Depending on one's point of view, the killing was either accidental as the defendant claims, or calculated and committed for profit as the prosecution wants desperately to prove. In short, a case of no particular consequence that carries no moral lesson or tragic overtone that may illuminate our fragile human condition. A case that would inspire no interest at all except for the celebrity status of the principals and the odd venue of the scene of blood.
Frankly, I don't care a damn abut it and am totally neutral as to its outcome.
Calista in summer: The air hangs heavy here, fraught with high humidity and heat, while the river gives off pungent fumes. I love this kind of weather. It reminds me of the summers of my youth -sweating on baseball diamonds beneath relentless sunshine broke only by occasional fierce summer thunderstorms.
We had one last night. Thunder boomed. Great sheets of rain lashed the streets. Calista's landmark mid- century twin towers, hometown architect Eric Lindstrom's heroic Tower of the Great Plains and Tower of the Great Lakes, stood stark and lonely against the lightning-torn sky.
The residue is still upon the city this hot, damp Tuesday morning, as I make my way along rain-slick sidewalks to the welter of video units and trucks parked at the rear of the ornate beaux-arts Calista County Courthouse.
I've come in search of Pam Wells, hoping to discern whether she regards me as but a one-night stand. Also to see if, indeed, she slept well last night, or, like me, tossed and turned during the storm, unable to expel the memory of our coupling from my mind.
I find her in the CNN Winnebago being worked on by a frizzy-haired hairdresser.
'Well, hi!' she says, with a cheerful smile. 'How're you?'
'Sleep well?'
'I did, yes. Thanks for asking.'
Since the hair gal ignores us, I figure it's okay to behave as if we're alone.
'Any chance of a get-together after work?'
'How ‘bout Waldo's, seven o'clock?'
'Sounds good.' I turn to leave.
'Oh, David-' I turn back to her. 'What I said last night about you being fun – I meant it.'
I search her eyes seeking some trace of irony. Finding none, I still can't bring myself to believe her.
'You're a flatterer, Pam!'
The hair-dresser snorts a laugh.
'Millie here knows better. Don't you, Millie?'
'Go away, Mister,' Millie instructs. 'Pam's having a bad hair day and I got just two minutes to fix her up.'
Winding my way back through the labyrinth of cables, past RVs where other star commentators are being groomed, I feel a certain compassion for on-camera reporters. Not, certainly, on account of their salaries, which are scandalously huge, but for the requirements that they always look great and that their clothing always appear fresh and pressed. Unless, of course, they're covering a hurricane or a war, in which case they carefully ruffle their gorgeous manes of hair and sport tailored bush jackets to resemble dashing correspondents of old.
Having no particular desire for fame or fortune, I prefer my sketch-artist's role behind the scenes. All I have to do is make drawings that, when broadcast, speak for themselves. And if a certain point of view should happen to intrude, it will not be my excitement over this or that twist in the tale, rather my fascination with humans in conflict and their grace or lack of same when under stress.
I enter the courthouse, hang my press ID necklace about my neck, get in a line for the metal detector, hand over my sketchpack, endure a frisking, pick up my pack, then head for the elevators and the fourth floor.
The first two weeks of trial here have been hard as I've labored to create an image-bank – portraits of the principals as well as a selection of their facial expressions at moments of excitement, amusement, confrontation, or that great criminal trial standby, the stare of righteous indignation. Now, with these images in hand, I've got the job down to a manageable level, able to quickly build composite drawings that can illustrate most every courtroom situation likely to arise.
Whenever a new piece of physical evidence is introduced or a new witness appears, I immediately sketch it, him, or her, adding same to my store. At which point, unless I sense a fine moment is in the offing, I feel free to go about my business, confident that I can create strong drawings that will please my producer so long as she receives them in time for broadcast on the early evening news.
Courtroom work is not my specialty; forensic ID portraiture is. I've made perhaps a thousand drawings of wanted felons, with an accuracy that has propelled me to the top rank of my profession.
These days, what with Identi-Kits and computer programs that the average cop can operate, we forensic artists are often viewed as relics. But composites generated by systems are never as accurate as freehand drawings made by an artist working closely with an eyewitness. We can introduce emotion, depict characteristic expressions, even create the aura of a subject, his menace, craftiness, joviality, or, if appropriate, that distinctive strange, almost bland, vacant stare so typical of the sociopathic killer.
I enjoy forensic work, the unhurried pace of it, long eyewitness interviews, evoking the original trauma of the crime, breaking through screen memories to uncover real ones, then the drawing itself, the slow accretion of detail that can bring a portrait of a criminal to life.
So why now the courtroom sketching, a business requiring the speedy production of cartoons? For a change of pace, perhaps, a chance to make a few extra bucks, but most especially for the opportunity to revisit my hometown where another homicide, one that took place more than a quarter century ago, grips my interest and fills my dreams with an intensity the Foster trial cannot even begin to touch.
I have come back, you see, to try to resolve my past. Also, hopefully, to complete my father's great unfinished case.
This morning the courthouse seems especially tense. Perhaps it's last night's thunderstorm. Exasperated reporters, having bad hair days, lope morosely along the corridors. Even the bailiffs, normally an even-tempered bunch, appear unduly stressed.
I nod to acquaintances, catching, in the process, a dour glance from Jim Henderson, the CNN courtroom sketch artist whom Pam Wells's producer wants to replace. Just as I'm about to show him a friendly smile, my own producer, Harriet Mills, sidles up.
'Hear about the overnights? We beat the competition again thanks to you.' Harriet's a tough go-get-‘em type. She grins at me. 'Hear you were seen leaving Waldo's with Pam Wells. What's she like?'
I shrug.
'Well, I hear she's a real bitch,' Harriet says.
There's more media baiting and back-biting at this trial than any I've attended, perhaps because the pickings are so slim and the competition so intense. I feel bad for Henderson. He's a nice guy and his drawings are decent enough, but he lacks a feeling for trial-as-theater. I'm pretty sure he dislikes me because he thinks I think I'm slumming. Probably he also finds it disgraceful I don't stay in my seat, but instead wander out of the courtroom on my own business for hours at a time.
Judge Winterson's bailiff appears at the door.
'Okay, folks – you can enter now. Keep it orderly. No shoving like yesterday. Judge was plenty pissed when she heard.' Dramatic pause. 'Believe me, it's not fun for us when Judge gets pissed.'
And with that in mind, we of the media herd file solemnly in to take our seats.
