Jill appears almost gleeful that Bruton had denied her objection that the mother’s consent was irrelevant as she steps in behind the podium to crossexamine Olivia. Yet now that Olivia has performed miserably on Andy’s behalf, she proves an obstinate witness to Jill. Instead of agreeing that Andy had failed to inform her of the dangers of shock, Olivia says that, on the contrary, Andy had warned her that electricity was always dangerous. Jill asks her if Andy had told her that he was going to use a device designed for use on animals.
“Absolutely,” Olivia says.
“He gave me an article to read showing the results of prior experiments. I knew that what he was trying to do was to show the administrator that shock would work so that he could get permission to buy and use remote- control equipment. He explained that the pain would be intense and that I should experience it, and I did. He said the research showed that if the stimulus wasn’t painful enough, some children it had been tried on had adapted to the pain. He explained about the tape being wrapped around the metal part when I asked if it was safe.”
Burned worse than I have been, Jill decides not to push any further, and I also decline the opportunity to redirect.
Olivia leaves the witness stand dry-eyed and cool. So much for my star witness. I had hoped for a stirring defense of Andy, and only got it when I wasn’t asking the questions.
Yet maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Putting a person under oath in a witness box has an unpredictable effect.
After brief arguments from Jill and myself, Bruton rules almost in a perfunctory manner that there is probable cause, and he binds the case over to circuit court. Once we are outside the courtroom the media engulf us, but Andy obeys my instructions to make no comment. Despite my best intentions I can’t keep myself from saying that it was pointless to crossexamine the state’s witnesses.
John Winter of Channel 4 eggs me on.”
“Was your decision based on your belief that your client can’t get a fair hearing in Judge Bruton’s court?”
Now that we are in circuit court, I have nothing to lose, but instead I ignore the question and say that we will present the case to a jury. No matter how much they might agree with me, the other members of the judiciary in Blackwell County will resent it if I continue to go after Bruton.
It is only afterward upon entering the Hardhat Cafe, a local burger place, with Sarah that I find myself at a loss for words. Ignoring the stares of men twice and three times her age (though I can’t), she asks, “If you think the judge was biased against your client, why didn’t you say so?” She seems annoyed with me even though I had told her our strategy on the way downtown this morning.
I squint in the smoky room, trying to find a table. I think of several rationalizations I could offer up to her. She folds her arms and waits. I could tell her I have to make a living;
I don’t want to get in trouble with the professional-ethics people; I don’t want to hurt my client. Finally, I say weakly, “The practice of law is mostly one compromise after another.
I guess it’s a habit.”
Men in suits (professionals enjoying the illusion of a macho atmosphere) are shooting pool with construction workers in the back of the restaurant, and I get us a table so we can watch. Sarah is interested in talking about the hearing and asks me questions until I fear she is beginning to think about becoming a lawyer.
“Dr. Chapman seems to me like a really nice guy,” she says as the waitress brings over fries, cheeseburgers, and Cokes.
I agree. Before we left the courthouse I had introduced her to Andy, and he went out of his way to treat her like an adult instead of a child. I reach for the bottle of ketchup.
“He’s pretty sophisticated,” I say, thumping it on the side. Clan, who must run through a bottle a week, has instructed me, after a lifetime of thumping, that a law of physics prevents ketchup from coming out if you hit it on the bottom. Clan would be hard-pressed to name the law, but typically he is right about the results. Like a river of lava from an active volcano, the ketchup flows thickly but steadily.
Sarah carefully removes the onions from her patty.
“You sound surprised. Can’t a black male be sophisticated?”
“Of course,” I say hastily. Sarah still thinks of me as a liberal. Her own idealism, which has mushroomed in the last three weeks, seems almost quaint to me these days. I have to be careful not to sound like a racist.
“But you have to admit there’re not many black psychologists in Arkansas.”
Sarah, about to bite into her sandwich, puts it down and replies, “That’s not their fault.”
Why the hell not, I think, irritated by Sarah’s knee-jerk response. I bite down on a piece of gristle and have to reach into my mouth with my thumb and forefinger to remove it.
What’s wrong with me? I should be proud of her defending blacks. After all, how many whites really believe blacks are ever going to catch up or really even give a damn whether they do or not? I can count the ones I know on one hand, and it’s not mine. What happened to me? It’s the times, I guess. Still, I can’t bring myself to tell my daughter I’m no longer a child of the sixties, not that I really ever was. But she has this image of my going off to save the world which I am loath to disturb. Despite my recent soul baring, I feel that Sarah needs a few illusions, and, if she wants to think I’m still a defender of the underdog, I’m not going to disabuse her. She’ll find out the truth soon enough. I sip at my Coke to rid my mouth of the taste of grease and say, “You’re right about that.”
She nods, though I think a little disappointed I won’t argue with her. Why should I? There’ll be plenty of people to do that.
As I am paying the bill, Martha Birford, my partner in humiliation at Mays amp; Burton, accompanied by a man I do not know, comes through the door. I wonder if she’s found a job. I hope so. The times I saw her in court Martha was quicker on the draw than her opposition. As we make our way out through the crowded tables, I introduce Sarah, who pleases me by lighting up the joint with one of her hundred-watt smiles.
Acknowledging my daughter with only the barest of nods, Martha says coldly, “Gideon, I see you’ve landed on your feet as usual.”
Too stunned by her rudeness to think of a comeback, I mumble, “I got lucky,” and hurry out the door. Martha and I were, if not close, in the same boat as middle-aged associates who didn’t make the grade. Maybe she has resented me all along, and I was too stupid to notice.
“What was that all about. Dad?” Sarah asks.
“She didn’t seem very friendly.”
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, squinting into the bright glare. Jealousy, maybe. She knows she’s a better lawyer, but as a woman she might never have an opportunity to prove it.
Outside on Davis Street, as we walk back to the Layman Building where Sarah will call a friend to come pick her up, an old black woman is commanding the center of the sidewalk.
Obviously mentally ill, she is muttering to herself.
Wearing blue scrub pants underneath a tight knit dress with holes in it, she is cursing every other word as she pulls at her wild white hair, which explodes from her head as if she had set off a bomb by biting into it. There is something disturbingly familiar about the woman, but it is impossible to work downtown and avoid these people. I probably have seen her half a dozen times and only notice her now because of Sarah who is staring in fascinated horror at her. As we pass her, the old woman squints at me and croons, “You the white man that got me out of jail!” She smiles at Sarah, revealing jagged gray stumps that once were teeth. A hideous stench reminding me of rotten Chinese food permeates the damp air between us. Instinctively, I grab Sarah’s arm and say in a low voice, “Don’t look at her. Keep walking.”
The old woman calls after us, “You defendin’ that ho, white man?”
Sarah giggles nervously, and I take her arm and march her across the street against the light at the corner so we can get away from the old woman.
“Dad, was she really your client?”
The raspy voice and wild hair come together. I saw her in the jail cell across from Andy the day he called me.
“She’s insane,” I explain needlessly.
“She saw me once down in the jail and for some reason must think I helped her get out.”
Sarah looks back over her shoulder. Even now almost a block away we can still hear her.
“How awful! Why isn’t she in the hospital?”
“I don’t know,” I say, unwilling to pursue this subject.
