hair backward to reveal his handsome profile. At a little under six feet, with a figure kept trim by constant exercise, Gault produced a good photograph.
Cameras clicked and the courtroom doors swept open. A stir of almost sexual excitement filled the courtroom when Gault entered. David watched the faces of the women. They wanted Gault. Wanted the thrill of lying next to him and wondering if his gift would be love or death.
Gault headed down the center aisle toward the low gate that separated the spectators from the bar of the court. A man dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt said something to Gault, which David missed. Gault laughed and raised his hand in a clenched fist salute.
David followed Gault to the counsel table. Norman Capers, the district attorney, was already in place. He looked tired. The bailiff was talking to a courtroom guard. David nodded to him as he sat down. The bailiff went into chambers to tell the judge that the parties were ready. A moment later he left to get the jury.
David felt dizzy. He turned toward Gault, curious to see if his client was showing any signs of tension. He was surprised to see the writer’s eyes riveted on the door that led to the jury room. There was complete silence in the spectator section.
The door to the side corridor opened and David watched the jurors walk in. They moved silently, in single file, into the jury box. There were no smiles, and they scrupulously avoided looking at Gault or the lawyers.
David felt slightly nauseated. These were the worst moments. He scanned the box for the foreman. The folded white paper was in the left hand of juror number six, a middle-aged schoolteacher. He tried to remember back. How had she reacted to the testimony? Was it a good or bad sign that she had been chosen foreman?
The noise in the courtroom stopped. The bailiff pressed a button on the side of the bench that signaled the judge’s chambers. Judge Mclntyre entered from a door behind the dais.
“Be seated,” the judge said. His voice trembled slightly. He, like Capers and Nash, had been worn down by the grueling trial.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.
“We have,” the foreman replied, handing the verdict form to the bailiff.
Gault leaned forward and followed the paper from the jury box to the judge’s hand. Someone coughed in the back of the courtroom, and a chair moved, scraping along the floor.
Judge McIntyre opened the white paper slowly and read it carefully. Then, without looking at Gault, he read,
“Omitting the caption, the verdict reads as follows: ‘We the jury, being first duly impaneled and sworn, do find the defendant, Thomas Ira Gault, not guilty as charged in the indictment.’…”
There was silence for a moment; then someone in the courtroom began to cry. David expelled a deep sigh and leaned back in his chair. Gault had not moved, as if he had not heard. There was pandemonium in the rear of the court as reporters pushed forward to reach the counsel table.
In the confusion the jurors were forgotten. David watched them file out. Not one of them looked at the man they had just acquitted. Not one of them shared the joy the spectators were expressing. David knew why. In order to acquit, the jury did not have to believe Thomas Gault was innocent. The law required an acquittal if the jurors harbored a single reasonable doubt about a defendant’s guilt. David was a master at creating reasonable doubt, and once again he had prevailed. But David knew what the verdict would have been under a less stringent standard. From the start Gault had proclaimed his innocence. Never once had he deviated from his original story. But David never believed that Gault was innocent. Not for a moment.
David stood up and moved away from the counsel table. Norman Capers had left the courtroom quickly. David wanted to shake his hand. He had tried a good case. Gault was being embraced by well-wishers as flashbulbs exploded around him. The solemnity of the courtroom had given way to a carnival atmosphere. The reporters were swarming around Gault now, but David knew he would be next.
David tried to feel something positive from his victory, but he was empty inside. There was no joy, no exaltation, at winning a case every other criminal lawyer in the country would have given his right arm to try.
He remembered how he had felt after his first murder case. It was funny. There had been no big fee involved. Hell, the case had been a court appointment. There had been no publicity. With the exception of a few old men who spent their retirement watching trials, no one bothered to come.
The defendant was a petty thief who had made the big time by shooting a shopkeeper during a liquor-store holdup. There had been nothing of worth in David’s client and no question of his being anything but guilty, but that had not mattered to David, who had been overwhelmed by his trust. A man’s life depended on the exercise of David’s skills, and he had pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, knowing, all along, that he would fail. He had tried every legal motion, explored every avenue, but it had not been enough.
The guilty verdict had been returned quickly. Afterward David had talked with his client for an hour in the interview room of the county jail. The man did not seem to care. But David cared. That evening, alone in his office, David cried tears of frustration, then went home and got quietly drunk.
Those had been good days. There were no tears anymore. No emotional investments. All that was left was the winning and the money; recently, he was beginning to wonder if even that was important. David had reached goals that other lawyers only dreamed of achieving. He was a senior partner in a prestigious law firm, he was nationally known, and he was wealthy. All this had been accomplished at a whirlwind pace that left little time for reflection. Now that he had reached the top, he had time to catch his breath and look around. He wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.
“How many does this make?” a reporter from theWashington Post asked.
“I’m sorry?” David said.
“How many murder cases in a row?”
David shifted away from his black thoughts and became “The Ice Man.” If any of the reporters noticed his initial distraction, no one mentioned it.
“I’ll be truthful with you,” he said with a confidential smile. “I’ve lost track. Six seems right, though.”
“Why do you think the jury acquitted Gault?” a reporter with a foreign accent asked.
“Because he is innocent,” David answered without hesitation. “If Tom hadn’t been a celebrity, they wouldn’t have prosecuted him. But I’m glad they did. Gave you fellows work and kept you off the street.”
“And made you a fat fee,” someone shouted.
The reporters laughed and David joined them, but he didn’t feel like laughing. He was bone tired and he wanted to go home.
There was a stir to David’s right, and he turned his head. Gault was moving toward him, his hand outstretched. The mass of reporters and well-wishers parted slowly, and David had time to study his client’s face. For a brief second Gault winked; then their hands touched.
“I owe this man my life,” Gault roared. “This man is the king. And I am going to get him so drunk tonight he won’t be able to defend anyone for a year. Now, any of you suckers who want to join us, form a line. I have enough booze back at my place to get even a reporter drunk. So let’s get going.”
Gault grabbed David with one arm and draped the other over the shoulders of the thin, attractive woman from NBC. David knew it was useless to try to bow out. The crowd swept him along. On the courthouse steps David caught a glimpse of Norman Capers getting into a car parked a block away. David envied him his solitude and his clear conscience.
2
It was an old wooden door. The type you expected to find in a high-school classroom. Long ago someone had painted the windowpane in the upper half a light green to give the occupants of the room more privacy. The lock still worked, but the mechanism was slightly out of line. The door opened with a metallic click, and David looked up from his file. A teenage girl dressed in a dirty white T-shirt and ill-fitting jeans hesitated in the doorway. Monica Powers, the deputy district attorney, stood protectively behind her.
“This is Mr. Nash, Jessie,” Monica said. David stood. Detective Stahlheimer continued to work on the tape recorder at the far end of the wooden table. It was hot and humid outside, but it was cool in the room. The wire mesh in the room’s only window threw crisscross shadow patterns across the detective’s broad back.
