Chapter Four
Sept 1947
III
I've always been a fan of boxing, pugilism, fighting, whatever you'd like to call it. Boxing teaches you a lot about life: how to take a punch on the chin, how to dust off your rear after a licking, and how to stand back up for the next swing without flinching. You see a man box and you know a lot about how he lives his life. You got those brawlers who have deadly power, they lay a hand on you and you better have a plot picked out at Heavenly Rest. Problem is they're predictable and they're so busy trying to knock you out they, don't protect themselves. Then you got the long armers- they keep their opponent at a distance, always staying just out of reach. They use those long arms to wear you down, jab you to death. They ain't gonna dazzle ya, but if you can stay awake to the twelfth round, the points just might add up to a win. And then you got that magic beast who's got it all, the power, the chin, the footwork and the brains. Eight to one this is your winner. That perfect combination of reflexes, accuracy, speed, and intelligence is something you can't teach a fighter, he's gotta be born with it. Woe be to the buster who gets out there and tries to fake it. He'll get his hat handed to him quick. The key to life is finding the style that works for you and practicing like hell. In the end though, what separates the champs from the chumps is understanding that the best way to handle a punch is not to take one in the first place. Defense my friend, defense.
The black and white cab dropped me at the curb outside the courthouse and I handed the driver a bill telling him to keep the difference as payment for the quick, quiet ride from the hospital. I'd spent the night spilling every crepe paper thin memory I had of that June night to Artie, or perhaps really only the walls of his room. I won't deny I hoped I'd squeeze the right brain cell and be rewarded with a newsreel recounting of that night. I lied even to myself that I wasn't secretly expecting Artie to sit up and laugh at me, pointing out the obvious clue on which my mind failed to find traction. Nothing like that happened. I ranted myself hoarse, Artie's respirator wheezed unintelligibly in reply, and I woke to a nurse shaking my shoulder and an empty hip flask.
I smoothed my somber grey worsted wool suit, thankful that it was as wrinkle-resistant as it was comfort-resistant, and slid to the passenger side door. A young man with straw colored hair and an easy smile played gallant and rushed to open the cab door. Forcing my tired eyes to mimic my lips, I smiled and nodded thanks. A pin of two black triangles end to end on a red background, an hourglass- the insignia of the Army Seventh Infantry Division, was affixed to his jacket lapel. The Seventh, the Black Widows, had taken most of the Pacific heat during the war, racking up more losses to the Imperial Army than any other. Looking into his dark hazel eyes that had surely seen too much for their years, I offered a sad smile. "Light, Silent, and Deadly," I whispered. His face registered confusion and then glancing down at his lapel, he smiled back at me. "Thanks for everything," I said, knowing no matter how sincere, the words were pennies on the dollar.
The birds-eye view from the balcony was tailor-made for observing the players in the drama about to unfold in courtroom 19D. The dark brown and tan uniformed bailiff stood, arms folded across his barrel chest, chatting quietly in front of the bench with the court reporter. The court reporter, a trim attractive woman wearing a long flowered skirt, bright yellow blouse and yellow t-strap heels, repeatedly placed her hand on the bailiff's arm in a manner I might mistake for flirting were it not for the gold ring on her left hand. Prosecutor Ben Israel rocked back and forth on his heels, a relaxed smile on his face, his cotton candy hair swaying in time. His hands were shoved deep in his dark brown pants pockets, his displaced suit jacket billowing out to allow a better view of his starched white shirt and black necktie. He talked casually with another man who sat at the prosecution's table, his eyes taking in the courtroom and the defense table, not the man to whom he spoke.
Mike Chang stood stolidly behind the defense table, at once conveying that he was at ease but also ready for whatever may be coming his way. Dressed in a well-tailored dark blue suit with matching necktie, a pale blue shirt and pocket square, he spoke quietly nodding his head to his client, Britt Anderson. He squeezed her shoulder in a reassuring gesture, and flashed a quick smile. Britt Anderson, wearing a pale blue subtly pin striped suit and cream silk blouse that matched the color of her pale skin, stood projecting a peaceful demeanor uncommon for someone on trial for her life. Her thumb seemed to worry her wedding band, the single indication I could find that she was at all perturbed by her situation. The smile she reflected back to Mike was tired but unaffected. Neither one of them would have seen a moment's rest in the last sixteen hours. Mike would have spent the night pouring over boxes of legal briefs sent from Mrs. Anderson's previous representation, Will Schuester, and carefully preparing his case. I can't imagine Britt Anderson found Judge Sylvester firing her attorney a comforting start to the trail, but her smile didn't betray any misgivings and they both looked expectantly to the bench as the bailiff called for all to rise for Judge Sylvester.
Judge Sylvester motioned with her hand for everyone to sit and hit her gavel against the wooden base so hard that the bench along with everyone in the courtroom flinched in response. "Are we ready to get started?" Judge Sylvester asked looking in turn at both of the attorneys before her. Receiving a 'yes, Your Honor', from both, she asked the bailiff to bring in the jury. As the bailiff turned to leave she spoke to the attorneys again. "Let's make the opening statements brief. I want to get to the meat of things quickly with as little fanfare as possible. That may not sell many papers," she nodded her head towards Noah Puckerman, whom I now saw was seated across from me in the opposite balcony, "but I'd wager Mrs. Anderson would like to save the orchestration for her stage act. Understood?" both Mike and Israel nodded.
The bailiff reappeared and stood holding the door as the eighteen citizens of Metropolis that would be deciding Britt Anderson's fate slowly filed into the jurors' box clutching pencils and small ringed notepads. Their faces reflected young, old, man, and woman. All were pressed, starched, zipped, and buttoned into their Sunday finest, the degrees of finery giving a fair indication of the disposition of the wearer. They appeared to be an even cross-section of Metropolis, if not necessarily Mrs. Anderson's peers. Judge Sylvester, shifted back in her chair, lifted her chin, and peered at them through the bottom third of her reading glasses, her eternally arched eyebrow bobbing. Once the jury was seated, the bailiff swore them in, with Judge Sylvester adding a short reminder of the solemnity of the duty before them. After a few more words of business from Judge Sylvester, we began.
"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury," Israel started, "the State of New York intends to show beyond a shadow of a doubt that on the evening of July 15th 1947, Mr. Blaine Phillip Anderson was stabbed to death by his wife, Mrs. Brittany Pierce Anderson..." Israel paced back and forth in front of the jury box, alternating a sympathetic expression with a furrowed brow of concern. The jury listened with rapt attention, some jotting notes, all stealing judgmental glances at Britt Anderson over Israel's shoulder. I watched a phantom blush grow under her pale cheeks as point by point, Israel outlined a case that left little room for any verdict other than guilty. When Israel finished, he nodded, smiled satisfied at the jury, and returned to his seat.
Without allowing more than a beat for Israel's words to sink in, Mike Chang rose and stepped quietly in front of the jury. "Even if I was capable of such eloquent words," Mike nodded to a clearly pleased with himself Ben Israel, "they would not be needed here." Israel's smile faded. "When this trial is over my client, Brittany Anderson, will walk out of this courtroom a free woman. Simply, Brittany Anderson is not guilty."
When an attorney says 'simply', it's rare that he literally means it. The occupants of Metropolis Courtroom 19D did not move, taking deep breaths preparing for another twenty minutes of exposition on why Britt Anderson was now in fact, not guilty. I counted myself amongst the surprised as Mike turned his back on the jury, unbuttoned his jacket and sat down next to Mrs. Anderson. Fifty people raising their eyebrows in unison is worth seeing, I'd swear it made an audible squeak. Still no one moved unsure whether this was dramatic lawyering or the shortest opening statement in legal history. When Mike Chang smiled beatifically back at the bench, Judge Sylvester, eyed him through the bottom of her glasses, nodded her head slightly, and banged her gavel to confirm the end of opening arguments. Puckerman shot me a glance and shook his head as he scribbled in his notebook.
"Mr. Israel," Judge Sylvester began, "do you require a formal request to call your first witness?"
Israel shuffled a few papers and coughed before standing tugging nervously at his necktie. "Uh, the State calls Police Chief Finn Hudson to the stand."
Hudson jumped up, his brass buttons clanking against the wooden pew in front of him. He stood mouth slightly agape; cheeks flushed red, and an expression as blank as his dance card. Like a schoolboy he answered, "Here!"
Judge Sylvester sighed, "Excellent, now make 'here', 'there'." She pointed at the witness box.
"Your Honor," Hudson said as he moved. From overhead, I could fully appreciate the sheer purposeless pageantry of his uniform. The overdone padded shoulders, the pointlessly large brass buttons, and chest full of ribbons the color and variety of Christmas wrapping paper were meant to impress young children and small animals attracted to shiny things. I wondered if jurors fell into that category as well.
As Hudson was sworn in, I shifted sideways and settled in, resting my back against the arm of the wooden bench. Without thinking my hands moved to retrieve a cigarette from the case in my purse and I got as far as bringing one to my lips before I felt someone standing over me.
"Try this," Puckerman whispered, producing a torpedo shaped cigar with a burgundy and white ring around the end from his inside jacket pocket, "it'll last longer. You'll burn through your entire case if you smoke cigs." I wasn't a big fan of the smell, but Puckerman had traversed the length of the balcony just to increase my smoking pleasure, I could at least take a few puffs before switching back to cigarettes. Besides, Hudson was nothing if not long winded and when given a soapbox from which to expound on the heroics of the Metropolis Police, he definitely would. I whispered thanks and put away my cigarette case. Ever the gentleman, Puckerman pulled over an ashtray from the aisle, clipped the end of the cigar, and performed an elaborate lighting ritual before handing the sweet smelling stogie to me, eyebrows raised in anticipating of my first pull. I took a drag and immediately tried to conceal a cough with my hand so as not to disturb the entire courtroom. My eyes watered and Puckerman laughed. "You don't have to kill the whole thing in one draw. Take your time. Savor it." He winked and turned to walk back to across the balcony. As Puckerman retreated, I took a smaller pull on the cigar and smiled as flavors reminiscent of pepper, dark chocolate, and vanilla played across my tongue making merry with my taste buds. Puckerman beamed and winked at me from across the balcony. For some odd reason he took pleasure in introducing me to new vices. I took my first stinging mouthful of whiskey with Puckerman by my side. Half an hour later, I tapped out the last of the silver ash, pocketed the cigar band, and was looking forward to hitting Puckerman up for another stogie.
The combined monotone of Israel's questions and Hudson's replies could've been bottled and sold as the modern cure for insomnia. I understood the need to lay out the facts of the case for the jury, it was the molasses speed with which I had issue. As Israel and Hudson began to put in place the players, the man seated at the prosecution's table next to Israel produced a large white poster board with thick black lines depicting the physical layout of the Soirées Noires and the Anderson's respective dressing rooms. Lacking the expository skill of Noah Puckerman, Israel chose to recount the timeline using simple illustration. Despite the cartoon appearance of the club and dressing room with exaggeratedly simple stage, chaise, dressing table, and sink, I paused, seeing the scene for the first time since that fateful night.
Stick figures dressed in rectangle clothes were color-coded to represent the Noir Orchestra, black rectangles on stage; the waitstaff and bartenders, black rectangles off stage; and Blaine Anderson, a black rectangle with two rectangles representing his red tie and two circles his red eyeglasses. The maker of the stick figures was either blind or had neither seen nor heard of Britt Anderson, as she was represented like all the rest, a curveless red rectangle all that distinguished her from her husband and the rest of the men on stage. When I entered the narrative as a stick figure wearing an equally shapeless white rectangle, I was certain the maker had never seen a woman.
The testimony went like this: Israel asked Hudson a question, Hudson answered. Israel restated the question adding "is that correct?" to the end as his assistant moved the stick figures around the board accordingly. The jury seemed to appreciate a break from the dry storytelling and some smiled as the figures moved about the Soirées Noires nightclub according to Chief Hudson's narrative.
Israel stated, "And 10:15PM, was the last that anyone saw of Mr. Anderson alive except Miss Santana Lopez and Mrs. Anderson, is that correct?"
Before Hudson could reply in agreement Mike firmly stated, "Objection, Your Honor. 10:15PM, was the last that anyone Chief Hudson is aware of saw Mr. Anderson."
"Your Honor," Israel interrupted, "we're merely presenting the facts." Israel emphasized the word 'facts' and raised his hands, palms up, in exasperation.
"Hudson?" Judge Sylvester barked more than asked, leaning forward so that Hudson could see her.
"Yes?" Hudson replied.
"Do you know for a fact that no one besides Mrs. Anderson or Miss Lopez saw Mr. Anderson alive after 10:15?"
"We haven't found anyone who says they did so-"
"Did you ask everyone?"
"Everyone we could," Hudson stated solemnly, lowering his head slightly, his forehead furrowing like a repentant puppy.
"So, that's a 'no'. Mr. Chang would then be correct in saying no one you are aware of saw Mr. Anderson alive after 10:15 except Miss Lopez and Mrs. Anderson," Judge Sylvester corrected.
"Point taken, Your Honor," Israel conceded. "Chief Hudson, there is no evidence to suggest anyone saw Mr. Anderson alive after 10:15 except Miss Lopez and Mrs. Anderson, is that correct?"
Hudson looked hesitantly at Mike Chang then Judge Sylvester as he replied, "That is correct. No evidence at all." He nodded and then shook his head a little too enthusiastically.
"And until Anna entered, the room was locked, both doors, locked, correct?"
"Correct," Hudson answered more sure of himself, a lopsided smile easing across his face.
With the three figures representing myself and the Andersons all in Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, Israel's assistant pinned two large blue paper locks on the cartoon doors. Israel continued to lead Hudson through the account of the scene from Anna, the cigarette girl, and the first officer to respond; Israel's assistant slowly moved the figures according to Hudson's descriptions. Hudson and Israel stopped speaking as Mr. Anderson's and my figure were laid sideways and Mrs. Anderson's figure remained standing, gifted a tiny silver paper knife. Without a word, the argument against Britt Anderson was made. The courtroom paused, all eyes flitting to Britt Anderson's face to gauge her reaction. Whether it was innate composure or strength of will, Mrs. Anderson stared unflinchingly at Israel and Hudson during the entire testimony, bending her head now and again to hear words whispered by Mike. I tried to read something in Mike's expression but he kept his head bent low, listening, and fiddling with something on the table.
I sighed, content in the knowledge that none of this information was new to me, thanks to Puckerman, but also disappointed that the glimmer of hope a small forgotten detail might bring was extinguished. My still churning gut told me Britt Anderson was innocent; my head couldn't get the numbers to add up to innocent no matter how many times I tried. I wanted to believe her innocent. Despite the motto 'innocent until proven guilty', I wondered what the jury wanted to believe as they sat stone-faced looking between the morbid puppet theatrics that had played before them and Metropolis' very own infamous Mrs. Anderson.
Having drawn every piece of information from Hudson that would aid his case, Israel turned towards the prosecution's table. "Your witness," Israel said to Mike as he returned, satisfied to his seat.
Mike Chang rose and approached Chief Hudson. "Chief Hudson," Mike began, "thank you for laying out the timeline to the best of your ability for us." Unaccustomed to praise from the defense attorney, Hudson gave a mechanical nod of his head in acknowledgement. "Chief Hudson, is it your assertion that Mr. Anderson's assailant had to be one of the people in the room because when your officer discovered it the doors were locked?" Mike clasped his long arms behind his back and stepped closer to the witness box as he spoke in low gentle tones.
"Yes, because the doors were locked when the waitstaff broke in," Hudson replied. "They tried both doors first and then used a crowbar to open the door."
"Based on your theory, only three people were ever in the room, and either Miss Santana Lopez or my client would have to be the assailant. Chief Hudson, did you investigate Miss Lopez as a possible suspect?" Mike asked. He gestured towards me in the balcony with a sweep of his right hand.
I felt fifty pairs of eyes on me at once. Thankful that my tan skin didn't often give away a blush, I smiled weakly in return. I knew Mike had to raise the possibility that someone else should be suspected, I just hadn't expected to be skewered, have an apple shoved in my mouth, and tossed on the spitfire so unceremoniously. Puckerman's shoulders shook rhythmically under his suit jacket, betraying his silent laughter.
"Lopez?" Hudson let out a small incredulous laugh. He swatted his hand in the air indicating the idea was a waste of time.
"Chief Hudson, if you believed that one of the two people left alive in the room was Mr. Anderson's assailant, how could you in all good consciousness not investigate both of them?"
Hudson swallowed and looked first at Mike and then at me, surprised. I frowned down at Mike, mentally crossing him off my Christmas list. Hudson coughed and said, "Miss Lopez is a licensed private investigator in good standing with the Metropolis Police Department-"
"Mrs. Anderson is a very well known and successful entertainer in good standing with the Great Metropolis community," Mike interrupted, addressing the jury more than Hudson, "yet we're all here because the State believes she killed her husband. I'm trying to establish whether the State and police department actively and thoroughly pursued every lead before accusing Mrs. Anderson of the crime." Mike turned his back to Chief Hudson once more, walking front and center to the jury box. "Chief Hudson, did your department actively pursue an investigation of anyone other than my client?"
Again, Hudson swallowed before answering, "No, we-"
"Thank you, Chief. Let the record show that Chief Hudson answered 'no' to the question as to whether any suspect other than my client was investigated," Mike stepped away from the jury box. Mike clasped his hands behind him as he crossed the room to the defense table, placing what looked like a few scraps of paper in his jacket pocket. "Do you know how many keys there were to the Anderson's dressing rooms?"
"I- I don't…at least two, his and hers. None of the staff had a key… or else they wouldn't have broken in," Hudson answered, somewhat defensively.
"As Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were both inside the locked dressing room, it seems that both keys should be found there as well. Was that the case?" Mike asked, his steady tone not changing as he stepped to the poster board and pinned to it two yellow paper skeleton keys.
"No. We only found one key," Hudson answered.
"And to whom did that key belong?" Mike asked standing with his back towards Hudson and smiling calmly at the jury.
"Mrs. Anderson. It was on a keychain with the key to her apartment and the key to the nightclub."
"So you did not find Mr. Anderson's key?" Mike asked turning his head to look at Chief Hudson. "Is that correct?" Mike moved one key to Mrs. Anderson's cartoon dresser.
"Correct," Hudson nodded, unsure of where this was leading.
"The prosecution would have us believe that Mr. Anderson's assailant had to be in the room when the doors were broken in by the waitstaff because the room was locked," Mike said walking to the poster board depicting the final state of the room. "However, one of at least two keys that we know about was missing. But is it possible, Chief Hudson, that someone, anyone, could have gained entry to the dressing rooms and locked the door on their way out?" Before Hudson could answer, Mike illustrated his point by pulling a stick figure cut from yellow legal pad out of his pocket. He placed the yellow key in its hand and moved it into the room. Mike removed the silver knife taped to Britt Anderson's stick figure hand and taped it to the fourth figure with the key. He slowly hovered it over Blaine Anderson's black and red stick figure, returning the knife to Mrs. Anderson's red figure. There was quiet murmur in the courtroom.
"Objection! Mr. Chang is altering evidence," Israel said rising from behind the prosecution's table.
"Stick figures aren't evidence. The prosecution presented their theory and I'm presenting an alternate theory," Mike replied.
"Your Honor?" Israel repeated.
"Calm down, Mr. Israel. The defense has just as much right to play dolly as you do. Overruled," Judge Sylvester retorted.
"Thank you, Your Honor. Is it possible that you didn't find Mr. Anderson's key because it left the room with one or more assailants?" He moved the figure to exit the room, the bright yellow key stuck to it hand.
"It's possible but-"
"Thank you, Chief Hudson," Mike quickly interrupted. "And did you search the dressing room, Chief Hudson?" Mike continued.
"Yes, we did."
"Did you find the second key?" Mike asked pointing towards the yellow stick figure pinned to the board still holding the key.
"We did not."
"At the Anderson apartment perhaps?"
"No. We didn't find the key anywhere."
"What do you think happened to the second key, Chief Hudson?" Mike asked, pointing at fourth figure on the posterboard.
"I don't- , we didn't find it. I don't know," Hudson replied.
"Correct me if I'm wrong then, since there's a key unaccounted for, it's possible that someone besides Mr. and Mrs. Anderson could have entered the locked dressing rooms, uninvited?" Mike touched the yellow stick finger with his index finger.
Chief Hudson paused, thinking, "Yes. It's possible."
"Then is it also possible that someone could leave the dressing rooms, locking the doors behind them with the missing key?" Mike asked thoughtfully, tapping the yellow stick figure with the knuckle of his index finger.
Chief Hudson glanced at Israel before answering, "Yes, it's possible."
"So Chief Hudson, is it reasonable to assume that the number of suspects increases substantially," Mike began to pin more small yellow stick figures to the poster board, stepping back when he'd added another twenty yellow stick figures to the drawing of Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, "when we consider that the whereabouts of the key to these locked doors is unknown?"
"It's possible," Hudson said looking down. The thought that his buttons were big enough and more than shiny enough to reflect his long face back at him crossed my mind.
"That's all for this witness, Your Honor," Mike unbuttoned his jacket, touched Britt Anderson's shoulder, and sat down. Britt Anderson's lips curved self-consciously.
I'd been around the courtroom enough to understand the power of suggestion. By introducing the fourth stick figure holding the key, Mike had artfully implied the presence of an unknown assailant who possessed the missing key to the Anderson dressing room. By adding the two dozen yellow figures, Mike made the police investigation look rushed and short-sighted. Each figured added to the shadow of doubt being cast on the State's case. Defense.
"Let's take a 45 minute recess for lunch. Mr. Israel, have your next witness ready, I'd like to get a good start before we end for the weekend," Judge Sylvester abused the wooden base beneath her gavel once again.
IV
I left the courthouse, turning around to walk to the back when I saw Puckerman out front recounting the morning's proceedings to his rival reporters as was the price of his admission to the closed court. I knew Puckerman would keep the juiciest details for his own article, but Judge Sylvester had mandated that he deliver the facts of the trial to the other reporters at least once a day. Despite the obvious rivalries between the Metro dailies, they were still colleagues and Puckerman was a watercooler politician who was always minding his connections.
I saw a group of wooden benches encircling a small grove of what looked like bamboo trees not far from a small Asian water garden complete with lotus flowers. As much as we'd lost in the war, there were small reminders of things gained. The short walk to the benches afforded me the welcome warm tickle of the sun, which was momentarily winning the fight for the grey September sky. I smiled, amused that Mike had made such a successful play with Israel's first witness. Although I hadn't shared my theory with anyone other than Tina, I was glad I wasn't the only one thinking a fourth person could have been in that room. The first glimmer came when Puckerman told me I'd been beaned with a crystal ashtray. I knew very well Britt Anderson didn't smoke or allow smoking in her pristine dressing room. But married couples have a surgical ability to needle each other's pet peeves though and Mr. Anderson may have decided to test Mrs. Anderson's patience with a cigarette in her sanctuary. Still, there was something else. My last coherent memories of that evening were stepping into the dressing room and seeing Blaine Anderson's body spilled across the chaise in the center of the room. Britt Anderson had called my name and I'd begun to turn when I was struck. Struck on the back of the head. I'd played the scene many times forward and backward trying to discern from which side Mrs. Anderson's voice had come. The side I'd been struck on or the opposite side? If I drafted her yet another check from the Bank of Benefit of the Doubt, she wouldn't be the one who hit me. I'd written her the check all right, I just hadn't signed it…yet.
I reached the benches and moved to the curve furthest away from two lawyers eating lunch and discussing something heatedly. The bamboo trees were perfect insulation from the sound, exactly what I needed as my head began to pound. Sitting, I tapped a cigarette on the top of my case, placed it against my lips and raised my lighter. A pink-nailed hand grasped my wrist, lifting my arm, and firmly guided the flame to a cigarette in a black holder held by the matching pink painted lips of Britt Anderson.
"Thank you," she said quietly, the crooked smirk I always seemed to elicit from her, playing across her lips. I don't know how many seconds I lost in those cool blue eyes of hers, but she broke the spell leaning back away from me and exhaling a silver cloud of smoke. "Surprised to see me?"
I stalled, returning to lighting my own cigarette, before answering. I looked down to return my lighter to my purse, and noticed the silver manacle and chain breaking up the view of her long legs. "Tiffany and Company, I assume?" I asked gesturing with my cigarette to her tether.
"Only the best," she said with a short hum of a laugh. "Would you mind sitting on this side?" she took a step backwards around the circle of the bench and trees. "I'm literally at the end of my rope," she chuckled and rattled the chain around her ankle to show she had very little slack between her leg and the chain running from one of the wrought iron armrests that divided the benches every few feet.
I stood and walked a quarter of the bench to sit down next to her. "Does everyone get a lunch hour in a forest paradise?" I glanced back at the courthouse and saw a police officer observing Mrs. Anderson and I through narrowed eyes.
"They didn't want me to smoke with the fellas," she pointed at a small screened in patio in which eight men in handcuffs puffed determinedly. "So I get my own guard and private retreat." She waved her hand to indicate the mini-bamboo forest.
"I see, well, I'll take your gratitude for the light to mean you don't mind the company," I waved at the police officer and turned back to Mrs. Anderson.
"The gratitude wasn't just for the light. It's for asking Mike Chang along yesterday. I don't know where I'd be today if you hadn't. Schuester was the only attorney who'd take my case without me signing over all my assets up front. Mike is- well, I'm glad you thought I might need the help. Thank you."
I nodded and took a drag of my cigarette. I don't know what had moved me to involve Mike, but I was second only to Britt Anderson in being glad I did.
"Not many people believe I'm innocent. Thank you." Mrs. Anderson sat leaning against the back of the bench. She started to cross her legs, but the clattering chain made the position awkward.
"I just wanted to be sure you had a fair shake." Offhandedly I added, "It'd be a different story if he'd been shot." I decided to broach the subject of the gun I'd found in her purse. I wanted to see if she'd lie to me, and I wanted to see if I'd believe her.
"It would? Why? What difference would that make?" She turned her entire body sideways to look at me as she spoke. "What makes you think I have a gun, Santana Lopez?" the words tumbled from her lips mockingly accompanied by a wisp of smoke.
"Nothing. Except for the fact that I know you do. I saw one in your purse. Next to your headache powders," I tried to be nonchalant in replying, relaxed as I turned to face her. She'd already taken a step out onto the ledge of lying to me, I was curious if she'd take the leap or come back in to safer ground.
"I-," Britt Anderson paused, I saw her jaw muscle tighten as she searched my face for what I don't know. She must have found what she was looking for because she relaxed and subtly shrugged, the movement of her body like a whisper under her silk blouse. I couldn't tell if she had something to hide or nothing to tell. "The gun was for protection, the threatening letters. I've never pointed it at anyone much less fired it."
"Shame, that means you have no idea how to use it."
She responded with a sarcastic, 'huh'. "Does Israel know? Is that why you're a prosecution witness?" She tilted her chin down, her blue eyes looking up at me through long dark lashes.
"I have no idea what Israel knows," I replied in all honesty.
"You must have told him something. Why would he call you as a witness otherwise?"
"Maybe I'm not talking loud enough, I said I haven't told him anything. I was the only other person in the room besides you. I'm a material witness. Despite the hole in my memory and the repaired hole in my head, Israel would be crazy not to call me," I answered, feeling my temper simmer.
"And you'll tell him about me having a gun, won't you? I thought I could trust you," she said, blinking as if fighting back tears.
I tried to keep the tone out of my voice. "Having a gun is only a problem if someone shows up dead with a hole in them, Mrs. Anderson. And don't start with the trust routine. You don't trust me, not one bit. You don't have to, you're pretty damned sure I trust you," I stood, my head buzzing like a beehive from the anger and a now piercing headache.
"Stop it! Stop it right now! I didn't kill him! He was stabbed, not shot!" Britt Anderson stood as well, raising her voice to the alarm of the police officer assigned her who began to walk slowly towards us. "How can you talk to me like that?"
"Practice," I tossed my cigarette into the grass and walked back to the courthouse, "practice."
V
I waited until the last moment to take my seat in the balcony of the courtroom. I'd hoped to switch places with Puckerman and sit where Britt Anderson wouldn't be the center of my field of vision. But when I reached the top step to the balcony, Puckerman was already seated, puffing on a cigar and flipping pages in his notebook. I stepped back into the stairwell and waited to take my seat until Judge Sylvester had entered and Israel's next witness, Dr. Gilbert Grissom, the coroner and forensic consultant to the Metropolis police, had been sworn in.
Israel walked through Grissom's education and titles, explaining to the jury that Grissom's job was to understand the varied and sordid ways people bid farewell to this life. Grissom had a reputation for being extraordinarily erudite, but often ill-equipped, or perhaps just too impatient, to explain his work to those of us less gifted. Whenever I had time, I tried to attend court when he might testify on an especially difficult to solve case. Despite his social ineptitude, I appreciated the creativity of his work and learned a great deal from him. Grissom sat in green shirt, a carelessly knotted necktie, and an over-sized plaid tweed jacket with patched elbows, attire much more suited for a classroom than Judge Sylvester's court. Adding to his air of academia were horn-rimmed glasses and an owlish salt and pepper-colored beard, which he stroked absently.
"Dr. Grissom, you examined the body of Mr. Blaine Anderson when it was brought to the morgue on the 16th of July this year, is that correct?" Israel asked, still seated at the prosecution's table.
"No," A lawyer's dream or worst nightmare, Grissom answered only questions he was asked and rarely added commentary to his answers unprovoked.
Israel stood and looked frantically at his notes. "Dr. Grissom, did you not sign off on the death certificate and insurance papers confirming Blaine Anderson's death? You did that without examining the body?"
"I signed the documents, yes. I did not examine the body, I was on vacation in July, flyfishing." I was startled to see Grissom offer a smile. "I read the report of the interim coroner, Dr. Tanaka."
Israel sighed, "Do you feel you can comment on the report, Dr. Grissom?"
"Dr. Tanaka is an accomplished pathologist, I wouldn't have asked him to fill in if I didn't trust him implicitly."
"Very well. Dr. Grissom, how did Blaine Anderson die?" Israel asked, standing between Grissom and the jury.
"A lack of oxygen to his brain," Grissom answered, pushing his glasses up on his nose and nodding.
"A lack of- ," Israel, walked quickly back to his notes and held up the report. "Dr. Grissom, the report says he was stabbed not choked or suffocated," Israel was clearly concerned that Grissom was confusing the jury. I glanced up and saw Puckerman frowning and erasing something in his notes.
"That's correct. He was stabbed, he lost approximately 6 quarts of blood," Grissom didn't seem to notice or care about the jury members who covered the mouths or who's faces took on an ashen color. "No blood means no oxygen to the brain. The brain controls autonomic functions like breathing and heart rate. No oxygen to the brain no breathing, which sounds like an oxymoron…He died due to lack of oxygen."
Israel looked annoyed and repeated, "Blaine Anderson was stabbed to death, correct?"
"Yes," Grissom removed his glasses and placed them on the small shelf in front of him in the witness box.
Israel pulled out a small stack of black and white photos and after announcing them as exhibits B 1 through 25, handed the stack to Grissom. "Dr. Grissom, can you verify that these are the photos taken at the scene?"
"No." Grissom shook his head, taking the photos from Israel and fanning them quickly in front of himself.
"Dr. Grissom? These aren't the photos of the scene?"
"These photos are consistent with the description of the scene from the police report and the description of the body from Dr. Tanaka's report, but I can't verify that they're photos from the scene. I wasn't there."
Israel asked Judge Sylvester to stipulate in the record that the photos he'd handed Grissom were official police photographs and were in fact taken at the scene. Grissom seemed uninterested and continued to leaf through them.
"According to the report, the assailant is right handed and somewhere between five and a half and six feet tall," Israel paused looking at Grissom. Grissom returned Israel's gaze but said nothing. Israel coughed and smiled more broadly at Grissom raising his eyebrows. Grissom smiled uncomfortably in return. "Dr. Grissom?"
"Yes?"
"Your answer, please?"
"What was the question? I didn't hear a question," Grissom frowned.
Israel sighed and smiled, trying poorly to keep his exasperation from being obvious. "Dr. Grissom, the report says the assailant was between five feet six and six feet tall, is that correct?"
"Yes," Grissom answered, his brows furrowing again equally frustrated with Israel.
"Is it true that you can tell the height of the assailant with good accuracy based on what you see in the photos? Photos like this one?" Israel held up a black and white photo in which a white shirt soaked in blood, had been pushed open to reveal inch long dark lines on a very pale torso, the ribs of the victim easily visible.
Several women in the jury box gasped and looked away. The male jurors held up hands to block their own vision of the photos and frowned. My eyes shot to Britt Anderson. She'd quickly tilted her head away from the photo, her eyes downcast. I don't know what reaction I was looking for, but the one I saw seemed much too subtle. Mrs. Anderson must have felt my eyes upon her as she turned her head to look directly at me, her eyes brimming with tears. I was torn between the instinct want to protect her and the urge to clap at the performance.
Mike stood, and shouted, "Objection! Your Honor, is that necessary?" Judge Sylvester, hit her gavel and called both attorneys to the bench. As the three of them chatted, Grissom continued to flip through the photographs, oblivious to anything else happening around him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Grissom's head tilt to the side and he replaced his glasses on his nose. He held a photo taken from the vantage point of Mrs. Anderson's dresser showing the crumpled body on the floor, the blood soaked floor, and the door leading to Mr. Anderson's dressing room. Grissom squinted and pulled the photo so close to his face it was touching his nose. The two attorneys and Sylvester were still discussing an arms length away. Suddenly Grissom stood up bolt straight, knocking the chair he'd been sitting in over behind him.
"Your honor, I need to go…we need to…" Grissom stuttered, not taking his eyes off the photograph in his hand. He moved towards the small swinging panel of the witness box to leave.
"Grissom!" Judge Sylvester called, "where do you think you're going? You haven't been dismissed. Sit down!"
"Your honor, we… I need to go…" Grissom pushed open the waist high gate to the witness box.
"Shane!" Sylvester called, causing the bailiff to step to the witness box and block Grissom's exit. Both attorneys stood staring at Grissom. "Grissom, come here!" Judge Sylvester, slid her dark red chair to the edge of the bench, tapped the edge closest to the witness box with her finger, and thinned her lips into an angry pink line. Grissom snatched his hand back from the gate and stepped backwards towards the judge as Shane leaned in closer. Grissom turned his head to Sylvester and the two exchanged words for a few minutes before a very displeased Sylvester nearly threw her gavel at the bench, stood up and left through the door behind her chair, yelling "Recess until Monday!" over her shoulder.
Only Grissom felt safe to move, and he coughed as request for Shane to back away from his exit. He pushed open the wood gate and hurriedly left the courtroom. Israel threw both hands up in the air and walked back to the prosecution's table shaking his head violently. The bailiff moved quickly to exit the jurors and soon Mike Chang and Britt Anderson were alone in the circus ring of courtroom 19D.
A/N: I'd say I hate to leave you hanging, but you know that I absolutely love leaving you hanging! Haha!
Thank you, NEMO, Blueashke, Nayshen, & Snixx. Big thanks to every single reviewer and reader. You don't know how happy it makes me to see the reviews.
To my best champion- Foss- thank you so much! I love you.