by Sol Stein
“Doesn’t that jangle your nerves?” Widmer asked.
Thomassy said, “You can’t shake a milk shake that’s already shook.” He noticed that Widmer sipped tea with pursed lips like Francine. “I believe your Washington friends, despite their denials…”
Widmer put the teacup down carefully.
“…got the photos of Francine to the DA,” Thomassy said. “If you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
“They wanted the link to the Russians ballyhooed by the press.”
“I don’t know,” Widmer said.
Widmer unwrapped the paper from around a lump of sugar. Then he tried wrapping it up again. He lifted his head and looked Thomassy directly in the eyes and said, “I am an amateur, George. Like your client.”
Thomassy finished his second cup of coffee in silence before Widmer added, “I’m sorry if I was the conduit. I should have understood more.”
“No need,” said Thomassy. “I understood even less. Francine can testify to my ignorance. What’s the news from the hospital?”
“Priscilla says all she’s getting right now is the usual double-talk.”
“I feel like I ought to be there.”
“You can’t leave here now. And you can’t do any good there.” Widmer’s voice cracked slightly. “I envy you, George.”
Thomassy looked at Widmer. When someone like him said something like that you paid attention.
“I think Priscilla and I were once briefly insane about each other the way you and Francine are now. I hope your insanity lasts longer.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Thomassy said, feeling for the first time that the ice floes he and Ned always stood on when talking to each other had drifted together.
*
When Widmer and Thomassy went back up, the jury was calling to have a portion of Tarasova’s testimony read to them.
“I’m going to run over to the hospital,” Thomassy said. “If it looks like they’re close to bringing in a verdict, phone me quick, will you?”
“They won’t let you see her now.”
I got in last night.
“Let her rest.”
I’m not going to let her rest for the next thirty years.
“Priscilla’s there. She’ll call me if we’re needed.”
I’m needed.
“Your client wants you, George.”
Reluctantly, Thomassy went over to Ed.
“What does their calling for Tarasova’s testimony mean?” Ed asked.
“How should I know,” Thomassy said irritably.
A while later the jury asked to hear Detective Cooper’s testimony read to them.
“Is that good or bad?” Ed asked.
Thomassy looked at Ed’s face. The kid, who’d flam-boozled everyone with his professional double-talk, looked like a frightened twelve-year-old. Unfamiliar turf makes jelly out of rock.
“Don’t pee in your pants,” Thomassy said. “If a jury’s asking for things, it means they’re not agreeing. Disagreement works in your favor.”
“Why Cooper’s testimony?”
“Maybe they’re interested in the cigarette lighter. Or the flask. Or the button. Probably the button. Was it yours?”
“How should I know?” Ed said.
The way young people shrug their shoulders is ugly, Thomassy thought. For the first time in his life he was prepared to take a verdict of guilty.
*
Thomassy felt the tap on his shoulder. When he glanced around, he saw Ned Widmer’s smile.
“Priscilla says Francine’s temperature is down to normal. Blood count, too.”
“What was it?”
“We may never know, but it’s gone.”
“What the hell good are doctors for? Half of what they do is guesswork.”
“Some lawyers I know still use leeches.”
Thomassy laughed because it suddenly hit him that Francine would be okay and that Ned Widmer had the makings of a friend.
*
At four-fifteen the jury sent out word that it had a verdict. Everyone was reassembled in the courtroom. “All rise,” the court officer said as the judge came through the door from his chambers and ascended the bench.
Ed watched the face of the foreman, but she wasn’t giving anything away. The judge asked her if the jury had reached a verdict.
“We have, Your Honor,” she said.
It occurred to Ed that the judge didn’t know the answer either. Over his left shoulder he saw the family contingent, mother, father, and Franklin Harlow. Only the father was looking at him. The others were watching the foreman.
Thomassy poked Ed. When it came time for sentencing, judges sometimes added a few years for defendants who hadn’t paid attention.
The foreman cleared her throat. She was looking at the judge. The judge nodded to her. And so she said, “The jury finds the defendant not guilty on all counts.”
Ed looked like he wanted to hug somebody. Thomassy, who was thinking of Francine, didn’t offer his hand. Ed glanced over at his family, but they were already leaving the courtroom.
Out in the hallway, Ed saw Scott and Melissa. Had they heard the verdict? He started over to share the good news but they turned away.
“There are TV cameras outside,” Thomassy reminded him.
“What do I say?”
“Don’t say anything.”
On the steps of the courthouse, Franklin Harlow came over to them, keeping his back to the TV cameras. “Your father would like to see you,” he said. “Over this way.”
And so, the cameras grinding away, they separated, Ed stepping along with Franklin Harlow to where the Sturbridges waited for them, and Thomassy hurrying down to the other cluster, the smiling string-pullers Jackson Perry and Randall, and Ned Widmer with his arm through Tarasova’s. The men all wanted to shake his hand.
“Hey,” one of the TV reporters yelled. “You guys get closer together so we can get you in one shot!”
Something made Thomassy glance over at the other group. Mrs. Sturbridge was embracing her brilliant son, scholar, author, hugging to her a devious lying conniving ultimately thoughtless human being who, against the occasional courtesies and decencies and kindnesses that enabled people to survive in God’s huge tent, had struck at his friend and mentor, burned his brain, and by doing so had lashed out against every class and kind, unleashing his personal warhead against the whole society. Thomassy could hear Mrs. Sturbridge chanting, “I’m so glad, I’m so glad,” but he saw Ed twisting his face toward Mr. Sturbridge, wanting reassurance of his vindication from the man. Ed put out his hand to his father, thinking his father had his hand out to shake his, too, and what Thomassy saw and heard was the irrevocable thunderball slap of Mr. Sturbridge’s hand striking Ed’s face.
Franklin Harlow, a peaceable man, stepped forward, thinking Ed might strike at his father. But Ed merely took two steps back out of harm’s way.
Mrs. Sturbridge, who had been thanking her God for her son’s court-proven innocence, cried as if it had been her face that received the resounding slap.
Ed, who, after all, was an extremely intelligent young man, understood. He rushed past his mother for the taxi at the curb.
Thomassy saw the taxi pull away. As it did, a car he hadn’t noticed before left the curb, following the cab. He didn’t get the whole license number, just the FC that stood for foreign consulate.
“Jesus,” said Perry, who’d also noticed.
“They are not wasting any time,” said Tarasova, who unlike the lawyers present, understood justice very well.
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