A Case of Hate

by Rex Darby

  The next morning, I wake up in a cold sweat, panicking. I rush into the guest room to tell him he’s got to make a decision, but he’s not there. I open the closet. The clothes I bought him are gone. The dresser drawers are the same – empty.

  Except one, that has a scrap of my note paper from the kitchen.

  My heart stops when I read it.

  Peepel I luv the mos.

  Liliana

  I sink down onto the bed and a tear slides down my cheek as I smile down at the letter. God. I wish the best for that boy. If only I had a magic wand to take all the confusion in him away, to take all the pain away. To make everything work out for him.

  Later, I get lunch with Marisol. I chose not to have an office because I don’t like to work regular hours. Sometimes I get bursts of inspiration and work like a maniac until 3am. Other times I only have the energy to slob around in my pajamas and binge watch Netflix. But sometimes I get sick of the apartment and have to get out.

  So sometimes we work at a coffee shop, or a decent restaurant, or sometimes even McDonalds.

  Today’s an upscale independent burger place that has all kind of weird meats. I have zebra meat burger (!) with sweet potato fries and a salad. I have a good metabolism and can pretty much eat anything while remaining skinny as a rake. Sometimes I feel too skinny and wish I had breasts and an ass, but no amount of fries or burgers or ice cream or pizza or whatever else will make that happen. Marisol’s a little heavier and permanently on a diet. She has an ostrich burger without a bun or any fries, and a huge heap of salad without dressing. It’s an expensive place. We’re eating on the Blachowiczs’ dime.

  “Zach Allen did a good job,” I say. “Pizza delivery killer? Everyone gets pizza. Everyone wants to hear about that. Everyone wants to check out who this crazy is, in case he shows up at their door.”

  “Yup. I’ll bet Agnew cried when she read it.”

  I smirk. “Doubtful. That dry old hag doesn’t have enough moisture in her body to produce a tear.”

  Marisol snorts and nearly chokes on her ostrich burger patty. She coughs over and over and I have to bang her on the back. She takes a deep gulp of water once recovered, then titters. “She does look dry, doesn’t she? Perfect description.”

  “Fuck the gag order, we’ll still feed him a little crumb here and there. No one will be able to prove it. We’re not doing the pizza man angle anymore, but it’s good for the jury to hear a ton of stories about anyone other than Jason right now.”

  “Yeah. What angle do you wanna go with?”

  I puff out a stream of air. “Thing is... were there any of the girl’s skin cells on the tie in his car? That really sways the story.”

  “I don’t know,” Marisol says. “She didn’t bring it up in the preliminary hearing and it wasn’t in the police report.”

  “We’ll do our own forensics, if Ms. Dry Bitch doesn’t try and play hide and seek with the tie.”

  “She won’t,” Marisol says quickly. “She likes me a lot now. I’ll tell her a bunch about how it’s going to work in her favor or whatever. We’ll work it out.” She makes notes on her pad of paper. I like the fact she’s very organized. She takes my sometimes crazy chaos and brings it into order.

  “Okay, so if there are skin cells, then it’s one of two things – either she committed suicide and he got her down and freaked out. He was gonna drive home and call the cops but then he saw Kelly going inside and knew she’d call, so kept himself out of it.”

  “Okay,” Marisol says, writing it all down.

  “Or self-defense. Any progress on her record?”

  “I’ve asked her twice. She’s changed the subject.”

  “Okay, I think she’ll release it last minute,” I say. “Which only proves there’s something on it she doesn’t want us to see. Hopefully this Georgia chick was a crazy bitch.” I screw up my lips. Unfortunately I’m not on San Cristobal PD’s Christmas card list. I’ve had a couple shouting matches down there when they’ve tried to use their bullying authority on me, so I know they’re not jumping to do me any favors. “You think Nerius can hack it again?”

  He hacked the PD computer system before, but it took weeks. And the next time he tried to do it the same way, it didn’t work.

  Marisol sighs. “I don’t know. We need a better relationship with them in general.”

  My eyes flash at her as I grin. “Take a leaf out of Agnew’s book. Start screwing a cop.”

  “I think Kyle’s gonna propose.”

  I gasp. “No! Really?”

  She can’t keep the smile off of her lips, even though she’s looking down and trying not to look so joyful. “Yup. His mom was hinting, big style. And then next weekend he’s taking me away to the lake he used to go to as a kid. They have a cabin there.”

  I hate when people say ‘he’s taking me away’. Why, what’s he doing, carrying you on his shoulder? Why not just say, “we’re going”?

  I fix my face into a smile. “Oh my god, that’s amazing.”

  Marisol looks at me askance. “He respects me.”

  Yeah, wait until you’ve got that ring on your finger. “Good.” I say anything to move the conversation on. “Shall I be your Maid of Honor?”

  “Actually it has to be Martina” – her big sister – “because I was hers and that was our agreement. But do you want to be the second in command?”

  I’d rather pour salt in my eye. “Sure!” She looks at me with suspicion in her eyes. I sigh. “Look, I’m a good storyteller in the courtroom but a terrible one out of it. I just don’t want to piss on your parade, you know?”

  “I know you don’t believe in romance and all that.”

  “Oh, I believe in romance as a fun diversion. A shallow, insincere game. But how people equate it with love is what the hell I can’t understand.”

  “This isn’t romance,” Marisol says quickly. “He’s not really romantic.”

  I snort. “Well, how romantic can an accountant really be?”

  “Love is deeper than that. One day you’ll get it.”

  “Will I fuck.” She’s got a loved-up look in her eye that makes her look like she’s just dropped a few IQ points. “Anyways, as I was saying... Cops. You said we need a better relationship. I say they’re never gonna like us. The way they see it, we’re trying to undo all their hard work. But yeah, we’ll get that criminal record and do a bunch of other digging, and I’m sure we can conjure up enough for a self-defense case.”

  Marisol looks a little deflated but takes notes.

  “And as for if her skin cells aren’t on the necktie,” I continue, “well, like I said in the prelim, that tie wasn’t the murder weapon. We need to make sure the story covers all the prosecution points, and slots all the evidence in.”

  I’m looking forward to this. It’s one of my absolute favorite parts of being a defense attorney. Putting everything together like a puzzle. Making the story of my client’s innocence make sense, even with their fingerprints at the scene, or whatever else.

  I prefer it with tough evidence. The jury start out ready to convict, then I make them swing drastically the other way. If they come in unsure, the whole thing gets foggy and messy and the verdict could go either way. Half the time they barely even pay attention because as soon as most people get confused their brain shuts down.

  “We’re going to have fun with this one, aren’t we?” Marisol says, looking up at me with her favorite facial expression. She looks like a grinning devil.

  “You read my mind,” I say. “And I’m sure the Blachowicz family will be very, very... grateful.” I’ll be able to buy ten Merc SUVs in cash before the year is out.

  Chapter 10

  Lincoln Agnew

  “Voir dire’s Monday,” I say to JaMarcus. It’s a sweltering day and the air con in the office has a problem, so everyone was sent home. They all rushed out, excited to get an extended Friday. But the both of us are far too conscientious to go waste our time, so we take a walk in the local park, trying to stick
under the shade of the trees.

  He has his jacket swung over his shoulder, showing his muscular shoulders through his light gray pinstripe shirt. He looks more handsome than ever, and he turns a few heads as we walk by. In my younger days, my own head would have certainly been turning, a twinkle in my eye. And he’s not an asshole full of himself, like most very handsome men are. He’s actually got a great character.

  If only I could siphon his character and pump it into Brett’s body. No, that’s unfair. Brett’s a good, principled man, just with a few annoying bad habits. Although, JaMarcus’ body would do just fine. Okay, so JaMarcus’ body and character, but in Brett’s... position? Brett’s age group, I settle on.

  I am extremely committed to my husband. I am. The affair with Matt doesn’t change a thing about that. Anyhow, I’m going to be terminating that very shortly. It has only been a lapse of moral judgment. It doesn’t represent my character or values. I can gain back control and finish the affair, and recommit myself privately to my marriage vows. I won’t come clean to Brett about it, but that’s not for my sake. It’s for his own. He has enough on his plate being a DA. He needs me to be his support, not another source of stress.

  “Yeah. I’d really like to take on some of the questioning, if that would be possible,” he says.

  Voir dire is jury selection. We have to question the prospective jurors about their backgrounds, biases, and pre-existing knowledge of the case.

  “Of course,” I say. I don’t often let him do much speaking in court, rather bringing him along to observe and assist. However, he has proven himself competent and steadfast, two traits I highly value and admire. Despite this, I do like to keep a firm reign on all my cases, and the thought of relinquishing even a little control makes my heart jump into my throat and my stomach churn. “Though, you’ve seen... one, before?”

  “With you, yes,” he says. “But in law school I saw three more. In fact, the Partner allowed me to question one of the jurors, right at the end, after I’d seen him do it.”

  “I see,” I say.

  After a long pause he says, “I can do it,” with a slight edge to his voice.

  “I know, I know,” I rush to say.

  And I do know. But that doesn’t stop my palms breaking out in a cold sweat when it actually comes down to it, and Judge Pollard calls him up. With Ms. Fairweather and Ms. Lopez standing across the way, I feel like I’m feeding him to the wolves.

  I watch Marisol, with her small dark eyes and shiny curtain of dark hair falling down her back, and wonder whether I can trust her. Since that first meeting in my office, she hasn’t been forthcoming with information. I make a mental note to press her, to test her, as soon as possible.

  Then it all starts, and JaMarcus and I work on our pre-agreed MO.

  We want to eliminate all young upper-class men around the defendant’s age, as they may empathize with him too much, seeing themselves in him. Young working-class men work just fine, as they’ll likely resent him for his wealth. Young women with strong voices will be our gold, ready to be the voice of Georgia. Older men who look kind and gentle, preferably with daughters, will be another asset if we can appeal to their paternal instinct. Older working-class women with daughters are also a target for us. Older upper-class women with sons are definite no-go, as they might feel too maternal and forgiving toward the defendant.

  Of course, Ms. Fairweather’s gunning for anyone who looks like a woman should know her place. She can spot them a mile away, and I wonder why. I can, too, having grown up with my father. For the first time ever, I find myself wondering about her upbringing. Did she have a father who adored her? I suspect she did. She was daddy’s little princess, I’m sure. Being so pretty, wearing pink frilly dresses, showing off. I’m sure she’s the apple of her parents’ eye, even to this day. An only child, or perhaps the last child in a long line of boys.

  I’m finding it hard to concentrate today, and am sure glad JaMarcus has stepped up to the plate. Although... maybe I’m only allowing myself to fuzz over because I know he’s there to take care of things. He knows the MO inside out, and once I hear him do the first couple of questionings, I know he’s up to the job and wonder what I was ever worried about. I got bad sleep last night. My mind just wouldn’t shut off. Now it won’t turn on, not even with the aid of the three coffees I’ve already had this morning.

  I had a terrible argument with Brett last night, about Renee Davies, and it had me up half the night, my stomach churning with uncertainty. I didn’t know if he was wrong, or if I was, or we both were. I can’t stand gray areas like that, where feelings and emotions are all heightened, and you don’t know what’s real and what’s not.

  In the morning, I just about managed to drag myself out of bed to get a coffee. I grabbed the other one on the way into work and JaMarcus brought me my third at my desk without consulting me, as he thought I looked tired.

  By the time we’re dismissed, I couldn’t tell you who is on the jury and who isn’t. I can barely remember my own name.

  I go right into the bathroom and vomit, and meet Ms. Fairweather when I’m out of the cubicle and washing my mouth at the basin.

  “I’d be throwing up with nerves, too, in your position,” she says. “That jury is—”

  “Fuck off,” I mutter into the basin, surprising myself.

  I look up into the mirror and see a malicious glee in her eyes. “Ooh! Language, Ms. Prosecutor!” She giggles. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just a case.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I have no energy to fight her. What in the heck is going on with me? Out of nowhere I say, “Take a deal.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” she says breezily, applying her pink lipstick.

  “You’re not,” I say. “You’re evil. You don’t care about Georgia. You don’t care she got strangled to death by Jason. You’re not even a human, are you?”

  She steadily applies her lipstick, but I see her swallow.

  I can’t stop. “How do you sleep at night? Don’t you have dreams of her? Can you imagine how you’d feel, if your ex came over, pretending to be friendly, then the next moment, grabbed a tie and wrapped it around your neck, and you thrashed and fought and spat and knew you were about to die, but he wouldn’t stop until your whole world was blacking over, and you were coughing and spluttering and finally breathed your last breath?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” she says, but I see her hands shake as she returns her lipstick to her sparkly makeup bag. All ruffles and sparkles, to cover up the rotting core of her being.

  “You do,” I say. “Yes, you do. Because that is what this system is for. For justice, to hear the truth.”

  “It’s a game of stories, as you well know.”

  “It is not a game. Tell Georgia’s parents you think this is a game.”

  “They’re not my clients.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? How could you possibly, when you’re nothing but an animal. No reason, no intelligence, no morality. Just instinct. Instinct to win at any cost, no matter who gets murdered along the way.”

  Her throat is dry. I can hear it as she talks. “Everyone has the right to a fair trial.”

  “Everyone has the right not to be strangled to death in their own home, the place in the world where they’re supposed to feel safe.”

  “I’m not judge and jury.”

  “And if you were?”

  “I’d weigh up the facts, and make my decision.”

  “So... go on... weigh up the facts right now. Make your decision right now. Should this man, who wrung his tie around Georgia’s—”

  “Stop!” she hollers, then breathes and regains control. “Stop. Just stop it. You don’t even know if he’s guilty. No one does. The only two people in that apartment were him and Georgia. They are the only ones who know exactly what happened. Georgia’s not here to tell us about it, and it’s not my business to try to work out if whatever Jason says is true, whether he says he did it or not. My job is to give him the best
defense I can. So just let me do it, and leave me alone.” She hurries out, looking more unsettled than I’ve ever seen her.

  When she leaves, I look up in the mirror and see myself. I look haggard. Old. Ugly. Especially having just stared into Ms. Fairweather’s admittedly very aesthetically-pleasing bone structure. I quickly splash water on my face.

  I wonder if I should try to go back to church. Would that make me feel better? The problem is, I just don’t believe in a man in the sky who came down to bear the whole world’s mistakes. We all should be held accountable, not let off the hook.

  Which is why, later that evening, at the kitchen table, I make a little cut into my arm. For hating Brett, for the way he hurts and discards me like a piece of trash, for linking the ‘find my phone’ feature to my own phone so I can see where he is at all times, for wishing Matt was with me, for the fact he’s not returning my messages, for the fact I hate Liliana so much, for the fact that she’s so utterly terrifying, for the fear that haunts the pit of my stomach every day, knowing I might have to look into the Staffords’ devastated faces after the jury foreman says those two horrific words.

  I have other cases, but I can barely concentrate on them, and load them onto JaMarcus and two more experienced ADAs.

  Can the world not just stop, so I can get off? Not permanently, but just for a moment. Just for a moment of sweet blackness. Why, why, why won’t Matt text me back?

  I call him. He doesn’t answer.

  I call him again. He doesn’t answer.

  I call him seven more times, and finally my heart leaps.

  “What in the hell, Lincoln?” he says angrily.

  “Matt,” I croak out.

  “I’m home with my wife. What in the heck are you playing at?”

  My voice comes out all weak and babyish, like a child. “Come see me.”

  He sighs. “I can’t.”

  “You can. You can. Of course you can.”