by Diane Kelly
“Remember, Mom,” I said, repeating the words she’d told me at Christmas. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
She pointed her chopsticks at me. “Do I need to get the Ivory soap?”
Dad stabbed a piece of giant clam with his fork and held it up in front of his face. “Remind me what I’m eating here?”
I rolled my eyes. He was as bad as Nick had been the first time I’d brought him here. “It’s clam, Dad.”
He grunted. “They don’t look like this when they’re floating in chowder.”
Mom and I indulged in a bottle of plum wine. After two glasses, my nerves had settled a bit. I raised my glass. “To truth, justice, and the American way.”
If I could have only one of those things, I’d settle for justice.
Nick clinked his bottle of Sapporo beer against my wineglass. Though he smiled at me, his jaw was rigid. Everything that had happened the last two months had been hell on me, but I wasn’t alone. It had been hard for Nick, too. He didn’t like to see me worry, and he sure as hell didn’t like not being able to do anything about it. Nick was a man of action, a man who liked to be in control. Unfortunately, everything was out of our hands. It would be up to the attorneys, witnesses, and jury to determine my fate.
We wrapped the dinner up with bowls of green tea ice cream. I wondered how long it might be before I’d enjoy the treat again.
When we returned to my place, everyone went inside while Nick and I stood on the porch, merely staring at each other. Everything and anything we could say to each other had already been said, several times over. Finally, he stepped toward me and pressed his lips lightly against my forehead. I wrapped my arms around him and held on for dear life.
My mind briefly toyed with the idea of the two of us running away together, hiding in the woods somewhere in East Texas, living off the land and off the grid. Nick knew how to fish and I could probably forage for berries or raise vegetables or something. But no. A life on the lam would be no life at all. I’d miss my cats, shopping at Neiman’s, eating sushi and green tea ice cream. Besides, after all these seasons of watching Ted fall in love with virtually every woman in New York City on How I Met Your Mother, I wanted to see him finally meet their mother, dammit!
After a few moments I released Nick, turned, and went into my place without another word.
* * *
My former boyfriend, Brett, phoned that evening to wish me luck at the trial. Though we’d both moved on to new relationships with people better suited for us, we’d always have a soft spot in our hearts for each other.
“I heard about the shooting and the trial on the news,” he said. “I also heard about the incident at the dentist office.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ve been extra busy lately.”
We shared a chuckle.
“I’ll be rooting for you, Tara,” he said softly.
“Thanks, Brett. I appreciate that.”
When we ended the call, I went upstairs to get ready for bed. My mother grabbed me in a tight hug after I bade her and my father good night in my bedroom. “Keep the faith, honey. It’s going to all work out.”
I might’ve been more convinced if I didn’t hear her burst into a sob the instant I closed the door behind me.
I slept in my guest room with Alicia that night. She’d suggested she stay with Daniel at his downtown loft apartment, but I’d insisted she remain at my place. I needed her now more than ever. She was my best friend, the sister I’d never had, a shoulder to cry on. A skinny, bony shoulder, but a shoulder nonetheless.
“I’m scared,” I told her after we’d turned off the lights.
She turned her head on her pillow, her face lit softly by the night-light. “You’d be stupid not to be.” She propped herself up on her elbow. “But you’ve got the best attorney money can buy and a lot of good witnesses to testify on your behalf. When this trial is over, I’m taking you on a spa day. We’ll do facials, massages, get our nails done. The whole works.”
“Thanks. You’re a good friend.” Once she’d closed her eyes, a tear escaped the corner of my eye and rolled down my cheek, leaving a warm, wet trail.
chapter thirty-seven
Twelve Angry Men … or Seven Women and Five Moderately Irritated Men
I spent ten minutes the next morning hovering over the toilet with the dry heaves. Real attractive, I know. But between my nerves and the adrenaline, my system was on overload.
My mother had cooked me a full breakfast with all of my favorites. Fried eggs, biscuits and gravy, cheese grits, and home fries. Unfortunately, I couldn’t eat a bite. I refused the coffee, too. Didn’t need caffeine making me any more anxious than I already was.
“You need to eat something, sweetie,” Mom insisted.
I pushed the food around on my plate and crumbled up the biscuit to make it look like I’d taken a few bites. My father wasn’t fooled. He eyed me over the top of his coffee mug but said nothing. Alicia, on the other hand, was a nervous eater. She scarfed down three biscuits, a huge bowl of grits, and two servings of home fries. Maybe next time I cried on her shoulder there’d be a little more meat on it.
Nick swung by to pick me up in his truck. My parents and Alicia followed us to the courthouse in my dad’s pickup. Scott Klein had been none too happy that Alicia had requested time off in the middle of tax season, but when she told him why she needed to be out of the office he’d acquiesced, even told her to wish me luck on his behalf. Klein might not have hired me back, but he was still a nice guy at heart.
Nick and I said little on the drive over to the courthouse, both of us absorbed in our thoughts. We parked and inched our way through the long line at the security checkpoint. Several of the people in line with us held a jury summons in their hand. I eyed them as discreetly as I could. Would one or more of them be who would determine my fate?
I’d been warned by Giacomo to say nothing in the elevator, halls, or bathroom that could potentially be overheard, and I’d passed this instruction on to Nick, Alicia, and my parents. The five of us rode the crowded elevator up to Judge Trumbull’s courtroom in silence.
We were early, and people were just beginning to trickle into the room. Trumbull’s black female bailiff sat in the witness-box, reading the Dallas Morning News. My trial was covered on the front page, my photograph in full color next to a photo of Don Geils. They say everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame. I’d gladly give my fifteen minutes to someone else.
Giacomo stood at the defense table, his briefcase open in front of him as he removed file folders filled with paperwork.
My father’s eyes narrowed as he sized up my attorney, taking in the fuchsia-colored dress shirt and polka-dot tie he wore with his black suit. “This is the hairy-assed lawyer you told me about?”
I gave my dad a pointed look. “Reserve judgment until you see him in action.”
I led my parents up to the defense table and introduced them to Anthony.
Giacomo was nonplussed by my dad’s assessing look. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Holloway. I’m going to take very good care of your daughter. We’ll wipe the floor with Troy Kerr and Don Geils.”
Dad shook his hand. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
My father gave me a kiss on the cheek and my mother squeezed my hand before they stepped away and slid onto the bench in the front row where Alicia was already seated. Nick’s mother, Bonnie, entered the room, gave me a small wave, and took a seat on the bench with my parents and best friend.
Nick leaned in to me and whispered, “Remember. You’re Tara Holloway. Don’t take any crap from anybody.” He chucked my chin, gave me a soft smile, and took a seat next to his mother.
I eased myself into a wooden chair at the defense table. It felt weird to be sitting on this side of the room. I used to think this side was for losers, bad people, people who deserved to rot in jail.
My perspective had definitely changed now. Things were not quite so black and white on this side of the room.
The benches began to fill. Several reporters, including Trish LeGrande, filed in, followed by Lu, Eddie, Josh, and Viola. Each of my coworkers came over to offer me words of encouragement, as did Merle and Bernice.
Christina entered the room and also came up to the table. She leaned in and gave my hand a squeeze. “When this is over,” she said, “the margaritas are on me. Top shelf.”
Giacomo looked up at her. “Me, too?”
Christina nodded. “Of course.”
Lu lingered after the others had taken their seats. She laid a piece of paper on the defense table and bent over us, speaking in a low voice. “Troy Kerr sent me a personal invitation.”
I leaned in and took a glance at the document. It was a subpoena ordering The Lobo to appear in court today to testify on behalf of the prosecution.
What?
How could that be? Lu had agreed to testify on my behalf.
I looked from Lu to Giacomo. “What does this mean?”
Did Kerr plan to use my former boss against me? Had she said something during her interview with the prosecutor that could damage my case?
“No worries,” Giacomo said. “Kerr needs Ms. Lobozinski’s testimony to authenticate the internal affairs report, that’s all.”
I hoped that was all. I didn’t think I could bear it if Lu helped put me behind bars, even if it was against her will. I adored the crotchety old broad.
Lu looked from Giacomo to me and shot me a wink with her false eyelashes. “Knock ’em dead.” With that, Lu picked up her subpoena and took a seat in the gallery next to Viola.
The last person to enter the room was Troy Kerr. He strode in, his briefcase in one hand, a cell phone in the other, the phone pressed to his ear. As much as I hated to say it, he looked confident, intelligent, ready for battle. He nodded to Anthony before slipping into his place at the prosecution table.
Giacomo draped an arm around my shoulder and huddled close, whispering in my ear. “Pay close attention to everything the witnesses say,” he instructed me. “Help me help you. If anything they say isn’t one hundred percent correct, you let me know.” He slid a pen and notepad onto the table in front of me. “Keep your demeanor attentive and professional. Be especially careful how you look at Don Geils. The jury will be watching you.”
In other words, behave as if I were being viewed under a microscope. Great. As if I weren’t nervous enough already.
A couple of minutes later, the bailiff instructed everyone in the courtroom to rise as Judge Trumbull entered. The judge climbed up to her stand, plopped down into her seat, and greeted everyone. She looked from my attorney to Kerr. “Okay, boys. Any preliminary motions?”
Troy Kerr looked at Giacomo expectantly.
Giacomo argued that any testimony or evidence regarding my use of my gun prior to the incident at Guys & Dolls should be excluded. “Miss Holloway’s actions were deemed justified on each count and are therefore irrelevant. The evidence could also unduly prejudice the jury.”
Kerr objected, arguing that my history showed I had an unusual propensity for using my gun.
Trumbull sided with Giacomo. “Miss Holloway isn’t on trial for those shootings. Any such evidence will be excluded.”
Phew.
“Anything else?” Trumbull asked.
When both attorneys indicated they had no further matters, Kerr turned to Giacomo. “I was prepared to fight over the admissibility of the internal affairs report for the shooting at Guys and Dolls.”
“That little thing?” Giacomo waved a hand dismissively. “Nyah.”
An uneasy look skittered across Kerr’s face, giving me no small sense of pleasure.
Trumbull pointed her gavel at Giacomo and Kerr. “You two need to address me, not each other.”
Kerr nodded like an obedient child. “I do have one matter, Your Honor. Don Geils pleaded guilty to drug crimes, prostitution, and money laundering, all of which are nonviolent crimes.”
It was true. Despite the fact that Geils had come after me with his gun, the prosecutor had decided not to charge him with assault on a federal officer or attempted murder. Geils had no idea I worked for the government when he’d followed me into the VIP room with his gun. He only knew I’d run into his club and put holes in the feet of three of his bouncers. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charges stick.
“If Geils is forced to wear handcuffs during his testimony,” Kerr said, “the jury will likely be influenced by that fact. It’s bad enough he’ll be in his prison uniform.”
Trumbull looked to Giacomo for a response.
“Geils owned an unregistered gun and came after Miss Holloway with it even though she’d used only nonlethal shots on his security staff. That’s not the behavior of a nonviolent man.”
Trumbull seemed to mull things over for a moment. “Tell you what. I’ll let them take the cuffs off, but I want his handler standing close by.” She returned her gavel to its stand. “We ready to bring in the jury pool?”
The attorneys indicated they were ready.
The bailiff walked down the aisle and opened the courtroom doors, admitting a group of twenty or so people and instructing them to take seats in the gallery. Once seated, the people glanced around the room as if trying to get a read on what the case might be about. None looked particularly happy to have been chosen for jury duty. Several made no attempt to hide their irritation, sitting with scowls on their faces and their arms crossed over their chests, repeatedly glancing at their watches as if we were wasting their time. I happened to agree with them. I could only hope they wouldn’t hold things against me. Hell, if it were up to me, none of us would be here today.
When the pool had settled in, Trumbull gave the attorneys the go-ahead to commence the jury selection process.
Kerr took first crack at the pool of potential jurors. He stepped to the head of the aisle, introduced himself, and explained that the case involved allegations of excessive force by an IRS special agent who shot a man during an arrest. At the mention of such scandal, the irritation on the jurors’ face morphed to intrigue.
One juror, a white-haired man wearing a red sweater-vest, raised his hand. “You say she’s a what now?”
“A special agent for the IRS.”
The woman next to him, a curly-haired brunette, asked, “The IRS carries guns?”
It was always the same. There we special agents were, risking our lives every day to collect monies owed by criminal tax cheats, and the majority of people didn’t even know we existed.
“Special agents are criminal law enforcement,” Kerr explained. “Tax cops, if you will.”
“Gotcha,” the old man said.
Now that the jurors were on board, Kerr raised a finger. “There’s a critical thing we must all keep in mind during this trial. It’s called the United States Constitution.”
He clasped his hands behind him now and began to pace a few steps one direction, then the other. “The Constitution limits the government’s authority and provides all of us protections from abuse by public officials. The fact that someone has committed a crime does not entitle a government officer to violate his rights. Donald Geils, the victim in this case, operated a men’s entertainment club and has pleaded guilty to drug and sex charges. He is by no means a model citizen.”
You can say that again, I thought.
“Nevertheless,” Kerr continued, “he had certain rights, including the right to be free from excessive force.”
Kerr stopped pacing and ran his gaze over the jurors. “No matter what you think of Don Geils as a human being, that should in no way influence your decision in this case. Don Geils is not the person on trial here. Former special agent Tara Holloway is.”
Former. Ugh.
Several of those in the pool glanced my way. Giacomo had warned me not to smile, as it might come off as a flippant smirk. I tried to maintain a poker face, pleasant but attentive. And innocent, of course.
Kerr asked whether any on the jury pool believed they might have a bias
that would prevent them from making a fair and just decision. None acknowledged any bias. In fact, several sat up straight in their seats, much more interested now that they realized they might be picked to serve on the jury for one of the most newsworthy trials of the year. Heck, they were probably thinking over how they could ride my sullied coattails to fame and fortune, maybe get a lucrative book deal or a movie-of-the-week. I could see the title now. The Tax Woman Cometh. I hoped they’d get someone attractive to play me. Maybe Emma Stone or Mila Kunis.
Kerr went on to question the jurors more specifically about themselves. Did any own guns? If so, how many and what types? Had they ever fired their guns at another human being? Had any of the jurors ever been fired upon?
This being Texas, the majority of the people on the jury owned a gun of some sort. Two held concealed-carry permits. None had fired upon another person, though one, a burly man with muttonchop sideburns and shaggy dark hair that hung halfway down his back, had been shot once.
“My hunting buddy got me in the ass last duck season,” he said. “Thought I was a bear. Good thing he was only using birdshot or I’d have been a goner.”
I wasn’t sure whether it would be a good thing or not to have Buns-of-Birdshot on my jury. He didn’t seem any worse for the wear, and maybe his laid-back attitude toward weapons would work in my favor.
“I’ve still got some of the shot in me,” the man said. “Had a hell of a time getting through security this morning.”
Kerr moved to have the man dismissed for cause.
“I object,” Giacomo said. “Taking a few BBs to the butt shouldn’t impair the man’s judgment.”
Trumbull ruled in our favor.
When it was Giacomo’s turn to question the jury pool, he asked whether any of them had ever had any trouble with a member of law enforcement. A woman in a too-tight knit dress raised her hand. Giacomo asked her to provide details.
“I was driving down Highway Two-Eighty-Seven one night,” she began. “No, wait. It wasn’t Two-Eighty-Seven; it was One-Fifty-Seven. Or maybe it was … no, it was Two-Eighty-Seven. That’s the one that runs through Arlington, right? Anyways, I didn’t have my headlights on. I must’ve forgotten to turn them on, because when I got in my car at the Walmart that Ke$ha song was on. You know, the good one? Anyways, I was singing along as I was driving and didn’t realize my lights weren’t on.”
