Good Morning, Killer

“No, are they pretty much like the old ones?”

I had no appetite. I went back and sat in the empty courtroom. Twenty long minutes later, Devon’s associate entered alone.

“Where’s Juliana?”

“Oh,” said the jumpy young attorney, who had not yet learned from the master how to lie, “no problem.”

“Where’s Devon?”

“I think he’s grabbing a cup of coffee.”

“Is there a hang-up?”

“No, not at all. Just a last-minute pep talk. They’ll be up in a minute.”

The associate smiled the vacant, noncommittal smile of a subordinate covering badly for his boss.

“Do me a favor? If Devon shows up, tell him I went to the ladies’ room.”

I walked demurely through the doors, then hit the stairway.

There was only one place to get coffee inside the building, and that was the dilapidated cafeteria, but when I arrived out of breath the grill was closed and the place half deserted.

Afraid I had missed them, I was about to run back upstairs but noticed through the rear doors of the cafeteria there was a patio. Sure enough, a cappuccino cart. A few courthouse workers sitting on wire chairs were taking their breaks, bent over sliding leaves of newsprint or sitting back with heads tilted toward the sun, hands wrapped around the universal paper coffee cup.

Juliana, wearing dark glasses and a heartbreaking little pink suit, legs crossed, long dark hair blown out straight and looking about twenty-five years old, was sitting in the shade with her mother. Devon had pulled a chair close and was speaking intimately. Juliana’s arms were folded and she appeared to be staring straight ahead, turning guardedly as I neared.

“Hi, Juliana. Great to see you.”

“Good to see you, too.”

“Ana,” said Devon, “you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I just want to say thank you. Can’t I say thank you?”

“No, you cannot be seen talking with a witness!”

But I was already shaking Lynn Meyer-Murphy’s hand. I think it was the first time I had smiled in about a month and the fresh breeze blowing through the courtyard smelled like spring.

“Thank you for coming and for bringing Juliana. I know this is hard for her and I really, really appreciate it.”

“Ana,” said Devon, standing up so his chair moved back with a scrape, “go back upstairs.”

A long time ago I had stood on the threshold of the Meyer-Murphy home, shaking the hand of a woman wearing mismatched clothing who was deeply in shock. Her eyes squinted and her affect was blank, but after a brief moment’s nod toward her discomfort, I was impatient to get inside and go to work. Now it was Lynn’s face that was composed, and her fingers that withdrew first and went to the calfskin shoulder bag and took out the car keys.

“Are you leaving?”

“We’ll be up in a minute,” Devon assured me.

“What’s the matter, Juliana?”

“I’m having a panic attack,” replied the girl.

I saw her rigid carriage was effort, not composure. Her face was flushed and beneath the defiantly crossed arms her chest was heaving.

“It’s okay. It will pass,” she said bravely.

“Ask for a recess,” I told Devon. “The witness is ill.”

“Juliana wants to go for it now,” my lawyer replied urgently.

“I’d rather get it over with,” Juliana said, breathing through her nose.

“What do you think?” I asked her mother.

“I’ve been told to let her make her own decisions,” she said in a voice that was raw with self-pity.

Lynn was also wearing a suit, royal blue, and the two looked as if they should be lunching at Cafe Pinot, except for the obvious anger crackling between them that made it hard to imagine them even sitting at the same table. Despite her equanimity, Lynn was clutching the car keys so tightly her knuckles had turned pink.

“But she’s sick,” I protested.

“I’m not sick. It’s just a panic reaction to being in a big room in front of people. It’s a feeling, not a fact. The fact is, I’m safe. I’m safe here,” Juliana repeated, apparently as she had been taught.

“Let’s roll,” said Devon, looking at his watch. “This judge likes to go home at four.”

Juliana and her mother stood up.

“No,” I said, “no. Thank you, but no.”

“No, what?”

“I don’t want Juliana to testify.”

Devon, used to all manner of sudden turns, adroitly steered into the skid.

“I know how protective you feel of Juliana, and you’ve spoken very touchingly of your concern that she’ll be further traumatized by going up there and talking to the judge—”

“She’s in no shape to do this.”

“She wants to. Don’t you, Juliana?”

Juliana nodded, clutching a tiny black handbag in front of her, as if about to fall off her feet.

“Listen to what this young woman is telling you.”

Devon stood with one hand on the round wire table to take the weight off his bad leg. The awkward posture thrust his upper body forward, made him look gracelessly eager.

“Do they know the prosecutor has a right to cross-examine?” I said. “Do they know he can question her about the rape? He’ll make her relive it and he’ll put the blame for being raped, for being kidnapped by Ray Brennan, on her.” “No,” said Lynn, looking back and forth to Juliana. “Nobody told us that. What would that have to do with —”

“I am acting in your best interest.” Devon’s voice was raised, he was plenty steamed. “I am defending your freedom. That’s what I do. It’s in your best interest to have Juliana on the stand, testifying on your behalf.”

“And how you get her there doesn’t matter?”

Devon spoke deliberately, sarcastically, annunciating every word: “She-says-she-can-do-it.”

“She has no idea. You’re putting her up against Mark Rauch? No,” I said. “No way! He’ll malign her character,” turning back to Lynn, “so the judge won’t take what she says seriously. I can’t believe you weren’t briefed on this! He’ll make her look like a pot-smoking disenfranchised spoiled Westside kid looking for kicks who got in over her head. Who’s been bullied into testifying by the big bad scary FBI agent and her lawyer. Maybe it will set her back, maybe it won’t, but look, I shot the guy, there’s no question that I shot him—” “Shut up, Ana,” said Devon County, former LAPD. “You’re fucking yourself, excuse my language.”

Juliana shrugged. Her mother looked confused.

“You’d rather go to trial?” asked Lynn, dubious. “Because, well, that’s what Mr. County said. He said, if the judge thinks you shot this policeman for a not very good reason — you’ll go to trial, right? And maybe go to jail.” A thousand replies sprung up at once. “I’ll take that risk.”

“We have to get back,” interrupted Devon, grabbing his crutch and making for the glass doors. Awkwardly, he held them open, challenging us to follow. Only Lynn walked on ahead.

“Mom?” called Juliana, waiting uncertainly, holding on to the mini purse.

She turned. “It’s up to you.”

“Since when has anything ever been up to me?” Juliana catcalled back.

Lynn’s lips compressed and her eyes were blinking rapidly.

“You told me to stay out of your life.”

“Ladies?” Devon implored.

“He’s talking to you,” Lynn repeated, in a voice as jagged as a shard of glass, suddenly a weapon capable of cutting.