Black Water Rising

The court reporter looks up. The bailiff cracks a smile.

“Well, really . . . just my head.”

The judge lets out a little cough.

They’re all laughing at him, Jay thinks, with his JCPenney suit and his shitty case. He’s heard this story a dozen times, and it has never sounded more ridiculous than it does right now, with her on the stand. He frankly never expected the case to get this far. He was sure just the mention of Ms. Moreland’s name and profession to the defendant’s lawyer, the fact that she claimed any association with Mr. Cummings, would be enough for an instant settlement. He actually imagined the whole thing would be handled in a single phone call. But he grossly underestimated Charlie Luckman’s propensity for bluff calling.

Jay looks down at his notes. “An Officer Erikson arrived on the scene?”

“A state trooper, yes.”

“And when he discovered Mr. Cummings behind the wheel, drunk, with your head wedged between his legs . . . what did Officer Erikson do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“He was practically apologizing to the guy.”

“And what did you make of that?”

“That he recognized J.T., and he didn’t want to get him in any trouble.”

Jay is waiting on the objection: “calls for speculation,” “lack of foundation,” “irrelevance” . . . something. But when he catches Luckman out of the corner of his eye, Charlie is leaned way back in his chair watching the whole thing like a sporting event he is only mildly interested in.

“He offered you no medical attention?”

“No, sir.”

“So, the extent of your injuries that night may never be fully known, since you did not get immediate medical attention?”

Again, he waits for it: “witness is not a medical expert.”

But Charlie says nothing.

He just watches as Jay guides this train wreck, walking his cli­ ent through the rest of her testimony—a description of her inju­ ries, aches and pains, and seemingly a million reasons why she never made it to a doctor. His final question: It was Mr. Cum­ mings who put your head in his lap, was it not?

“I definitely wasn’t down there for my health.”

By now, she’s lost the rhythm of the whole routine. The vul­ nerability is gone and a huskiness has crept back into her voice. Jay can suddenly imagine all the laps she’s ever had her head in, can see her whole career in full color.

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Charlie passes on a cross-exam. For his direct, he walks a sta­ pled stack of papers to the judge’s bench: the cop’s affidavit and the original police report. The judge reads the pages in silence while they all wait. The court reporter checks a chipped nail. The bailiff looks at his watch. Out in the hallway, they can hear rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum and one side of an argu­ ment about who has the best catfish plate, Delfina’s on Main or Guido’s.

Finally, Judge Hicks looks up, looks right at Jay.

“The cop pulled him over for a busted taillight.”

“Yes, Your Honor, but—”

“There’s nothing in here about an accident, no mention that Ms. Moreland was even in the defendant’s car.”

“Your Honor,” Charlie says. “Defense respectfully requests the court to grant a motion for summary judgment and to dis­ miss all claims at this time.”

“Slow down, Counselor,” the judge says.

He turns to Jay as if he’s not sure what Jay expects him to do in this situation. Jay clears his throat. “It is our contention, Your Honor, that Officer Erikson, catching Mr. Cummings, a port commissioner and a former city councilman, in a ‘compromising’ position, wrote Mr. Cummings a ticket for a minor infraction, carefully leaving out the fact that Mr. Cummings was drunk and had a lady friend in the car, a woman other than his wife.”

“So she’s claiming the cop broke the law too?” Charlie says.

The judge holds up a hand to keep Charlie out of it. He asks Jay, “And you can prove this how?”

“The testimony of Ms. Moreland clearly states—”

“My client has never even met the plaintiff, Your Honor,” Charlie interrupts.

Judge Hicks looks at Jay. “You do have something other than the girl, right? Some other evidence? A witness, something?”

“I’m working on it.”

Judge Hicks lets out a sigh, a tight little puff of air, like he’s passed gas after a bad meal, like they’ve all wasted his entire morning. He looks back and forth between Charlie and Jay, then waves defense counsel to the bench, calling him by his first name. Jay wonders how well the two men know each other. Charlie, in his mid-forties now, is a former prosecutor with some renown in the city. He was almost elected district attorney of Harris County,