Chapter 104
WHEN I TUNED BACK in to the conversation in the car, Mickey was explaining something to Yuki.
“The judge gave them the paperwork from the hospital and the transcript from the nurse. And she told them not to worry about limiting the award. That’s her job and need not concern them.”
Mickey ran his hand over his face in what I took to be exasperation. “Yuki, you did a fantastic job, I mean it. I can’t believe that the jury bought Mason Broyles’s act,” he said. “I just don’t believe it. I don’t know how we could have done better.”
And that’s when Yuki’s cell phone rang.
“The jury is back,” she said. She folded her phone, clutching it until her knuckles whitened. “They have a verdict.”
My mind spaced. I saw the word verdict in front of my eyes and tried to parse it, looking between the letters and syllables for somethi
ng to hope for. I knew from past days in court that the Latin roots of the word verdict meant to speak the truth.
Would this verdict be the truth?
In the minds of the people of San Francisco, it would be.
Mickey directed his driver to turn around, which he did, and a few minutes later I was saying, “No comment, no comment, please,” and following Yuki and Mickey through the mob, up the steep stairs, and into the courthouse once again.
We took our places in courtroom B, and the opposition took theirs.
I heard my name pierce the moment as if it had come from another time and place. I turned to look behind me.
“Joe!”
“I just got in, Lindsay. I came straight from the airport.”
We reached out and for a brief moment entwined our fingers across the shoulders of the people sitting behind me. Then I had to let go and turn away.
Along the sides of the room, cameramen focused their lenses, then, only an hour since we’d left this room, the judge entered from her chambers and the jury filled the jury box.
The bailiff called the court back into session.
Chapter 105
IT TOOK THE MEMBERS of the jury long moments to fix their skirts, put down their bags, and get comfortable in their seats. Finally, they were at attention. I noticed that only two of them had looked at me.
I listened numbly as the judge asked the jury if they’d arrived at the verdict. Then the foreman, a fifty-something African American man named Arnold Benoit, straightened the lines of his sport jacket and spoke.
“We have, Your Honor.”
“Please pass your verdict to the bailiff.”
Across the aisle, Sam Cabot’s breathing quickened, as did mine, keeping double time along with my pounding heart as the judge opened the single sheet of paper.
She scanned it and, without expression, passed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the jury foreman.
“I caution the audience not to react to whatever the foreman says,” said the judge. “All right, Mr. Foreman. Please pronounce the verdict.”
The foreman took his glasses out of his jacket pocket, flipped them open, and set them on his nose. At last, he began to read.
“We, the jury in the above-entitled action, find the accused, Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, not guilty of the charges against her.”
“So say you all?”
“We do.”