Robert zipped to his favorite fitness center at the corner of Piedmont and Peachtree. Scanning the bank of televisions suspended from the ceiling, he found the one playing CNN and positioned himself in front of it. The sound was muted. The people on treadmills in front of the TV’s all wore headphones. But usually the closed-captioning was turned on so Robert could catch up on what was happening in the world.
The anchor of the morning program stated that Robbie’s trial had begun. A two-second sound bite showed spectators jostling one another to get a seat in the courtroom. Then there was a quick shot of Robbie and his attorney, Donald Briscoe sitting at the defendant’s table. It was the first time Robert had ever seen his son in a suit, at least as an adult. Had Briscoe picked it out? Or had Rachel?
Three quick pics of Amanda, Robert, and Morgan, were flashed in a box beside the anchor’s head as she retold the gruesome story once again. The program even showed Robbie with his face bloodied and bruised from the beating at the jail.
So Robbie’s trial was big enough news to attract national attention. The courthouse and surrounding area would be a zoo. And yet, the next morning, that’s exactly where Robert was: standing in the hallway in front of the courtroom watching people push and shove to get a coveted seat for the trial. The crowd of spectators leaned heavily to women. Probably Audrey’s groupies.
There was no fanfare like on TV, where the attorney and client climb out of a car and are mobbed by the press. Robbie and Donald Briscoe merely stepped into the courtroom by a side door and took their seats.
Robbie looked like the clean-cut American success story. Hair cut, tailored suit, even a power tie, like he was a businessman who had to take time out from his busy schedule to get this misunderstanding settled.
First Robbie’s attorney tried to get the case dismissed for numerous reasons. And the prosecutor objected. They met at the judge’s bench to discuss.
Robert tuned out the argument and scanned the courtroom, playing the game he and Suzanne sometimes did of guessing who the spectators were and what they did for a living.
The heavy woman in the sweat suit had probably dropped her kids off at school and rushed right over to get that front row seat. Or she’d elbowed her way to the front of the queue. The man in the business suit scribbling notes was an attorney, either getting tips on a case of his own, or taking notes for Briscoe’s own firm. The elderly couple was easy; they had nothing better to do. Robert counted 67 people, all willing to spend their day watching Robbie’s trial.
The prosecutor had barely gotten through his opening statement when Robbie began tugging at his tie. Once loosened, he unbuttoned the stiff top button of his shirt with a grunt, like he might choke to death if he didn’t get free.
The judge, a woman with short-cut gray hair, glared at him.
Half an hour later, there was a small commotion at the defense table. Briscoe leaned to his assistant, who left immediately and returned with water for Robbie.
After the lunch break, Robbie returned with his tie cinched up tight again, but it looked like there might have been a struggle because the knot was slightly off-center. Once the trial resumed, Robbie slipped a hand up, yanked on the knot, and completely removed the tie. Robert could see Briscoe’s jaw clench as he caught Robbie’s sabotage out of the corner of his eye.
By mid-afternoon, Robbie was fidgeting in his chair, wiping his forehead with first one hand, then the other. Robert moved up right next to Robbie for a closer look. He was sweating, drops rolling down the sides of his cheeks and dripping onto the collar of his shirt.
Robbie started to shrug out of his jacket. Briscoe latched onto the front placket, hoping to stop him. But it was like trying to settle a four-year-old during the prayer at church. Robbie would have his way.
The train wreck continued. And the jacket was removed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By the time the day’s session broke up at four o’clock, Briscoe looked almost as wrung out as Robbie. He seemed to be holding himself rigid, like he might explode before he got out of the courtroom. When he reached out for the handle of the door, Robert noticed a small ring of sweat under his arm. Good God, Robbie had driven a six-figure lawyer to distraction.
Robert went back to Rachel’s office to wait for Suzanne. They were going to Veni Vidi Vici for dinner.
The phone on Rachel’s desk buzzed, and her personal assistant announced that Donald Briscoe was calling.
Rachel checked her watch then took the call. Robert scooted up close to hear both sides of the conversation.
“That was a complete disaster,” Briscoe said.
“How bad?”
“I’m beginning to think I should go with a plea of incompetent to stand trial. For a while there, I was afraid Robbie was going to strip down to his undershorts.”
“I guess our gamble backfired.”
“No,” Briscoe said. “Putting him in isolation was the right thing to do. I had to get him healed up for trial. He would have picked another fight first chance he got. I couldn’t have jurors staring at his beat-up face and thinking he got what he deserved for killing his mother.”
“But now he’s off the pain killers.”
“And going through withdrawal big time. The judge called me to the bench and I told her I thought he might be suffering from food poisoning. I asked for a postponement, but she wasn’t buying it. We’ve got to be back tomorrow morning.”
“What can I do?”
“I’d ask you to call him, but I’m not sure even you could get through to him. I can’t. One thing is certain. He’s going to need another suit. He sweated right through this one.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Rachel said, and hung up.
She called her personal assistant into her office.
“Brenda, I need another suit from Muse’s sent to the courthouse, and Robbie’s suit needs to be picked up and taken to the cleaners.”
“Same style okay?” Brenda asked.
Rachel nodded then called to her before she reached the door. “You better send over a couple extra shirts, too. Make sure they’re all cotton.”
* * *
The minute Robert and Suzanne got to the restaurant, he headed upstairs to the bar. He needed a double.
The place was packed for happy hour, and he had no trouble finding a scotch drinker. He did feel a bit guilty though, when he slipped into a businessman drinking alone, and encouraged him to take a big long gulp.
Sheepishly, Robert sidled back over to Suzanne once he popped back out. She was perched on a bar stool next to a woman sipping white wine.
He plopped down next to Suzanne. She tilted her head down and to the side as she glanced over at him.
“Rough day?” she asked.
“Kind of.”
“I thought you weren’t going to let the business get to you?”
“I’m not.”
Still staring, she squinted her eyes at him. “Well, something’s going on. You haven’t said two words to me since we left the office.”
“I guess I’m just preoccupied.”
Her head straightened, and she looked across to the row of bottles on a shelf before she turned back to Robert, her eyes flaring. “You didn’t.”
“What?”
“You’ve been inside someone’s head. Who was it? Rachel?” Her head quivered with anger. “I told you if you ever tried to interfere—”
Robert held up a hand to stop her. “Robbie’s trial started today. I was at the courthouse, not Audrey’s.”
Instantly, she deflated. “Oh, Robert. How did it go?”
“All I can say is, I’m glad I’m dead, because I certainly wouldn’t want to face the press after his performance today.”
“That bad?”
“You have no idea.”
Robert held up a finger, slipped down three seats, and got another shot of scotch. Then he came back to the seat beside Suzanne and continued.
“His attorney called Rachel after he left the courthou
se. I swear the man has never worked this hard for a fee in his life.” Robert shook his head. “I found out something interesting, too. Remember the first time Robbie got beat up and sent to the hospital? They put him on painkillers. But when he got back to the jail, he was on his own again. So he picked a fight with some guy that put him back in the hospital. Briscoe finally insisted Robbie be secluded from the general population at the jail, just so he’d heal up for his trial.”
“Dear God, he’s willing to take a beating for drugs?”
“I guess so. Now he’s going through withdrawal, and he can barely sit still at the trial.”
“I suppose the news media is having a ball with that.”
“I don’t even want to watch the news,” Robert said, staring off into the distance. “Poor Rachel, going through this alone.”
Suzanne placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s not alone. And neither are you.”
Later, back at their model home, Robert lounged on their fabulous bed, his arms tucked behind his head. Suzanne curled up next to him.
“Are you going back to the courthouse tomorrow?” she asked.
“I guess. I feel like it’s my duty, like I’m paying penance for Robbie’s screwed up life.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She snuggled up closer, with her arm hugged across his chest, and her leg draped over his thighs. Never in his life had he experienced such intimacy. Sex was not an option. He couldn’t even feel her body wrapped around his. But he felt the emotion. They were a team now, partners. No problem was too great that they couldn’t face it together. And everything in his life was made better because she was a part of it.
A twinge of pain needled Robert as he recalled Amanda and Martin together in bed that morning, all wrapped up in each other; her not caring that her hair was a mess. He’d understood immediately that they were in love. And he was bitter that he’d been cheated of that experience.
Drawing his hands out from under his head, he draped Suzanne in an embrace. He closed his eyes and let his mouth relax into a lazy smile.
“I love you,” he said softly.
She wriggled against him, trying in vain to get closer. “I love you, too.”
“Even if we’re together for a hundred years,” he said, “It won’t be enough.”
She lay quietly at his side for so long that he thought she must have zoned out. But then a small whimper broke the silence.
“Aw, honey. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He sat up, cursing himself for being such a turkey. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she wailed. “That was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me. It’s just that I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.” She buried her face in the crook of his arm. “I know I won’t be able to watch you meet someone and fall in love again.”
“Aw, sweetie,” he chuckled. “I thought we went all over this. We’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of us.”
He tickled his fingers under her chin.
“And what makes you think I’ll ever find another woman like you? Every time some babe tries to get close, I’ll remember all the wonderful times you and I have had. She won’t stand a chance.”
But instead of cheering her up, he seemed to have made things worse. She whimpered again.
“That’s the thing,” she cried feebly. “I’ve been wondering about our memories. Your memories. You know how you told me that your brain is like a hard drive. When they thaw you out, they’ll just restart your computer and you’ll be you.”
“Yeah. We think that’s what will happen.”
“But what about all the things that are happening now? Aren’t all these memories kind of like unsaved data? When you come back, will all of this information get saved onto your hard drive? Or is it all going to be lost?”
* * *
At Robbie’s trial the next morning, Robert tried to concentrate on the proceedings. But his mind kept drifting back to Suzanne’s questions about his memory once he was revived. He tried to imagine in his mind how at the moment that he was brought back, his new memories would somehow meld with the memories already in his brain. A niggling fear kept harping at him—what if none of this did get saved?
All the other temps assumed they would remember. But what kind of guarantee did they have? The more he thought about it, the more stressed he got. He decided that he would discuss it with Sam the first chance he got at the December meeting. But that plan didn’t offer much solace. How was Sam to know what the future held?
Forlorn, Robert turned his attention back to the witness on the stand. A middle-aged woman with graying hair sat pensively considering the prosecutor’s last question.
Briscoe had told Rachel he wasn’t worried about the woman. He knew the prosecution had gotten the records for Robbie’s flight to Atlanta. This woman had sat next to Morgan during the trip.
“I know they were talking about diamonds,” the woman told the district attorney. “And there was something about emeralds. I definitely remember the girl saying that her favorite color was green. Then the man next to her said something about rubies and the girl said red was her favorite color.”
The woman shook her head, like a mother listening to a child’s silly joke.
At the defense table, Robbie was oblivious to the woman’s testimony. His appearance had deteriorated. He hadn’t even attempted to wear a tie; his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. He sat bobbing his head and tapping a pencil on the table like he was drumming to a song. Briscoe nonchalantly slid a hand over and took the pencil away.
Once the prosecutor was finished, Briscoe asked the woman if what she had overheard could have been from a movie or a TV show. Possibly even a book.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose they could have been discussing a movie.”
Briscoe was already turning back to the defense table when the woman twisted her mouth and scrunched her eyebrows.
“But why did he say he didn’t know the combination to the safe?” she asked.
It was like a stab in his back. Briscoe’s face turned to stone, a slight flush rose on his cheeks.
“No further questions,” he snapped.
Robert wasn’t sure if that last statement had an affect on Robbie, but for some reason, he was suddenly plagued with an itch. He yanked his shirt out of his pants and stuck a hand up under to scratch his belly. Briscoe looked like he might have a stroke.
The policeman who had first arrived at the scene described Robbie as distraught, nervous, and definitely under the influence of drugs. They ran a blood test as soon as they got Robbie and Morgan to the police station.
Again Briscoe had foreseen this, and even knew the damaging results of that blood test. He didn’t cross-examine.
As he’d told Rachel, he wasn’t really building a defense. How could he? Robbie was caught red-handed with a duffle bag full of jewelry. His prints were on the plastic bag still wrapped around the gun.
And he definitely would not be calling Robbie to the witness stand. He was letting the prosecutor lay out his case, and hoping that he could not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Robbie intended to kill his mother.
The next morning, Robbie looked even worse. He had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept. A casual observer might have surmised that the gravity of the situation was finally sinking in. But Robert knew better. The only thing on Robbie’s mind was drugs.
At one point during the morning’s proceedings, Robbie’s head suddenly nodded forward, like he had dozed off.
The next witness was the john who Morgan had performed sexual favors on in downtown Atlanta.
“She asked me if I had a gun,” the man stated. “I got the impression that if I’d said no, she would not have gotten in the car with me.”
“So what happened next?”
The man related how Morgan had asked him to drive her to some place secluded. He took her to a small park where she’d coaxed him
out of his car. Then she got down on her knees, asked him to point the gun at her head, and then she—
Hesitating, the man looked down at his hands. The prosecutor finished for him. “She performed a sex act, is that correct?”
The man nodded.
Then, while he was still in the throes of ecstasy, she grabbed the gun and ran. Somewhere along the way, she must have dumped someone’s newspaper out of its plastic delivery bag and used it to preserve the man’s fingerprints.
Briscoe’s summation was pretty good. He threw all the blame on Morgan, who hadn’t even gone to trial yet. She had talked about the jewelry, she had stolen the gun, and she had pulled the trigger, killing Amanda Malone.
In fact, Robbie’s behavior for the past several days played right into Briscoe’s plan. As he paraded in front of the jury, Briscoe said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Does this look like a man who could mastermind a cold-blooded murder?”
He threw his arm out toward the defense table, where Robbie had slouched down in his chair with his elbows planted on the armrests. His head had fallen back on his shoulders. He was fast asleep, with his mouth gaping open.
* * *
The jury deliberated for three days. During that time, Briscoe was in contact with Rachel, assuring her that the longer they were out, the more likely Robbie would be acquitted or at least found guilty of the lesser count of involuntary manslaughter.
When the bailiff reported that the jury had come to a decision, Robert and Suzanne were sitting in the front row of the courtroom.
Technically, Robbie had his suit on, but he wore no tie, and his jacket hung open, revealing the right half of his shirttail hanging out. Robert wondered if he even knew where he was. He slumped into his chair and immediately closed his eyes.
But Robbie’s inattentiveness abruptly ended when the bailiff declared him guilty of premeditated murder in the first degree.
He shot up out of that chair like he’d been set on fire.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he screamed at the judge. “I want a new lawyer. This asshole hasn’t done a goddamn thing for me! I told him a thousand times I didn’t do it, but he wouldn’t even—”
The Ups and Downs of Being Dead Page 25