case, as was the rest of Metropolis. They wrote it off as some husband out for revenge after we'd turned over the pictures of him with his mistress to his wife. If that was true, that hubby was plenty mad, he'd followed Artie all night in the middle of a storm to shoot him down? Why not wait and catch him sitting duck at the office? It didn't make sense, but I couldn't convince Hudson to spend more time on it and after two months, I was still nowhere myself.
"Nah, nothing, Lopez. You know I'd tell you right away if I'd heard anything," Puckerman replied donning his hat and coat.
"Yeah, I know. I just…thanks, Noah," I said.
"Sure thing," he turned to leave my office but paused. "Hey, buddy of mine down at the courthouse doesn't believe me when I say I survived in the ring with the heavyweight champ. Next week, back me up and tell him I did? I got dinner for two at Sardi's on the line," Puckerman smiled.
"You call that surviving? You lasted twelve seconds, and that's including the ten second count," I said, walking with Puckerman to the front door.
"I didn't say it looked good, just that I did it!" As Puckerman reached for the door, it swung open and Tina walked in carrying the office supplies she'd picked up. "Miss Tina," Puckerman said bowing low and taking the bags from Tina, setting them on her desk.
"Thank you, Mr. Puckerman," Tina said and began unpacking.
"Well ladies, back to work like the rest of those sorry suckers. I'll see you soon," and with a wave Puckerman was gone, closing the door behind him.
"Everything okay?" Tina asked as she opened the cabinet door to put away a stack of typewriter ribbons.
"No, Puckerman told me what he saw in the police reports on the Anderson case," I said frowning.
"And?"
"There was someone else in that dressing room besides me and the Andersons."
II
The headlines of both Metropolis papers were ablaze with scandalous details related to the Anderson trial. Metropolis was the big bad wolf licking its chops and the Anderson's personal life was the succulent little girl in a natty red outfit wondering to where grandma had disappeared. As the trial drew closer, the Metropolis daily rags fed the wolf evermore-tasty morsels of gossip. The Noirs (aka Andersons) were cultists. They participated in black magic, sex parties, and every other lurid activity the editors could dream up. The list grew more outrageous as each reporter and newspaper tried to outdo the other and keep its linotype wet and steadily turning out dirty laundry disguised as news. I don't sport wings, strum a harp or polish any golden headwear by any stretch of even a newspaper editor's imagination. Our detective agency's ledger is in the black because of Metropolis' cheating heart, so throwing stones at the Metropolis dailies for capitalizing off the Anderson case would mean an awful lot glass to sweep up. The difference is my job is to hunt down that mythical beast called the truth. I get paid to bring that ill-mannered runt kicking and screaming into the light. Sometimes he's downright ugly; I can't help that.
Britt Anderson's trial was set to begin on Thursday afternoon at 1PM. The joke around the courthouse was starting midday midweek gave the attorneys more opportunities for cigars, rye whiskey, and backroom handshaking. Mrs. Anderson had gotten herself the most well known defense attorney in Metropolis, William Schuester, Esq.. He was well versed in the art of the backroom deal. He prided himself on it. Too bad she hadn't gotten the best defense attorney in Metropolis. The best lawyer in Metropolis was the one you probably never heard of before. He's not the one speaking the most or the loudest. He's not the one in the newspapers or on the radio. There aren't pictures of him shaking hands with the prominent businessmen of Metropolis, eating at the finest restaurants, or driving the fanciest cars. Mike Chang isn't any of those things. What he is, is a lawyer who knows the law like the back of his hand and believes that everyone deserves a fair shake.
I'd had an uneasy feeling all week. The kind of uneasy that starts in your toes, runs roughshod up your spine and kicks around in your head to the point where you can't sleep or think about anything else. My stomach and head were taking the worst of it. As the clock ticked down the opening statements of Mrs. Anderson's trial, I knew things would get worse before they got better. The afternoon of the trial, I asked Mike to meet me for lunch at the Justice Street Diner around the corner from the courthouse. Whenever we'd gotten in scrapes with Chief Hudson and company, Mike had been there to give us sound advice. I thought of him as a friend. I trusted him. I pinned a lot of unjustified hope on Mike calming my nerves.
Mike's graceful long and lanky form came through the door precisely on time. Dressed in a brown overcoat, dark blue suit, matching Windsor knotted tie, and starched handkerchief peeking from his breastpocket, Mike was the epitome of crisp clean elegance amongst the sea of Metropolis' grey suited army. We took a booth overlooking the street and caught up bit while we waited for our lunch to arrive.
"So tell me again how you got mixed up in all this?" Mike said, pulling his knife across the cubed steak special and depositing three bites-worth into his mouth.
"She was my client. She hired us to find out who'd been sending them threatening letters," I said, taking a sip of my grapefruit juice. I looked down at the unappetizing bowl of cottage cheese I was now regretting having ordered.
"And?" Mike said, with his mouth full of steak, "What I mean is, that turned sour pretty fast. So why are you still interested?"
"She was a client, Mike, she gave us money to help solve her problem, we failed. We failed big time. I know mine is a very messy business, but I owe it to her to follow through on this."
"Do you know all the facts?" Mike asked, taking another oversized bite of steak before pausing to look at me as he lifted his cup of coffee.
"No. Not nearly enough of them," I answered, pushing the bowl of cottage cheese away from me and motioning for the waitress to bring me a cup of joe.
"You know there's not much I can do without getting a look at the state's evidence and I can't do that without her lawyer's permission…and you know Schuester isn't going to allow that," Mike said pulling the cottage cheese over to his side of the table. "You mind?"
"Knock yourself out, Mike," I said, flinching as he dug into the cottage cheese with enthusiasm. "What if I could get you copies of the police reports?"
"Nothing underhanded, San, I don't work that way," Mike said between bites.
"Yeah, I figured you say that." I thanked the waitress for the coffee she delivered. I'd taken to carrying a pill vial of aspirin and I fished around for it in my pocket before popping two in my mouth followed by a swig of bitter black coffee. "Are you busy this afternoon? Could you sit in on the prosecution's opening statements and just tell me what you think?"
"Santana? What good would hearing the opening do? I'd have to hear the whole thing to help you and the prosecution's case could go on for days. Business is slow, but it isn't that slow," Mike replied.
"Mike, please? I really think she's innocent." Hearing it aloud for the first time, even I had to shake my head. I'd known Britt Anderson for a handful of hours and talked to her for fewer still, but here I was pleading her case. Me, the dupe who woke up in her locked dressing room covered in her husband's blood after being crowned over the head. Call me crazy, and I'm sure I'd deserve it, but I believed she was innocent.
Mike paused and looked me. Either he saw the sincerity in my eyes or he wanted to avoid the melodrama of me begging him in a crowded restaurant. I didn't really care which, as long as I had him by my side today. Mike nodded and busied himself polishing off the cottage cheese. I felt one less knot in my churning stomach. I lit up a cigarette to celebrate.
We talked a bit more about the case and he said he wanted to run back to the office, settle his calendar for the next few days, and look up a few things. We agreed to meet outside the courtroom at 12:45. As he stood and shrugged on his overcoat, he looked at me one last time.
"Say, Santana?"
"Yeah, Mike?"
"You're not planning on wearing those pants to the courtroom are you?"
I looked down at my best pair of grey tweed slacks and matching vest, then back up at Mike. "I-"
"Judge Sylvester is a lot of things, but tolerant of new…uh…fashion, she is not. She once issued a contempt of court citation to an attorney who dared to let his hair grow past his ears. I wouldn't try," he motioned at my pants with his hat, "…that, today."
"Fine," I said with an exasperated sigh. I thought my outfit was all sorts of well mannered; even paid extra to get cuffs and pleats. I suppose I could drag Metropolis into the mid-twentieth century another day.
"See you in 20 minutes," Mike said donning his hat and waving as he rushed off.
After catching a taxi back home and changing, I hurried to meet Mike outside courtroom 19D of the Metropolis Federal Courthouse. I'd been inside the new building nearly a dozen times since it had officially opened a few months before, but I still paused a moment in the grand hall. Taking in the mosaic of the blue and white state seal beneath my feet, the dozen foot tall statue of Lady Justice thrusting her chin and scales towards the rising sun, the state motto "Excelsior" and it's translation "Ever Upward" carved above the three halls that lead away from the main foyer, I was pretty sure my mouth was agape like a bumpkin fresh off the bus from Small Town, USA. If there was one thing Metropolis excelled at better than any place I'd ever seen, it was grandiosity. The new courthouse was the latest showcase of this questionably valuable Metropolis skill.
"Much better," Mike said, offering me his arm to enter the courtroom. I took it. He approved of the second incarnation of my Lois Lane look, this one dark burgundy with white piping and a fake white breastpocket handkerchief. Every day I spent in my slacks, returning to these dresses felt more and more uncomfortable. The image of me tossing a match on all my gasoline soaked dresses brought a smile to my face. One day.
Mike pushed open the courtroom door and while I knew it was a big case, I wasn't prepared for a courtroom filled to capacity with photographers, reporters, and general lookey-loos. Because Mike was an attorney, he had a badge to be there, likewise, me being a witness. We took seats up near the front of the courtroom reserved for authorized, in other words, badged, persons.
As we walked to the front, I felt my mouth fall open again. I knew the six courtrooms denoted with a 'D' were the largest in the building; I'd just never had the opportunity to see the inside of one. If you were to look down from the top, the courtroom would have the shape of a keyhole, a round circle with a rectangle attached to the bottom. The rectangle portion of this courtroom, like every other courtroom in the building, was filled with dark colored wood benches, the gallery. I'm sure it was no coincidence that the benches resembled church pews. Walking down the parquet wood aisle between the dozen or so rows of benches, one had to resist the urge to genuflect. As in the other courtrooms, a curved mahogany railing, literally a bar, separated the business end of the courtroom from the gallery. The lower portion of the circle was occupied by matching long tables with chairs pulled up to them- the defense, to the left at seven o'clock on the clock face and the prosecution, to the right at five o'clock. Arching along the wall to the right of the prosecution from four to three o'clock was the jury box, with its three rows of six straight-backed chairs lined up like soldiers in formation, one each for the twelve jurors and six alternates. Two doors, one leading to the jury room, the other the bailiff and court reporter's office occupied two o'clock.
At the twelve o'clock, the top of the circle, was the mahogany behemoth known as the bench. Divided into three unequal parts, the bench housed the witness box, closest to the jury box, the seat for the judge, which took up the majority of the structure, and the court reporter's box, furthest away from the jury. The witness and court reporter's box were each big enough to fit two chairs comfortably. In the case of the witness box, there was just one chair, in the court reporter's box, there was also a single chair, but the stenograph machine took the rest of the box's space. In comparison, six chairs would have easily fit behind the higher raised portion of the bench where the presiding judge sat. Instead of six chairs, one majestic ox blood- colored leather, brass-braided, and high-backed swivel chair that looked out from under the state seal on the wall behind the bench. When a judge was seated, the seal had the tendency to look like an oversized halo resting on the judge's head as in paintings of saviors and saints from centuries past. Again, no coincidence, I'm sure. Directly behind the judge's chair was a hidden door that lead to the judge's private chambers. I wondered how many judges took advantage of the secret door to appear and disappear with a puff of smoke, adding to the Wizard of Oz effect to which the bench already lent itself.
I'd seen the general layout of the new courtrooms before; the thing that made the 'D' courtrooms special wasn't apparent until I sat down in that front row behind the defense table. Overhead, as if the roof had been lifted off the courtroom to allow the heavens to observe, there was a high vaulted glass ceiling. The skylight was circular and centered above the bench, it allowed golden beams that could easily be mistaken for a spotlight, to shine directly upon the bench, including the judge, court reporter and witness. One more detail added to the theatrical setting of the 'D' courtrooms. Unlike the regular courtrooms where the gallery was limited to the dozen pews in front of the bench, the 'D' courtrooms had a semi-circular second floor balcony that allowed for more than twice as many people to observe trials from on high. With the spotlight casting skylight and now the second story gallery, I couldn't help but be reminded of the setup of the Soirées Noires. Theatrics were theatrics, be they nightclub or courthouse.
Mike must have caught my gaping at the skylight and balcony, he chuckled and asked, "It's beautiful, isn't it? Inspires you to chose your words and actions carefully in here, doesn't it?"
I nodded and tried to look at ease. From the corner of my eye, I saw Puckerman. He was sitting in the pews like everyone else, but through some unnamed talent, always seemed to be lounging much more comfortably than the rest of the world. He smiled and gave a wave.
I must have missed the signal, but in a very well coordinated maneuver, the bailiff, court reporter, the defense, Will Schuester, and the prosecuting attorney took their seats at their perspective tables. After a beat, a police officer lead Britt Anderson in through a door to the left of the court reporters box I had failed to notice upon first glance. As if she had just taken the stage, the once low buzzing courtroom, was silent for a moment as she walked with majestic grace to sit next to Schuester. Just as under the Soirées Noires spotlight, the skylight lit her golden hair like sunshine. The courtroom may have been laid out to make the judge look like a god passing judgment on high, but there was no mistaking the angel in the room was Britt Anderson. The light caressed her from head to toe, bringing out the blue of her eyes, the peaches and cream of her complexion, the subtle pink of her lipstick. Dressed in a blue twill skirt, matching jacket with white buttons up the side and her hair demurely pulled back in a low hanging chignon, she was the antithesis of the Britt Noir about whom the Metropolis papers had bandied sordid tales of debauchery.
Will Schuester looked at Britt with what was an odd mix of pride and pity. Dressed in his trademark dark grey suit and bright blue and white striped bowtie, Schuester paused, caught in Mrs. Anderson's spell like everyone else. The split second of silence in the courtroom was followed by a blinding barrage of camera flashes and shouts of "Mrs. Anderson!, Mrs. Noir!, Britt!" Ever the gallant knight, Schuester stepped out from behind the defense table and took Mrs. Anderson's arm. He guided her to her seat, raising his hand as if to block the shouting or the camera's eyes from reaching her.
Mrs. Anderson's eyes squinted under the glare of the flash bulbs, a nervous smile flickering across her lips. She looked down, placing her hand on the back of her chair, when something made her look back up, directly into my eyes. I hadn't realized it, but I'd been holding my breath since she walked into the courtroom. The moment our eyes met, I felt the air escape me as if I'd been punched in the stomach. She opened her mouth to speak and instinctively I leaned forward. Even though we were only a few feet apart, the noise in the courtroom would have made it impossible to hear unless she shouted. As her lips began to move, I squinted trying to make out the words, until a frowning Will Schuester occupied my field of vision. Keeping himself between Mrs. Anderson and myself, Schuester pulled out Mrs. Anderson's chair and deposited her in it. Schuester then glared back over his shoulder at me and shook his head, before taking his seat next to her.
The bailiff entered the courtroom and announced loudly to be heard over the still joustling gallery, "Hear ye! Hear ye! All rise for the Honorable Judge Susan Sylvester!"
Without the puff of smoke I'd imagined or an equally dramatic slow swivel around of the chair to reveal Judge Sylvester had been there all along, the door behind the bench opened and Judge Susan Sylvester stepped behind the bench. Dressed in her long black robes and at a very unusual height of nearly six feet tall, Judge Sylvester was an imposing figure upon sight. It only took a few minutes in her courtroom to understand that it was her words and mind that you'd better fear much more than her appearance.
Before sitting, Judge Sylvester paused and surveyed the room. She hooked her finger at the bailiff as she sat down and whispered a few words to him as she began shuffling the papers in front of her.
The bailiff turned and addressed the room, "Judge Sylvester has called for a closed courtroom," before the bailiff could even finish his sentence a loud groan and mutterings of frustration erupted from the galleries above and behind me, "if you are not an officer of the court, defendant, witness, or family member, please exit quickly and quietly. You have two minutes."
"What about the public's right to know what goes on here, Sylvester? Freedom of the press?" an anonymous voice shouted from the galleries above.
Judge Sylvester nodded her head to the side and gestured for the bailiff again. "Her Honor has asked that Noah Puckerman remain on behalf of the press. He'll be required to give updates daily." Again the announcement was met with shouts of displeasure, to which Puckerman stood and offered a sly smirk. He held both hands up in mock surrender and blew kisses at the rest of the crowd as they exited.
As the crowd thinned out, I saw the familiar faces of Chief Hudson, Medical Examiner Grissom, several members of the Noir Orchestra and chorus, and the doorman from that fateful evening. Judging by the fact that the majority of the nightclub workers had been seated in the gallery directly behind Mrs. Anderson, they seemed to still be loyal and felt the need to rally around her. She smiled and wiped tears from her eyes as she saw their faces for the first time in months, many reached to clasp her hand before they exited. I saw her lips mime the words 'thank you.'
When the doors to the courtroom closed for the last time, Judge Sylvester cleared her throat and began. "Good. I always find that attorneys, defendants, and jurors are all better behaved without an audience to play up to. Let's get down to business before I bring the jury in. Schuester? You're representing Mrs. Brittany P. Anderson, AKA Britt Noir?"
"I am your honor and may I say-" Schuester began.
"Save it for your acceptance speech, Schuester," Judge Sylvester interrupted.
"District Attorney Ben Israel representing the State?"
"Yes, your Honor," Ben Israel replied.
"Once last time before we launch into spending tax payer dollars, can we not come to an agreement here without a trial?"
"Your Honor, given the evidence we have, the State is compelled to accept no less than a guilty plea. We've offered to consider an insanity plea, but have been declined," Ben Israel said looking over at Mrs. Anderson.
My eyes fell to Mrs. Anderson and Schuester who seemed to be having a heated conversation. Mrs. Anderson was shaking her head 'no'.
"Still no chance, Schuester?" Judge Sylvester asked.
"Your Honor, may I have a moment to discuss with my client?"
"Schuester, today isn't the first day of grade school. You've had since the day you were hired more than a month ago to get your ass in gear. Now either you take the deal or you don't. Simple. Which is it?"
"We'll take the deal," Schuester said quickly.
"No!" Mrs. Anderson cried, standing.
"Mr. Schuester," Judge Sylvester looked down over the top of her glasses, "did you just enter a plea different than what your client wants?"
"Your Honor, I'm trying to make the best decision for her. She's clearly in no state of mind to make these kinds of decisions. I merely-"
"According to the documents I have here, the court psychiatrist has deemed Mrs. Anderson of fit mind to stand trial and finds, quote 'no evidence of impaired mental facilities', end quote. Do you understand what that means, Schuester?" Before he could open his mouth to answer she'd retrained her steel blue eyes on Britt Anderson. "Mrs. Anderson, do you want to declare yourself not guilty by reason of insanity?"
"No, you Honor," Mrs. Anderson replied.
"You understand that if you are found guilty at the end of this trial, the State may not be willing to make the same offer?"
"I-, yes, Your Honor."
"Duly noted. Mr. Ben Israel, you have your answer. Second order of business, Mrs. Anderson, I'm going to call for a recess. I suggest you fire your current representation and find counsel elsewhere. If you have difficulty doing so, tell the bailiff to call the court-appointed defense council. We reconvene at 8AM. Adjourned." Judge Sylvester stood, banged her gavel and disappeared into the wall behind her chair.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for the reviews, this has been so much fun.
Thank you, Foss.