"You just put one out, Jess." His voice was soft and sad. He knew what was happening too.
"Huh?" She squinted at him through the flame from her lighter.
"Nothing. Shall we go back?"
"Sure. Why not?" She tried a flip smile as she tossed the empty Styrofoam cup into a large metal ashtray filled with sand.
They walked back into the courtroom side by side, but not touching. Ian walked slowly toward the desk that set him and Martin apart from everyone else. And Jessica followed him with her eyes, watching him, watching. Martin rapidly scratch out notes on a long yellow legal pad. The perfect lawyer, the image caught in a pool of sunlight splashed bravely across the inlaid marble floor. She stared at the light for a minute, thinking of nothing, only wishing herself somewhere else, and then absentmindedly she looked across at the desk reserved for the assistant D.A.
There she sat. Matilda Howard-Spencer, tall, lean; everything about her seemed sharp. She had a narrow head with blunt-cut short blond hair, and long then agile hands that seemed ready to point accusing fingers. She wore a sober gray suit and a pale gray silk shirt, and her eyes almost matched her suit. Slate gray, and just as hard. Long, skinny legs, and the only piece of jewelry she wore was a thin gold band. She was married to Judge Spencer, whose name she had incorporated into hers, and she was the holy terror of the D.A.'s office. Her best cases were rapes. Neither Ian nor Jessie knew any of that, but Martin did, and he had wanted to cry as he'd watched her walk into the courtroom. She had the delicacy and charm of a hatchet delivered bull's-eye to the balls. He had tried another case against her once, and he hadn't won. Nobody had. His client had committed suicide nine days into the trial. He probably would have anyway, but still ... Matilda, darling Matilda. And all Ian and Jessie knew was what they saw and what they felt.
Ian saw a woman who made him nervous as she seemed to stalk within an invisible cage around her desk. Jessie saw a woman carved in ice, and sensed something that filled her with fear. Now it wasn't a game. It was a full-scale war. Just the way the woman looked at Ian told her that. She glared across at him once, and then through him several times, as though he were not a person to acknowledge, and considerably less than a man. She spoke to Houghton in a rapid flow of words, and he nodded several times, then got up and walked away. It was very clear who was in command. Jessica cursed the man with the appendix. This woman was one piece of luck they didn't need.
"All rise ..." The judge was back in his seat, and tension filled the air. He showed obvious pleasure at the new addition to the scene, and acknowledged her presence with a respectful greeting. Terrific.
Matilda Howard-Spencer made a few quick, friendly remarks to the jury, all of which they seemed to respond to. She could inspire confidence as well as fear. Her voice and manner exuded authority, and belied her age: she must be no older than forty-two or -three. She was someone you could count on, someone who would take care of business, take care of you, see that things worked. This was a woman who could fight a war, lead an army, and still manage to see that the children took Latin as well as algebra. But she had no children. She had been married for less than two years. The law was her lover. Her husband was only her friend, and he was a man well into his sixties.
The sparring began with one of the least interesting of witnesses. The medical examiner took the stand and said nothing damaging to Ian, nothing helpful to Margaret Burton. He testified only that he had examined her, that there had been intercourse, but that nothing more than that could be ascertained. Despite Matilda Howard-Spencer's best urging, he stuck to his assertion that there was no evidence that force had been used. Martin's objections to her near-badgering were rapidly quelled, but the testimony was too colorless to make much difference. It all seemed very boring to Jessica, and after an hour she settled her attention on the middle red nylon stripe in the flag. It was something to stare at as she tried to float away from where she was ... those words droning on endlessly ... "infamous crime against nature" ... sodomy ... rape ... intercourse ... rectum ... vagina ... sperm ... it was like a child's guide to fantasy. All those terrible words you looked up in the dictionary when you were fourteen, and were titillated by. Now she had a chance to try each one on for size. Vagina. The prosecutor seemed fond of that one. And rape. She said it with a capital letter "R."
The day ended at last, and they went home as silently as they had throughout the week. It was exhausting just being there, keeping up the front for those watchers in the jury box, for anyone who might be paying attention. If you frowned, the jury might think you were mad--mad at Ian--or upset. Upset? No, darling, of course not! If you smiled, it meant you took the proceedings too lightly. If you wore the wrong thing, you looked rich. Something too cheerful, and you looked flip. Sexy in court? At a rape trial? God forbid. Vagina? Where? No, of course I don't have one. It wasn't even frightening anymore, just exhausting. And that damned woman was relentless, squeezing every last thought and word out of the witnesses. And Martin was such a fucking gentleman. But what did it matter anymore? If they could just stay awake and keep turning up in court, soon it would be over. Soon ... but it seemed as though it had just begun. There were lifetimes to go. They hardly said a word over dinner that night, and Jessica was fast asleep in her bathrobe before Ian came out of the shower. It was just as well; he was too tired to say anything. And what was there to say?
She stretched sleepily in the car the next morning and smiled tiredly at the early morning light on the buildings.
"What are you smiling at, Jess?"
"A crazy thought. I was just thinking that this is like when we used to go to work together in New York." She looked thoughtful, but he didn't smile.
"Not exactly."
"No. Do we have time to stop for a quick cup of coffee on the way?" They hadn't had time for breakfast, and it was already late.
"We'd better just settle for coffee out of the machine up there, Jess. I don't want to be late. They can hold me in contempt for that, and pull my bail." Jesus. And all for a cup of coffee.
"Okay, love." She touched his shoulder gently and lit a fresh cigarette. The only place she didn't smoke now was in court.
She slipped her hand inside his arm as they walked up the steps of City Hall, and everything seemed bright and shiny and new. It was that kind of morning, no matter what horrors were happening to their life. It almost seemed as though God didn't know. He went right on with the sunlight and pretty days.
They reached the hall outside the courtroom with three minutes to spare, and Jessica hurried for the coffee machine.
"Want some?" He started to answer no, but then nodded yes. How much worse could his heartburn get, and what did it matter? He took the cup from her hand; it was so shaky she almost spilled the coffee.
"Baby, it's going to take a year to put us back together after this."
"You mean my adorable quivers?" He smiled back into her face.
"Have you seen mine?" He held out a hand and they both laughed.
"Occupational hazard, I guess."
"For a rapist?" She had tried to sound flip, but he didn't.
"Okay, Ian, knock it off." It ended the brief conversation between them, and Jessica noticed a flurry of activity near an unmarked door. There were people coming and going. Four men, a woman, the sound of voices, as though someone of importance were arriving.
The activity caught Jessie's attention, but it was Ian who looked strange, his head cocked to one side, listening intently. She wanted to ask him what was happening, but she wasn't sure she should. He seemed so totally absorbed by the sounds and the voices. Then there was the quick slam of a door, and a woman in a plain white wool dress rounded the corner. Jessica gasped. It was Margaret Burton.
Ian's mouth opened and then closed, but none of them moved. Jessica stood, transfixed, feeling shaken and cold, her eyes driving into Margaret Burton, who had come to a rapid halt, taken one short step backward, and then stopped with an expression of astonishment on her face as the three of them
stood there. It seemed as though the entire building had fallen silent, and they were the only three people left in the world. Nothing moved ... except Margaret Burton's face. Slowly, ever so slowly, like a wax mask melting in the sun, her face molded into an incredible smile. It was a rictus of victory, for only Ian to see. Jessica watched her, horrified, and then, as though her body moved of its own accord, she lurched wildly forward and swung at the Burton woman with the handbag held clenched in her hand.
"Why? Why, dammit, why?" It was a piercing wail of pain from Jessica's heart. The woman fell back a step, looking startled, as though waked from a dream, while at the same moment Ian leaped forward to grab Jessie. Something terrible could have happened. She had murder in her eyes. And that cry of "Why?" was echoed again and again through the halls as Margaret Burton fled, her heels tapping a haunting staccato in the marble corridor as Jessie sobbed in Ian's arms.
A fleet of men rapidly came running, then turned away as they saw only Ian and Jessie standing there. There was no brawl to dispel, nothing more than a husband and wife fighting, and the wife having herself a good cry. But Martin had heard the sounds too, and for some reason, as he had been about to enter the court, something had told him to follow the sounds. And then seeing Margaret Burton hurry into a door near the court, he knew that something had happened. He found Jessie trembling on a bench, with Ian trying to soothe her.
"Is she all right?"
Ian looked grim in response and didn't answer.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. She ... we just ... had an unexpected encounter with the illustrious Miss Burton."
"Did she do anything to Jessie?" Martin prayed that she had. It would be the best thing that had happened to their case.
"She smiled." Jessie stopped sobbing long enough to explain.
"She smiled?" Martin was puzzled.
"Yes. Like someone who has just killed someone else, and is glad."
"Now, Jess ..." Ian tried to pacify her, but he knew she was right. That was exactly how Margaret Burton had looked, but they were the only ones who had seen it.
"You know damn well that's what she looked like." She tried to explain it to Martin, but he made no comment.
"Are you all right now?" She nodded slowly and took a deep breath.
"I'm okay."
"Good. Because we should get into court. We don't want to be late."
Jessica rose unsteadily, with both men watching her worriedly. She took another deep breath and closed her eyes. What a hideous morning.
"Jessie ..."
"No. Now just let me alone, and I'll be fine." She had known what Ian was going to say. He wanted her to go home.
As they walked into court, she felt a few heads turn, and wondered who had heard her shrieks as the Burton woman had fled down the hall. It rapidly became clear who had. They were less than three feet into the courtroom before Inspector Houghton was standing belligerently in front of them, with an angry look on his face that was directed at Jessie.
"If you ever do that again, I'll have you arrested, and his bail pulled so fast both your heads will swim." Ian looked agonized and Jessica gaped as Martin stepped in front of them.
"Do what, exactly, Inspector?"
"Threaten Miss Burton."
"Jessica, did you threaten Miss Burton?" Martin looked at her as a father would, asking his five-year-old if she had poured Mommy's perfume down the toilet.
"No. I ... I screamed ..."
"What did you scream?"
"I don't know."
"She said 'Why?' That's all she said," Ian filled in for her.
"That doesn't sound like a threat to me, Inspector. Does it to you? As a matter of fact, I heard Mrs. Clarke shouting that word all the way down the hall, which was what drew me to the scene."
"I consider that a threat." I consider you an asshole. Jessie was dying to say it.
"Where I come from, Inspector, 'why' is a question, not a threat. Unless our asking that kind of question threatens you." And then, without another word, Houghton turned on his heel and returned to the chair next to Matilda Howard-Spencer. But he was looking none too pleased, and neither was Ian. Jessie could feel him shaking next to her.
"I'm going to kill that sonofabitch before this is over." But the look on Martin's face stopped both of them. It was terrifying.
"No, dammit, you're going to sit here and look like Mr. and Mrs. America if it kills you. And right now. Is that clear? Both of you? Jessica, that means you too. Smile, beautiful, smile. Bullshit. Better than that. And take her arm, Ian. Jesus, all we need is for the jury to think there's trouble. There isn't. Yet. Just remember that." And with that, he walked toward the desk at the front of the room with a look of solemnity but not of concern. He smiled in the direction of the prosecutor, and took in the room with a benevolent air. Jessie and Ian didn't do quite as well, though they tried. And they still had the Burton woman's testimony to live through. But remarkably, after that demonic smile, hearing her talk wasn't as bad as they had feared.
She told the now-familiar tale as she sat primly on the witness stand. The white dress looked terribly pure, overwhelmingly ladylike. She sat so demurely that her legs might have been soldered together just before she'd come into court, and Jessica noticed that her hair was now tinted more brown than red. If she was wearing makeup, you couldn't see it, and if she had a bosom, she had done remarkable things to make it disappear. She seemed to have no figure at all.
"Ms. Burton, would you care to tell us what happened?" The assistant district attorney was wearing an extremely somber black dress, a perfect contrast to the witness's white one. It was like something out of a "B" movie.
The recitation that followed sounded very familiar indeed. At the end of her client's story, the prosecutor asked, "Had anything like this ever happened to you before?"
The witness hung her head and barely seemed able to whisper. "No." It was a gentle sound, like a leaf falling to earth, and Jessie felt her nails dig into her palms. It was the first time in her life she had ever hated anyone that much. And sitting there, watching her, having to listen to her, made her want to kill the woman.
"How did you feel after he left you there in that sleazy hotel?" Oh, Jesus.
"Like I wanted to kill myself. I thought about it for a while. That was why it took me so long to call the police." What a performance! It almost required a standing ovation and a chorus of bravos. But it was far from amusing. Jessie knew Margaret Burton was winning over the jury with her demure little airs.
What could Martin do now? If he tore her to shreds, the jury would hate him. Cross-examining her was going to be like roller skating through a mine field.
After more than an hour of testimony, Matilda Howard-Spencer had finished her questioning, and it was Martin's turn to begin. Jessica felt her stomach rise and then rapidly fall. She wanted to hold on to Ian. She couldn't stand it anymore. But she had to. And she wondered what he was feeling as he sat isolated from the world. The accused. The rapist Jessica shuddered.
"Ms. Burton, why did you smile at Mr. Clarke this morning outside the court?" Martin's first question shocked everyone in the courtroom, even Jessie. The jury looked stunned, while Houghton smoldered and whispered something to the prosecutor.
"Smile? ... I ... why ... I didn't ... I didn't smile at him!" She was blushing and looked absolutely furious, nothing like the virgin of a moment before.
"Then what did you do?"
"I ... nothing, dammit ... I ... I mean ... oh, I don't know what I did ..." Here came the virgin again, and helplessness to boot. "I was just so shocked to see him there, and his wife called me a name. She ..."
"Did she? What did she call you?" Martin looked vastly amused, and Jessie wondered if he really was. It was hard to tell with him; she was learning that more each day. "Go on, Miss Burton, don't be shy. Tell us what she called you. But do remember that you are under oath." He smiled at her and assumed an attitude of waiting.
"I don't remember what she call
ed me."
"You don't? Well, if it was such a traumatic encounter, wouldn't you remember what she'd called you?"
"Objection, Your Honor!" Matilda Howard-Spencer was on her feet and looking annoyed. Very.
"Sustained."
"All right. But just one minor point ... isn't it true that you leered at Mr. Clarke, almost as though ..."
"Objection!" The D.A's voice could have shattered concrete, as Martin smiled angelically. He had gotten his point across.
"Sustained."
"Sorry, Your Honor." But it was a good beginning. And the rest of the story droned on after that. How she had been debased, abused, used, humiliated, violated. The words were getting to be almost laughable. "What exactly did you expect from Mr. Clarke?"
"What do you mean?" The witness looked haughty, but confused.
"Well, did you think he'd propose marriage in that hotel room, or whip an engagement ring out of his pocket, or ... well, what did you expect?"
"I don't know. I ... he ... I thought he just wanted to have a drink. He was a little drunk anyway."
"Did you find him attractive?"
"Of course not."
"Then why did you want to have a drink with him?"
"Because ... oh, I don't know. Because I thought he was a gentleman." She looked delighted with her response, as though that said it all.
"Aha. That was it, eh? A gentleman. Would a gentleman take you to a hotel on Market Street?"
"No."
"Did Mr. Clarke take you to a hotel on Market Street ... or did you take him?" She flushed furiously, and then hid her face in her hands, muttering something no one could hear, until the judge admonished her to speak up.
"I didn't take him anywhere."
"But you went with him. Even though you did not find him attractive. Did you particularly want to have that drink with him?"
"No."
"Then what did you want to do?" Ouch. The question almost made Jessie smile. Beautiful.
"I wanted ... I wanted ... to be friends."
"Friends?" Martin looked even more amused. She was making a fool of herself.
Now and Forever (1978) Page 17