She looks even sadder than usual, which gives me a pre monition that Dade will be convicted. Better to thank me now. She may not feel very thankful in a few hours.
“It went okay, I think,” I say, unwilling to give her hope I don’t feel.
She nods, but it is more of a shrug. She doesn’t expect an acquittal. Spectators, even if they aren’t objective, can sometimes pick up vibes from the jurors that the lawyers can’t. Defense lawyers always hope for miracles. The job would be too depressing if we didn’t. A couple of print reporters stand like vultures, but I wave them off, saying that we will have no comment until after the jury comes back. After I send Sarah off to McDonald’s with a twenty to get us something to eat, I leave Dade and Lucy at the counsel table and go sit down in the back with Barton, whom I didn’t see come in.
“Have you been here all afternoon?” I ask, resentfully noting that Barton’s brown overcoat, which is draped neatly over a chair beside me, looks like it cost twice as much as my new suit. If he had been trying this case, he couldn’t have gotten two words out without throwing up all over his two-hundred-dollar shoes.
“Man, that Binkie can talk,” he says admiringly.
“He looks so damn country that you don’t think he’s got it in him, but he’s hell on wheels once he gets going!”
Thanks for the encouraging words, I think. Yet, Barton, once he quits babbling, will tell it to me straight.
“You think he’ll be acquitted?”
“Well,” Barton hedges, “I didn’t hear all of it.” Noting my expression, he blurts, “Actually, I heard a couple of people saying as they left that they thought Dade was lying through his teeth. One of them did say he thought the jury would be out a long time.”
That’s a wonderful consolation. Hell, I just think I want to know the truth. Sarah returns with our food, but, } too nervous to sample more than a couple of fries, I give mine to Barton, who scarfs down my McDLT so fast that I am reminded of Clan, who has been my sidekick in some of my big cases. No two people could be less alike.
I can’t imagine Barton getting involved with a woman like Gina. I take Barton over to meet Dade and’ Lucy and am amazed that he is reduced to jelly at the prospect.
“He’s already the greatest wide receiver I ever saw, and that includes Lance Alworth!”
People never cease to amaze me. Instead of seeing a kid from the poorest region of the state who any minute may be pronounced a convicted rapist and about to spend the best part of his life in prison. Barton would be delighted to get his autograph.
“This is the man who gave me free office space,” I say by way of introduction. Now I know why he did. He wanted to meet Dade. It turned out that he was always with a client or on the phone when Dade came by and never met him. Barton begins to gush so much about Dade’s career that it is embarrassing, but Dade and even Lucy seem to be relieved to have something to talk about other than what the jury is doing.
Why not? Good of’ denial. Life would be unbearable without it.
At this moment the bailiff rushes in and tells us the jury is returning. I look down at my watch and try not to grimace. They’ve barely been out an hour. How embarrassing.
People begin to stream back into the courtroom, and I catch sight of all three Perrys, who understandably seem elated by this quick decision. I watch the faces of the jurors as they troop back in. I’ve never seen twelve people look so solemn. The lone black juror won’t even look at me. She studies her feet as if she’d never seen them before.
Judge Franklin, who seems equally ready to get home, asks the bailiff to take the verdict form from the foreman, who turns out to be the oldest person on the jury.
Franklin fumbles with the piece of paper and then, frowning, reads in a loud voice, “We, the jury, find Dade Cunningham not guilty of the charge of rape.”
I catch the expression on Lucy’s face as the courtroom erupts in the back when two of the WAR protestors (one of them Paula Crawford) who have smuggled in signs under their coats, begin to shout, “No justice for women!
No justice for women!” For one brief instant Lucy’s eyes gleam with unmistakable joy as Judge Franklin begins banging his gavel and orders the courtroom cleared.
Dade turns to me and offers his hand, and says, smiling, “I thought I was gone.”
“I did, too,” I admit.
“I did, too.”
“Look at her. Dad!” Sarah exclaims.
“She looks so sweet.”
I bend down to the bottom cage and peer in at the greyhound staring back at me. These dogs are bigger than I expected.
“What a weird color,” I say to the attendant standing beside us. Black mixed in with tan. White socks on her feet and a white stripe running down her chest.
“Brindle,” the girl says enthusiastically.
“Want to see her?” She is about Sarah’s age and clearly a greyhound lover. She has been smiling and talking to these strange, skinny, big-faced, little-eared creatures nonstop. I look around the room at the other cages. For the number of dogs in here, there is very little noise. It is as if these retirees from the racetrack sense adoption is their last hope before they are sent to the glue factory or wherever it is doomed greyhounds go to die, and are on their best behavior.
Sarah answers for us, “Yeah!”
The girl, whose name is Barbara, opens the cage and slips a choke collar around the dog.
“Mindy Marie,” she coos, “come on out, girl.”
Mindy Marie heads straight for Sarah and presses her huge muzzle into my daughter’s waiting hands.
“She’s wonderful!” Sarah exclaims.
“She’s so gentle.”
Though it has been only a month since Woogie went to live with Marty, I need a dog in the house. Not a horse.
“Do people ever change their names?” I ask. Mindy Marie is too dainty for this animal.
“Sure,” the girl says.
“Just use her first name with the name you choose for a couple of weeks and then gradually drop her old name. She’ll learn.”
“Feel her face. She’s so silky!” Sarah instructs me, rubbing her face against Mindy Marie’s muzzle.
I squat down on my heels and bring my face close.
“Hi, girl.” She licks my ear.
“She likes you. Dad!” Sarah giggles delightedly “Can we take her outside?”
I suspect Mindy Marie would like Saddam Hussein if he took the trouble to pet her. Barbara, as smooth as a car salesman, hands Sarah the leash.
“When you get out the door, you can take her off this. It’s all fenced in.”
Sarah’s eyes shine with excitement.
“She looks more like a “Jessie’ to me,” she says as we step outside into a cold, gray drizzle.
Mindy Mane scampers away from us to the corner of the enclosure and deposits an impressive pile of shit near the fence. Shades of Woogie. The sight of her squatting on long, powerful haunches is comical.
“Jessie suits her,” I agree.
“She’s too solemn to be a Mindy Marie.”
Mindy Jessie, her business done for now, trots back over to us, and Sarah hugs her.
“She’ll be easy to house break
This is a done deal. I have already applied to be an “adoptive” parent; my references (Clan and Amy) have checked out. I had seen an article in the Democrat Gazette about the greyhound adoption program in West Memphis and got the paperwork done before even telling Sarah.
“I hope so. I’ll be the one cleaning it up.” According to the literature, greyhounds shouldn’t live outside-too delicate.
“So you think I should get her?”
“You know you want her,” Sarah says.
