Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  On a Thursday night, just over a month before, she waited until all the other students had left before approaching him, sitting in the corner alone, pretending not to know what time it was. There was no reprimand, no disapproving look, instead she just walked over and slid a single brass key onto the corner of the desk.

  The move shocked Shane, pulling his head away from the notes and towards her, already retreating towards the door, staring back at him through thick framed glasses. The two locked the pose for several long moments, her growing further away, until Shane smiled and offered a silent thank you, dipping his head in appreciation. She returned the gesture, neither of the two ever mentioning the incident again.

  That same key now sat on the ring atop a stack of case files, sharing space with his car key, room key, and a Red Sox keychain he didn’t care for but kept because it held everything together. Shane leaned back in his chair and stared down at it, the sole reason he and Abby were now still parked in the corner of the library, an hour after everybody else was gone.

  “You can go home Abby,” Shane said, throwing his pen down on the stack of papers in front of him and lacing his fingers behind his head. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his hand chosen blue tie long since discarded. “It’s getting late, there have to be things you’d rather be doing.”

  Abby looked up from case she was reading, yellow highlighter poised just an inch above the page. “No, but now that you mention it, it is getting late.”

  “We’re not back on until Wednesday, and believe me, this will all still be here in the morning.”

  Abby nodded, capping the pen in her hand and leaning back in her chair. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how do you get to stay here so late?”

  Shane gave a sharp jut of the chin motioned towards the keys sitting atop the desk. “Madge gave me my own key. I think she got sick of me waiting on her every morning, begging her to stay later every night.”

  “Just like that? After a few weeks?”

  “Naw, it’s been a problem dating back a few years now. Poor old girl must have wanted to cry when she saw me show back up here.”

  Abby smiled, the same exhausted look on her face that Shane could feel spreading across his. She turned her head to check the time on the wall before conceding defeat and nodding.

  “See you in the morning?”

  “I’ll be here,” Shane said, raising one hand from behind his head to wave. He watched in silence as Abby gathered her things and departed, smiling again as she headed for the door.

  After a moment Shane returned to the pages in front of him, row after row of handwritten notes. All of it was scrawled out in deep blue ink, the spacing somewhat uneven, large blots erasing words or entire sentences. Smudges of ink dotted the pads of his fingertips as he wrote, mumbling the words over and over again, searching for the perfect cadence.

  “Big hot shot lawyers always talk to themselves in the dark?” a voice asked, lifting Shane from his chair. He spun around towards the sound of it, surprise on his face, a hand raised to his chest.

  Standing in the place Abby had been just a few minutes before was Christine, still dressed from work, a paper sack in her hand, a mischievous smile on her face.

  “I hope you don’t scare that easy in court,” she said, walking around the table and taking up the chair Abby had just vacated. “That could be very bad for the Bentley’s.”

  “Do I even want to know how you got in here?” Shane asked, his pulse slowing in his ears, the color retreating from his face.

  “Used my Spidey abilities to scale the outside wall and sneak in through a window, of course.”

  “Of course,” Shane echoed, raising his eyebrows at her.

  Christine held the gaze for a moment before angling the top of her head towards the door. “The wallflower held the door for me on her way out. Hope I wasn’t interrupting any kind of late night tryst.”

  “Is that jealousy I hear? And Chipotle I smell?”

  A corner of Christine’s mouth creased upwards as she slid the bag across the table. “Just wondering if you’d decided to pursue some alternative stress relief before trial gets started. And yes, chicken burrito, heavy guac, light sour cream, just as you like it.”

  “Bless you sweet woman,” Shane said, tearing into the food with reckless vigor. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  An arched eyebrow and disdainful look was the only response to the question.

  “I hear you did well today.”

  Shane’s brow furrowed a bit at the comment, a snort rolling out as he chewed. “I don’t know about all that. Besides, jury selection is the easy part. The real show starts on Wednesday.”

  “You’ll be ready for it.”

  Shane shrugged and glanced down at the pages of notes in front of him, wishing he had the same confidence in himself that she seemed to.

  “Did you get what you were looking for?” Christine asked.

  “Not too bad. A pair of single mothers, which should be good, couple of middle-aged guys that look like definite football fans. Kind of a mixed bag.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” Christine asked.

  “I suppose,” Shane said, laying the back end of the burrito down onto its foil and wiping his hand clean with a napkin. “Bastard opposing counsel’s first question was to see who were OTU fans and go right after them. I damn near died.”

  “I bet,” Christine said, settling a cool gaze on him, “but that’s not what I meant. Did you get what you were looking for?”

  It took a moment for Shane to place what she was referring to before a small smile settled across his face. “You mean asking about Tyler standing?”

  “Drawing first blood, as it were.”

  Shane pursed his lips and nodded, considering the words for a moment. “If nothing else, it got Reed’s attention.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The ice clinked down in the bottom of the glass, making a distinctive sound across the space of the suite. Reed gave a long look at the fully-stocked Omni mini bar just a few feet away before pouring himself a glass of seltzer water and returning to his chair. He reclined himself back against the leather wingtip, extending his legs out in front of him and resting them on the matching ottoman.

  “One of these days we’re going to have to rethink this whole going-dry-for-the-duration-of-trial thing,” Reed said, taking another long, unsatisfying pull from his drink.

  Across from him Ramirez smirked, his bulbous body twisted to the side in a matching wingtip, his suit and tie traded in for a velour jogging suit. In his hand was a liter-sized bottle of cola, less than an inch remaining in the bottom.

  “I think you said that last time.”

  “I say it every time,” Reed countered, shaking his head. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Ramirez offered a non-committal shake of the head in response, unable to think of anything that could counter the simple logic of his colleague. Instead he said, “That was a damn good steak though.”

  The words seemed to find their mark, cracking Reed’s face into the first smile it had seen in days. “Yes, it was.”

  With the frost in the room cracked, if not thawed, Ramirez pushed forward. “So how did you see it playing out today?”

  Reed’s first response was an elongated sigh, followed by finishing the last of his water. He stared down at the glass for several seconds once it was empty, either contemplating the question or trying in vain to refill it with Scotch using only his mind.

  Maybe a little of both.

  “I think the jury turned out about as well as we could have hoped for, all things considered. I’m still not happy that a pair of single mothers made it on, but with only eight challenges there wasn’t much we could do.”

  “Yeah,” Ramirez said, smirking as he nodded his head, “if that’s a fair and accurate portrayal of peers in this state, there must be a lot more unplanned pregnancy in Ohio than I realized.”

  Reed moved right past the comment without acknowledging
it. “After that, I was glad to see a couple of folks even older than I make it through, a couple of blacks as well.”

  “Really? The angry minority card?” Ramirez asked, holding his hands out to his side.

  “Scoff all you want, but there’s a strong track record there and you know it. I still think those two rednecks in the back row were lying through their teeth about not being football fans, but again, only having eight challenges made it tough.”

  “You mean lying through their tooth,” Ramirez corrected, staring off into space. He remained that way for several long moments before shaking himself awake and shifting his attention to Reed.

  “Remind me again why we haven’t filed for a change of venue?”

  “We haven’t and we will not,” Reed said, his gaze aimed at the floor in front of him. His chin dug into his throat for several seconds before he pushed out a small burp and stood, helping himself to another glass of seltzer water, reusing the same ice.

  “For the simple reason that we are going to keep as much back as possible for the appeal. You and I both know we’re never going to get a fair trial in front of jurors anywhere in the country, not with a former All-American hopping around on one foot.”

  “So you’re already planning on losing?” Ramirez asked, surprise evident in his voice.

  The comment drew a sharp look from Reed, his gaze hard. “If you’re trying to anger me, it’s working. I am in no way preparing to lose, I am just putting in place a contingency should it happen. That includes accepting the fact that no jury is ever going to be sympathetic to our case. Our best bet, our only bet, may well be to wait until it goes to appeal and is heard by a panel of judges.”

  Ramirez nodded. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Reed waved off the apology with a look of disgust.

  “You think change of venue could be enough to get us up on appeal?

  “I don’t know,” Reed said, settling back into his chair, his tone softening a bit. “But it doesn’t hurt to have it in the back pocket, just in case.”

  Again Ramirez nodded at the statement, his eyes wandering to the far wall.

  “What did you think of that little stunt Laszlo pulled this morning?”

  The features on Reed’s face again grew hard as he sat in silence, no doubt replaying the incident over in his head. He remained that way for two full minutes, his head rocking back and forth, exasperation and anger plain on his face.

  “We knew going into this that they would play the fallen hero card, but I wasn’t expecting it to be quite that overt.”

  “And that was just jury selection,” Ramirez said, his voice far away. “Only going to get worse going forward.”

  The words floated in the air, Ramirez again shifting his attention to a vacant expanse of wall across from him. Across from him, Reed seemed to seize on them and their meaning, the muscles in his jaw working in high speed as he clenched it.

  “Not if we put a stop to it,” Reed said, rising from his chair. He paced across the room to the mahogany desk pressed against the back wall and took up his cell phone, turning to face the room while leaning back against the desktop. He remained that way for several moments, his features drawn tight.

  Ramirez watched him for several moments, his curiosity piqued. “What are you doing?”

  “We have one distinct advantage in this case. It’s time we used it.”

  The phone was pressed tight to his face for several seconds before Reed pulled it away and changed the output to speakerphone. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered, his tone as curt as ever.

  “Speak.”

  From his chair, Ramirez’s eyes grew wide, a bit of realization setting in.

  “Ute, Connor Reed here.”

  Ramirez’s eyes slid shut, his breath catching in his throat.

  “I know who it is, the damn phone has caller ID. I told you not to call me again unless you changed your mind.”

  Reed paused for a moment, staring over at Ramirez. Across the room, his partner twisted his head from side to side, discomfort evident on his features. After a moment, Reed raised the phone up close to his mouth.

  “We have changed our minds,” Reed said, his voice a little stronger than usual, or even necessary. “Not Laszlo and not Bentley. Nobody gets killed either. Just enough of something to make sure a message is received.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end, during which Reed could almost picture the look of sadistic pleasure that was spreading across Ute’s face. Deep within him some small bit of his conscious tried to object to what he was doing, but just as fast it fell silent.

  “And what message is that?”

  The phone receded from Reed’s face as he stared off, trying to articulate what he wanted to convey to Laszlo. When it came to him, the phone was back to his mouth in an instant, a flash of light behind his eyes.

  “If he’s not going to play by the rules, we’re not either.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cliché would have the world believe that three times is the charm, the ideal number of trial and error attempts before everything comes together. Under that thinking, by the sixth time Shane practiced his opening statement, alone and pacing in the conference room of the second floor of the law school, it should have been twice perfect. Still, as he walked over to the court house, the first real day of trial just minutes away from beginning, he sure as hell didn’t feel like it.

  “Mr. Laszlo,” Hanson Byers asked as he approached, microphone extended before him, wearing the same exact uniform he’d been wearing two days before. Flanking him on either side was a pair of young ladies, both wearing vests and hipster glasses, iPads poised in the crook of their arms. “What do you expect to happen in there today?”

  The question gave Shane pause for a moment, a look of consideration passing over his face, the nerves deep in his stomach still dancing.

  “I honestly don’t know. We’re going to give our opening statement and road map the case as we intend to present it the best we know how. I’m sure the SynTronic team will do the same. From there, I’ll put Tyler on the stand and see what happens.”

  Byers pulled the microphone back and spoke into it, his face making no attempt to mask his excitement. “So you’re telling me Tyler Bentley will take the stand today?”

  Shane kept moving for the front door, the young ladies circling around to follow him, Byers remaining on his hip. “I have no idea if we’ll get that far today, it is Judge Lynch’s courtroom and what he says goes. If he does open it for me to call my first witness though, Tyler will be taking the stand. Good day, Mr. Byers.”

  A wan smile crossed Byers face as he reached the threshold of the courthouse, pulling up short as if held there by some imaginary force field. He raised a hand in farewell to Shane’s retreating blue suit and said, “Good day, Mr. Laszlo.”

  Several heads turned to stare at Shane as he walked through the foyer of the courthouse, the heels of his shoes clicking out a steady cadence as he went to the double doors and stepped inside. A healthy crowd had gathered by the time he entered, the rows of benches well over half full, already more than had been there two days before.

  Seated in the front row was Prescott and Abby, Margie by their side. Parked at the counsel table was Tyler, turned to face the others behind him. He was the first to notice Tyler as he approached, gesturing towards him with his chin, sending the others to turn and look as well.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Tyler said, setting down the box of materials in his hands and straightening his blue and brown patterned tie. “No Heath this morning?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” Abby said, raising her hands by her side.

  “Huh,” Shane said, considering and dismissing the information in just a matter of moments. “Abby that means you’ll be on for note taking, pay special attention during the defense’s opening. They’re going to outline what they intend to prove, so it’s vital we get it all. I’ll be taking notes at the table, but I wan
t you to take down everything too. We can compare notes later.”

  “Got it,” Abby said, drawing her mouth tight and nodding once.

  “Professor, if at all possible, I’d like for you to be watching the jury today. See how they’re reacting to me and the defense both, if they give away any physical cues, if particular points seem to be sticking with them, anything. Is that doable?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Prescott said, a pad and paper of his own out and ready.

  Shane shifted his eyes down the bench, his gaze alighting on Margie. “And Ms. Bentley?”

  “Yes?” Margie asked, her face pulled tight, her attention focused on him.

  A smile creased Shane’s face, his first sign of mirth in days. “How are you today?”

  Margie stared back at him for several moments as if something was growing from his forehead before her own visage shifted to a smile as well. “I’m fine Shane, how are you?”

  “We’re about to find out,” Shane said, raising his eyebrows a fraction and taking his seat at the table. Beside him Tyler turned to face forward as well, his fingers interlaced atop the table, his right leg bouncing up and down in a frenetic pace.

  In the back of the room the bailiff entered, his uniform an exact replica of the one he wore two days before. Again he opened the jury box and motioned for them to enter, the procession much smaller than the first time. Once they were in place, he closed the box door and turned to face the court.

  “All rise!”

  “You might be taking the stand today,” Shane whispered to Tyler, sliding his chair back from the table. “Your leg can’t be going a mile a minute like that, makes you look nervous.”

  “I am nervous.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t let them see it, makes it look like you have something to hide.”

  Tyler nodded as Shane rose, doing his best to keep his face and his foot motionless.

  At the head of the room Judge Lynch walked in, the robes ballooning out around him. Under his arm he carried a thick sheaf of papers, dropping them onto his desk with a thud and swinging himself down into the chair.