A Courtroom of Ashes

by C. S. Wilde

  “Anything else, Mr. Braver?” she says as both men grab the martinis.

  “No, Sandra, that’d be all, thank you.” John turns to the black man. “So, Abraham, what did you do?”

  “Oh, I ran to―” The plane lurches and dips three times. Lights fade and the darkness outside invades the cabin, but it’s only for a second.

  The lights return. Sandra regains her balance, steadied by the leather seats. She looks incredibly calm.

  “Just a minor turbulence, gentle―” Sandra’s body is tossed violently to the back of the plane and disappears from the scene. The plane dives, oxygen masks drop down.

  John grips his chair so tight he loses a fingernail, but Abraham lifts his hands as if in an extreme roller coaster.

  He shouts, “Mamma, I’m coming home!” as tears fly up his cheeks.

  “Oh God, no, please, please,” John whispers, eyes closed. He reaches for his mobile in his jacket pocket and speed-dials a number.

  “Dad? Can you hear me? Dad!” he screams. “The plane is falling! I love you! Tell Mom I’m so sor—”

  Chairs fly forward as the cabin accordions into itself. Wreckage explodes all around; half of Sandra’s body flings toward the cockpit, the bars of her blue skirt painted red. A sharp piece of metal severs John’s arm right below his shoulder. Water bursts from everywhere, filling the deformed cabin in seconds. Just before the lake surface returns to normal, I see John, life out of him, staring at a mobile phone that floats above his head.

  This was how John died: violently and with no good-byes.

  “The Wastelands play with our emotions,” John says as a tear falls down his cheek. I wipe it away and he lets out a sad smile. “It’s much different than the landing back at the Home, it’s…evil. It’s infested with Shades for a reason.”

  I try to offer reassurance but can’t find the words.

  “My father was a good man,” John says. “But my mom? Not so much. Three weeks before I died, I found out she was having an affair with our family’s accountant, and my last words to her were ‘you’re dead to me.’ Ironic, huh?” He sniffs, but no more tears come out. By the clenching of his jaw, he’s holding them. “She wasn’t perfect, but still, she was my mom. Regret can drive you mad in this place, Santana.”

  I lean closer to John. The man who swore he’d protect me is broken. I need to mend him, my shattered hero, but I don’t know how.

  “I’m so sorry, John.”

  “Don’t be,” he says. “Dying isn’t all bad. If I hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have met you.”

  “Don’t say that.” Though I never had a guy say something so sad and beautiful to me. Before realizing it, I’m brushing a lock of hair behind my ear.

  Yeah, I’m pretty obvious.

  He takes my hand. “No more staring at that lake, okay?”

  “But what I saw…will it happen?”

  “The lake is using your fears against you.” He pulls me closer and wraps both hands around my waist. “And I, for one, prefer to focus on the positive things in Death. Like right now.”

  Irving rolls his eyes. “Mate, that’s lame. Yer lucky she likes ye.” He turns and walks away.

  I smile, putting my hands over John’s chest and feeling the rise and fall of his breath. The drum of his heart pulses under the tips of my fingers. “It’s so unfair. You’re not really breathing, and your heart isn’t really beating.”

  He brushes his finger over my lips. “And still you make it stop.”

  His breath mixes with mine, and like a drug, it pulls me to a reality where there’s only John and me; a place where nothing else matters. His lips hover an inch from mine, his eyes warm and dark. This is it, the kiss that never was will finally be.

  “Folks, I do hate to interrupt, but—” Irving points up to the high ground, his back to us.

  A blue woman stands there, staring down at him.

  “Barbie!” I shout, releasing John and running to her, but John is faster and pulls me back.

  “Let her come to you, Santana.”

  Barbie looks healthier now, her skin not so tight to the bones. She’s got a bit more hair, but she still resembles a malnourished zombie.

  “Sssantana,” she hisses, crouching like an animal on four legs. “Light? Eyesss?”

  I know what she means. “I’m not dead, Barbie. A bad man brought me here, the same man who tried to kill you.”

  She tilts her head in a question, so I go on. “He wants to take my body, do bad things with it. That’s why I need to find the Falls and go back home.”

  “Sssanty. Leeeave.”

  “I’m trying Barbie, but it’s not easy.”

  “Leave,” her coarse voice says. “They find you.”

  Does she mean Red Seth? Is he close?

  Irving analyzes Barbie. “She seems to have regained a great deal of her consciousness.”

  “Barb, come down here with us.” I stretch my hand to her, praying that she takes it. “Sweetie, there’s no danger; it’s me, you know I won’t hurt you.”

  She seems ready to take a step, but when she looks at John she snarls like a mad dog. Her canines are bigger than the rest of her teeth.

  I free myself from John’s grip and take a few steps toward Barbie.

  “I won’t let him hurt you, trust me.” I stand close to the sandy wall, my palm only a few inches from her feet.

  I know that I have the lower ground and that I’m screwed if she decides to follow her Shade instincts. I also know that if she does, Spritebreaker will cut through her in a second. John wouldn’t have let me go if he didn’t have a clear shot at Barbie.

  This situation is on the verge of disaster.

  “Come on, Barb,” I plead.

  “Leeeave!” She flinches and runs out of sight like a scared animal.

  “No, Barbie! God damn it!” I grasp the sand-wall and pull myself up, trying to climb it, but the sand crumbles beneath my fingers and I end up falling on my butt.

  There’s got to be another way! The ground evens slightly at the other side of the pond, but Barbie is already gone and until I get there…shit. I don’t need John to tell me it’s too late. I kick the sand-wall, and a small cloud of dust puffs into the air.

  Why can’t I reach Barbie? We’re finally on the same dimension, universe or whatever, and still! If only I had been there when she was alive! Tears threaten to come out. It’s all my fault! I drop over a squared rock, hiding my face in my hands, because I don’t want the boys to see me cry.

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself for her death.” John rests his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not good for you, especially in here.”

  Footsteps come from ahead, on the opposite side of the pond, above the depression. I keep my head down, praying that it’s Barbie. I’ll hear her voice any minute now...

  “Top of the morning to you all.”

  The voice is too deep and manly, so definitely not Barbie’s.

  “We’re not looking for trouble,” John says, a threat in his tone.

  “I’m just cruisin’, friend,” the man states.

  I know this voice…No, it can’t be him. All parts of me freeze except for my memory of a heart, which tries to beat out of my sternum. It’s a hallucination just like before. It wasn’t him then and it isn’t him now.

  A tall, skinny Shade stands on the margin of the depression, near the opposite side of the pond. He’s dressed in rags. He’s got a shirt wrapped around his head and a leather flask hanging in a belt around his waist. His creepy reversed Shade eyes stare back at me, and when recognition dawns upon those eyes, they shine. He opens a wolfish grin that oozes evil.

  This is Jebediah Stats.

  Well, Barbie did try to warn me.

  17

  Mr. Baker sits in a brown leather chair, his hands a triangle over his lips. He faces the window, looking at nighttime Manhattan, a symphony of restless lights. I sit opposite him, near the door. Tension is so thick in the air it could’ve turned to concrete.

  A ma
n, older than Mr. Baker by a few good years, paces between us. “We need a bench trial. If a jury is thrown into the game, we’re done,” he croaks. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “It’s not happening to you, Mr. Stats,” I say. “It’s happening to your twenty-one-year-old son. And I for one think a jury trial would be the best option.”

  He stares at me as if I said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “You want a jury in a rape trial? They’ll condemn him before you say a word, you dipshit.” He turns to Mr. Baker. “Why on earth did we hire her?”

  Mr. Baker doesn’t look back. “She’s never lost a case, Ed.”

  Ed. As in Edward Stats, of Baker & Stats. I should work harder to please this guy, after all, his name is on the front door of the firm.

  “Mr. Stats, a jury trial is the best option.” I button my suit and stand up. “Your son comes from a wealthy family of lawyers; a bench trial would look suspiciously like a bought judge, at least to the media. If Jebediah walked away, he’d be haunted by a massive media backlash for the rest of his life. Besides, a jury is easier to manipulate than a judge.” I shrug in a jaunty way, as if the stakes aren’t so high. But we all know that they are. “I don’t believe your son raped Kasey McCormick and if I can believe that, I can certainly make the jury agree with me.”

  Mr. Stats squints at me, then turns to Mr. Baker. “She’s twenty-fucking-five. Most people are still in law school at that age.”

  “She isn’t,” Mr. Baker says. “No one else offered to take the case, Ed. They don’t want to risk their jobs.”

  And I do?

  I keep feigning composure because this is the case that could make my career.

  “Fine, we hire another firm,” Mr. Stats snaps.

  “And send the message that we don’t look after our own?” Mr. Baker asks. “You might as well stamp ‘guilty’ on Jebediah’s forehead.”

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Mr. Stats, there’s a reason why I already practice the law. I’m very competent in what I do.”

  His mouth hangs slightly open. He looks at Mr. Baker, who still has his back to us. Then Mr. Stats walks to me and stretches his index finger close to the tip of my nose. A few loose strings of white hair dangle over his forehead.

  “If this doesn’t work, you’re finished, do you understand?”

  I look him straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

  ***

  I always thought of a courtroom as an arena: lawyers as gladiators, the jury as the eager audience, the judge as the Caesar, but I? I was Spartacus. When I walked out of a courtroom there were no survivors, and this time would be no different.

  The medical expert sits on the bench and explains to the room that the DNA he found on Kasey’s scratched arm belonged to Cane Hollow, a close friend of Mr. Stats’s son, Jebediah. This backs up the prosecution’s theory that Cane Hollow helped Jebediah rape Kasey.

  When the prosecutor is done questioning him, I stand.

  “Was there any trace of Mr. Jebediah Stats’s DNA in Miss McCormick’s private parts?”

  “No,” the expert says. “But she has been raped.”

  “Indeed she has, but were there signs of Mr. Stats’s DNA anywhere on the victim?”

  He shuffles in his seat. “The offender used a condom.”

  “Not what I asked, doctor. In your examination you found no traces of exchange between the defendant and the victim, is that correct?”

  The expert looks at the judge, who nods for him to answer.

  “Correct,” he finally says.

  “Cane Hollow’s DNA is all over the victim, not Jebediah Stats’s,” I say to the judge, but loudly enough so that the whole courtroom listens. Then I turn back to the expert. “Thank you. That will be all, doctor.”

  Evidence. It’s all I care about; it’s all everyone cares about. Don’t second guess it; don’t wonder if it’s misleading or not, just work the evidence in your favor. It’s how you make it in this business.

  After the doctor leaves the bench, the prosecution calls for Miss Jane Brown.

  Jane is Kasey McCormick’s best friend, a scared little thing who resembles an anguished squirrel. She goes through the prosecutor’s questions with ease, because she’s only sitting there to add credibility to the DA’s version of events. At the end, the prosecutor reminds the judge―and the whole courtroom― that Jebediah Stats’s fingerprints were found on Kasey’s purse.

  Evidence. It can be a two-sided blade.

  When they’re finished, I approach.

  “Miss Brown, is it true you’re the victim’s best friend?”

  She nods nervously as if she’s one breath away from falling apart, so I lean closer to the stand. “You need to answer verbally, dear. Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.” I wink and smile.

  This seems to reassure her, because her lips press into a slight smile.

  “Yes, I am,” she says.

  I put my hands behind my back and stroll in big circles. “Did Miss McCormick ever tell you she had a crush on Cane Hollow?”

  Jane looks at me as if I betrayed her, and in a way, perhaps I have.

  She swallows dry and says “Yes.”

  “And for how long was Kasey allegedly in love with Cane?”

  Jane begins to pant, eyes darting from me to the jury to the judge.

  “Go ahead, Miss Brown,” the judge encourages. “And don’t forget you’re under oath.”

  “A few years,” she whimpers. “But Cane never liked her, he lured Kasey so Jeb would rape her. I know it!”

  This is the pearl I was waiting for.

  “Are you aware that none of Mr. Stats’s DNA was found on the victim?” I stare at the nineteen-year-old sitting on the bench. “That Cane Hollow, not Jebediah Stats, brutally scratched your best friend’s arm?”

  Silence.

  “Forgive me, Miss Brown, but a fingerprint on a purse seems far less harmful than a scratch on the victim’s arm. Don’t you agree?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  The prosecutor faces me with pure rage, but doesn’t say a thing. He knows that right now, most of the jury is thinking that if Cane scratched her arm, he probably did much worse.

  To follow procedure, I ask the judge to request the jury to disregard that portion of Kasey’s testimony, because it was all speculation. And the judge is happy to oblige.

  “So it is safe to say Kasey McCormick was in love with Cane Hollow.” I look at the jury quickly, one eyebrow up. A couple of heads nod as if everything is clearer now. “Probably still is,” I add.

  A few outraged voices rise from the end of the courtroom. The judge pounds her gavel, demanding order, while the prosecutor screams objection, because I’m assuming facts not in evidence.

  Overruled.

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” I say.

  I walk back to my chair and sit with the poise of a queen, which is a pretty grand feat considering Jebediah Stats is sitting by my side. This guy bothers me on so many levels…He’s a rangy six feet tall, a stick with two eyes popping out of his gaunt face, much like his old man. I hate his eyes and it’s not because they could jump out of their sockets, it’s because they’re big soulless spheres. I can never guess what Jebediah is thinking.

  “You’re doing well, Counselor,” he whispers.

  “Don’t be so excited, we have a long way to run.”

  What follows is a duel between me and the prosecutor, a man at least ten years older than I am. He attacks like a hungry wolf, but I retort his every accusation, and when it’s my turn to charge, he’s massacred by swift and rational arguments. I’m destroying him. I try to hold back my victory smirks, but they easily vanish when I remember that he’s the one defending a poor girl who has been raped, and I the man with soulless eyes.

  Near the end, I call Jebediah Stats to the stand.

  “Mr. Stats, please describe the events that happened on the night of April the fifth.”

  “Cane and Kasey had been flir
ting the whole night, so I left to give them some privacy.” Jebediah looks at the judge, who observes him from below her half-moon glasses. “I did come back to meet them at the woods, but Cane was drunk. I asked Kasey if she wanted me to take her home, but she said she was fine. I tried taking her hand, because I had a feeling things would end bad, but she flinched and I grabbed her purse instead. She told me not to push it and leave, so I did. I should’ve known better.” He aims a pleading stare at the prosecutor. “Please ask Kas to tell the truth. I did nothing to her!”

  Whispers and gasps cut through the courtroom, while the prosecutor throws out objections as if they were flyers.

  The hammer goes down once again. After silence is restored, I paint Jebediah as a decent young man who will forever be scarred with guilt for not taking Kasey with him when he had the chance. And the whole courtroom buys it.

  I hold in a smile when I realize I’m freeing an innocent man and climbing up the ladder, all in one strike. Most lawyers aren’t that lucky.

  Evidence. Not always does it tell the truth.

  Standing there, in the middle of the courtroom, I wonder where that thought came from. But it doesn’t matter. The truth is not my problem, so I go on.

  After I’m done, the prosecutor charges Jebediah, aiming for a massacre, but Jebediah escapes without a scratch.

  “Members of the jury,” I begin my wrap-up. “The defense isn’t questioning the fact that a horrendous wrong has been done against Kasey McCormick. We’re simply doubting she’s accusing the right man.”

  The people in the jury look at each other, then back at me.

  “The victim must be brave to condemn the right man, who also happens to be the one she loves. Cane Hollow must be punished for what he’s done. Not Jebediah.”

  A little voice in the back of my head tells me I’m a terrible person. It assures me that there’s more to this story than what I’ve dug up. But all evidence points to Jebediah’s innocence.

  Evidence. It can be misleading.

  It can, but lawyers work on facts, not guts.

  “That is all,” I say to the jury.

  Now it’s time to sit back and wait. I hope my arguments were enough. Mr. Baker let me do this solo, no consulting with him, not even a phone call, which means Jebediah Stats is my test-drive. Not many people get a test-drive from Mr. Baker at twenty-five, and fewer get a second chance if they screw up.