“Ms. Hill, I am asking you to kindly remove your hand and go back to your table.”
Oh, gawd. Red with embarrassment, Lauren yanked her hand away from Judge Howell’s robe and retreated to her table. The entire courtroom audience, including her client, stood and stared in shock. Ashamed and apologetic, she tilted her head meekly at Judge Howell.
“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know—”
The judge lifted her gavel. “It is an understatement, a real understatement, to say we need to have a recess right now. Court will reconvene in one hour.”
One hour, Lauren pondered. One hour to regain my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lauren grabbed her briefcase and made a beeline out of the courtroom. She did not even pause to acknowledge her flabbergasted associate or client.
Her eyes welled with tears as she weaved her way past a gauntlet of intrusive reporters anxiously following her. Animals! Reporters might not have the sharp teeth and claws of predators, but their digital recorders and nasty turns of phrase were just as effective at tearing people apart. Lauren dealt with their cruelty every day, but rarely was it directed at her. Shouts of “Ms. Hill, can you tell us what just happened?” and “What made you lose it back there?” rang out, as microphones were thrust at her.
Lauren needed to get away, if only for a few hours. Yes, that would do it. That would be enough time to relax and collect her thoughts. Then I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine, she thought. But Lauren wasn’t given that luxury. She only had sixty minutes to recover.
With newshounds hot on her tail, Lauren ducked into the ladies’ restroom and shut the door behind her. She leaned back against the solid oak door and sighed.
A wispy lock of curly, blonde hair fell out of place, in front of her eye. Lauren walked to the first of three wash basins and gazed into the mirror. It was worse than she’d thought. Her normally impeccably styled mane was an untidy mess and the tasteful eyeliner she had applied earlier that morning was running down her cheeks. Tears ran down to her chin, bringing the chalky highlights with them. I look like Alice Cooper, she thought.
Lauren turned both faucets on and began running through her time-tested grooming techniques. Rifling through her attaché for emergency supplies, she went to work repairing the damage.
“What—what—what was that, damn it? What the hell just happened to you?” Lauren spoke aloud, not just scolding her bedraggled reflection, but also hoping beyond hope to find some rational explanation for the event which had just taken place inside the courtroom. Not surprisingly, the woman in the mirror had no answer. She just stared blankly back at herself.
Her outward appearance was returning to normal, but that wasn’t the main issue. After washing off the old and applying the new, she still wasn’t ready to face the ravenous mob she knew was still circling like lions around a wounded gazelle separated from the rest of the herd. She could hear them in the corridor just beyond the door. She was frustrated with herself for her actions in the courtroom. She began talking to herself, replaying the moments just before she blacked out.
Yes, that’s exactly what happened. I blacked out! She remembered standing with that loser, Bradley, at the judge’s bench, her inner kiln fired up as it did whenever she was really digging into a trial. Yes, certainly. I was heated, and then . . . then I . . .
Suddenly, the door opened and in walked a petite brunette. Reporters couldn’t help peeking inside to catch a glimpse of Lauren. A guard stood in the hallway, allowing only court personnel to use the restroom. Otherwise, female muckrakers would have tailed Lauren into it.
“Savages,” the woman said as she headed toward one of the stalls.
Lauren was instantly leery of the newest addition to the ladies’ restroom, whom she had never seen before. However, to her pleasant surprise, the unknown brunette did not morph into the omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, or, worse yet, a reporter. She remained just a woman.
The brunette hurried into a stall, uncomfortably aware of Lauren staring at her. She shut and latched the door, resisting the urge to peek above it to see what Lauren was up to.
Lauren turned to look in the mirror once again. “Damn!” Those barely noticeable but, to her, unsightly wrinkles around her eyes were starting to show. The inevitable advancement of a woman’s archenemy—age. Until recently, she had kept them at bay using her natural concoction of lemon juice, egg whites, and Vitamin E. But because she had been crying, they had surfaced as if emboldened. Lauren dug through her briefcase and brought out the big guns. She gently smoothed away the wrinkles with a dab of foundation.
She could see the older woman’s feet from under the door reflected in the mirror. Nice shoes, she thought. What am I saying? Okay, you’re not going crazy, Lauren, she rationalized. Just a little overworked. Long hours, long case. Just a weeeee bit tired, that’s all. Hang in there, Lauren, you’re almost done. She reached for a tube of lipstick—and dropped it. “Shit!”
Whoooosh! came the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing.
“Well, it certainly can’t be God, if she’s using the toilet,” she whispered.
The latch slid open, and the woman tentatively walked out. She started toward the sink to wash her hands, but thinking twice about it, decided it best just to leave the obviously disturbed woman to her own devices and give her plenty of space. Hastily, the woman straightened her skirt and bolted out the door.
Lauren turned to the mirror to apply her lipstick and make final adjustments. She had a crowd to face that remained huddled around the restroom door, thinking, She has to come out of there sometime. Warpaint back on, she was ready to face the gauntlet.
Although she was able to dodge most of them, Lauren answered a few, selective questions from the newshounds. Hounds—a good name for them, Lauren mused. They are always snooping and sniffing around.
CHAPTER FIVE
The courtroom rapidly filled with the befuddled masses, returning from what had to be memorable conversations over greasy burgers, salty fries, and iced fountain drinks. Within minutes, the room where many defendants had come to know their fate was filled. Court was back in session. Lauren and Ryan dutifully filed into the courtroom, flanking Maze. As Ryan and Maze took their seats, Lauren glanced up at the clock. 11:27.
Her obsession with time had begun at an early age when her mother quietly slipped away from ovarian cancer. Lauren had been at the impressionable age of eleven. She was holding her mother’s soft, withered hand and sobbing uncontrollably as the kindly woman who had given birth to her and nurtured her breathed her last in room 126 of City of Hope Hospital. She watched with profound sadness as her tumor-ridden mother hitched and exhaled long, drawn-out breaths, then, finally became still. Through her blurred vision, Lauren remembered looking up at three of a kind—5:55 PM. She had never forgotten it. From then on, Lauren had always been preoccupied with the infinite progression of time.
She had to have at least one clock in every room in her house. Several rooms had multiple timepieces, strategically placed. In her eyes, one could never have too many. The constant, monotonous ticking, which would irk many and drive others to near madness, soothed her. Clocks gave her a sense of control, a sense that perfection was achievable. Without them, life would be meaningless to her; she would not have been able to function or accomplish much of anything.
Lauren sat holding her shoulders in perfect posture. She was poised and ready, anxious to get started and redeem herself from her earlier fiasco. Detecting no sign of the near mental collapse she had experienced at the bench an hour earlier, she was a primed tigress with hungry cubs to feed, ready to pounce at the slightest weakness.
Maze leaned behind Ryan toward his attorney. “Ms. Hill? See something disturbing?”
Immediately, Lauren’s face drained of color. She looked around nervously. Nothing seemed amiss. God had not reappeared, but she wondered if Maze had been able to see the heavenly manifestation, as well.
“I mean is our case okay?”
Lauren didn
’t know whether to be relieved or worried. If Maze had also seen the mysterious transformation, would that not confirm she wasn’t crazy? On the other hand, no one else in the room had run up to her, acknowledging how wonderful it must have been for God to reveal Himself and converse with her at such an intense moment. So it could easily mean that both she and Maze were closer to that unfortunate state of mental health than she wanted to acknowledge. She had already felt her excitable client was on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the very first time she spoke with him on the phone and agreed to take his case.
“Hey, hey, just relax, Maze,” Ryan reassured him. “You’re talking to the only woman in California history who has never lost a case.”
“Yeah, but I’m a man who’s never known sustained love and happiness,” Maze countered. “Honestly doesn’t matter to me anymore. Could care less whether they set me free or set me on fire. I guess I don’t want people to think I could do something like that to my wife—or anyone. I only have my dignity left. That still matters to me.”
“Maze. Sit there—hold your water,” Lauren huffed. “They don’t execute anyone in California anymore.”
“Please rise,” the bailiff called out in his deep baritone. He couldn’t help looking at Lauren, studying to see if she was going to be a threat to the judge.
“Please be seated,” Judge Howell said before stepping onto the bench. She seemed just as anxious to put behind her what had happened before the break. As creepy as Lauren’s apparent breakdown had been, she still believed Lauren to be an exceptional attorney. Lauren was gritty and showed a great deal of tenacity and spunk. She even wondered whether Lauren’s antics were some legal ploy. “Court is in session and will now come to order.”
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Maze said, “Maybe I should testify.”
With a single finger to her lips, Lauren cut him off. Maze took the hint and scooted his chair back. She watched her client adjust himself as the prosecution’s next witness took the stand.
To Lauren’s amazement, Dillon Bradley’s young-gun assistant attorney, Jack Osterman, stood and took the floor to question the witness. What is Dillon thinking, she wondered. I’m gonna eat him alive. Aloud, she added, “Okay, let’s see whatcha got, kid.”
Jack Osterman was a rookie, just a few short months out of law school. He was intelligent enough and professional-looking in his three-piece suit, although the pinstripes reminded Lauren of Al Pacino in The Godfather. She had always thought Pacino was wrong for the part. It was evident that young Mr. Osterman was not quite comfortable speaking in front of a crowd or questioning witnesses. He didn’t seem all that sure of himself. Sure, he had to get his feet wet sometime; but in her opinion, a criminal courtroom was not the place to test one’s mettle. Cracking under pressure in a high-profile murder case could derail a career.
“Mr. Ross,” Jack cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “You’re head of security for the ship.” He paused to look at his notes. “The Magical Quest.”
Lauren chuckled, slightly.
“I am deputy security chief on board the vessel.”
“And, the last time you were on the stand, you said that you—” Osterman read from his notes a second time. “‘Didn’t check my watch, but saw the first rays of sunlight had pierced the sky.’” He read like a child, pausing slightly between each word.
Lauren openly scoffed at the boyish amateur. He was making rookie mistakes, and she wasn’t about to cut him any slack. Not so much as a cough was heard in the courtroom. Judge Howell banged her gavel and shot Lauren a disapproving look. Lauren acknowledged the chastening with a duck of her head, but she was anything but sorry. She intended to rattle the kid.
A little shaken by the outburst, the young Osterman glanced at Bradley, who simply gestured his continued approval. Jack checked his notes and continued a bit more fluidly.
“The meaning being it was early morning when the defendant had informed you that his wife,” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “went overboard. Would that be correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, it was the break of dawn when the defendant came to your cabin. And what did you—?”
“Excuse me, but that’s not quite right, sir. Mr. Maze was brought to me by the on-duty officer. I actually met them on deck,” the witness clarified.
“Okay, right. And when you met them on deck, would you please repeat for us the first thing the defendant said to you?”
“Sure,” Ross answered. “He said, ‘I believe my wife jumped overboard.’”
“When?”
“He wasn’t really sure.”
Lauren stood. “Objection.”
“Sustained. Rephrase the question.”
Maze was nervously fumbling in his pockets. His face was noticeably flushed, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to breathe. He groped in his pocket and removed used tissues and a small prescription bottle. His hand was shaking. Ryan inconspicuously glanced over.
Maze was struggling to open the cap on the tiny plastic bottle. Palms moist with sweat, he couldn’t get enough of a grip on it to turn the childproof lid. Pills rattled in his shaky hand. Ryan looked over, rolled his eyes, and took the vial from Maze’s hand. Effortlessly, he opened it and handed it back to Maze.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had to intervene in one of Maze’s crisis situations. Bouts of crying, courtroom outbursts, nervous twitching. Ryan was growing tired of his antics. He hadn’t signed up for this. He hated being nothing more than a glorified babysitter. In law school, Ryan had never realized just how much non-lawyering there was to the job. He wasn’t a psychologist.
To him, Maze was excessively nervous and sappy: a pathetic, hot mess. Did he believe the guy was innocent? He wasn’t a mind reader. He didn’t care one way or the other. It wasn’t up to him to decide, anyway. That was a jury’s job. However, the erratic way in which Maze was acting certainly made it seem as if he had a great deal to hide. More important, if Ryan had noticed flaws in Maze’s character, it was very likely the impressionable jury would, as well. All he knew for certain was that Maze was making it difficult for Lauren to paint a picture of innocence.
Ryan leaned over. “The pills. What are they for?”
Without looking up, Maze said, “Triggers.”
“What triggers?”
“Like wanting to turn off my mind, you know, and just be with her again. We all have the same triggers of grief; we just don’t all have the same capacity to deal with them.”
Osterman continued. “When you asked Mr. Maze when he thought his wife jumped overboard, what was his reply?”
“I think he said—”
“Think or know?” Osterman interrupted.
Lauren noted that the kid’s line of questioning was getting better, but she knew, sooner or later, Jack Osterman was going to slip up. And when he did, she would be ready. For now, though, she could give him kudos.
“I believe—”
“Would you like me to read from your prior testimony? Allow me to—”
“Thanks.”
Osterman read from his notes, “I quote, ‘Mr. Maze looked like he didn’t expect me to ask such an obvious question and then, after a long stare away from looking at me, that is, he simply said he wasn’t sure because he hadn’t seen her all night.’ Now, was that accurately your original testimony?”
“It was.”
“All night? Did you find that particularly odd?”
“Well, yes. Certainly.”
“And when you asked Mr. Maze where he was, what was his reply?”
“Until the crack of dawn? According to him, he left the casino at five-fifteen.”
“That would be five-fifteen in the morning?”
Of course, five-fifteen in the a. m., you twit, Lauren thought. That’s when dawn is. Get to the point.
“Yes,” the deputy security chief replied.
“And was this verified?”
“Yes,” Mr. Ross replied.
&
nbsp; At the defense table, Lauren leaned toward Ryan. “Look at him. He’s almost as much of a sap as Maze, a rank amateur. Copying Bradley’s style. He’s got his head so far up Bradley’s ass, I’ll bet that every time he farts, the kid’s ears wiggle.”
Ryan was barely able to contain his laughter.
“Miss Hill?” Maze interrupted.
“Dealers, waitresses?” Osterman questioned.
“Yes, sir.”
Maze had popped a couple of pills from his vial and was leaning past Ryan, trying to get his lead lawyer’s attention. Lauren had kept ignoring him, elbowing Ryan to keep Maze under control. Finally, she responded.
“What pills are you taking, and what do you want?”
“I want to testify.”
“I don’t want you taking anything while we’re here. Do you understand? You have to look alert. Zombies fry. And I’ll decide when or if you testify. Now sit still.”
“I have told everyone the truth.”
“I know, I know. We’ll talk about it later. For now, just do as you are told. Got it? Pay attention to what’s happening on the witness stand.”
Their eyes shifted toward Osterman, who continued his scripted questioning. “Would it still have been dark outside?”
“Objection.”
Dillon Bradley shot out of his chair. The kid had performed well, but he was a bit out of his league, and Dillon knew when to take over.
“We have a chart, Your Honor.”
CHAPTER SIX
What constitutes a fair trial? It usually depends upon which side you ask. Ask one hundred different individuals, and you will likely get one hundred different responses.
Dillon Bradley simply wanted to see justice carried out. For him, it wasn’t how many checkmarks were in the win column, although that did matter to the voters in November. Grieving parents wanted answers, and he believed they deserved to have them. He also believed he and his team would be able to provide them, or at least a majority of the important ones. A guilty verdict would, in theory, clear most of them.
In Defense of Guilt Page 3