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Perhaps it’s a vain thought, a prideful one, but there’s no denying I have more ambition than the other lawyers in the practice. I suspect I really can help amp up our profile.
Still…wouldn’t I reach even higher if I worked somewhere else?
Then there’s Izzy’s surgery, fast approaching. I’ve done extensive research on the doctor Ruthie chose and also the surgery itself. There’s no reason whatsoever to believe there will be complications, but I’m terrified.
Meanwhile, the interest in Josie’s case has warmed up. There was an editorial in the paper about superfluous lawsuits, with her case as the example, and then a reporter from WLOS ran a piece about her, interviewing several past clients—some satisfied and others less so. The dissatisfied ones are hardly a nail in our coffin, because several of them are pissed that her predictions “came true,” including Shauna’s old friends, Colter and Bianca, the couple whose wedding Josie “ruined” because the cake ended up being destroyed, just like she’d predicted.
It’s heating up to be a big deal.
If I lose, a huge deal, because I’m counting on a jury of Josie’s peers to think it’s possible that she can read the future. The more I think of it, the more I think I’m in for it. But I’m also excited, because it’s a challenge, isn’t it?
I’m going to give that pain-in-the-ass woman a defense that will make history.
The day comes in the way long-awaited days do, with little fanfare. When my alarm goes off absurdly early on Thursday, Josie’s court date, Ruthie rolls over in bed and looks at me. “I’d wish you luck, but I don’t think you need it. You’re going to win this for her.”
I kiss her softly. “Thanks for building up my ego the way you’ve always promised me you won’t. I know it must have cost you.”
When I get to court, Nicole and Damien are already present in the audience. When Nicole sees me, she points to her eyes and then points to me, which I take to mean she expects me to win. If I don’t, I’ll be on her shit list, which is probably an uncomfortable place to be.
I recognize a few of the other spectators as press. The tea lady, Josie’s old boss, is also there. She’s knitting a sweater, of all things, having managed to do the impossible and convince the security guards to allow her to bring in her knitting needles. She smiles and nods at me, and I nod back as I pass her.
I slide into my seat, Michael sitting down beside me. “Let the show begin,” I say to him in an undertone.
“This is way more exciting than anything that ever happened in the jewelry store,” he whispers back.
A couple of minutes later, Josie enters the court, wearing a kaftan embroidered with golden stars and an oversized golden hair ornament shaped like an open, staring eye. Well, good to see she listened to me when I advised her to dress conservatively. She looks like a quack, the kind of person you’d find if you went to the boardwalk at the beach—a particularly seedy one—and slipped into a tent with a sign reading “Psychic.”
“Well, what do you think, Josie the Great?” I ask her with a smile as she lowers into the chair next to us. I could give her a hard time about the costume, but she’s already wearing it, and I’m guessing she doesn’t have a business casual suit stuffed in her bag. “Do you predict we’re going to win this thing?”
She surprises me by pulling a Magic 8-Ball out of her bag and shaking it. Without speaking, she shows me the readout: Prospects are murky.
“Well, it’s not a no,” I tell her. “We’ll take it. All the same, you should probably keep that in your bag. If you start flashing it around, people might get the wrong idea about your abilities.”
“It’s for you,” she says, trying to hand it to me. “It’s your house-warming present.”
“Thanks,” I say glibly, “but you’d better keep it in your bag right now all the same.”
She tucks it back in before worrying her lip and saying, “There’s a lot of press here.”
“Good. All the better to report our win.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling optimistic,” she says. “It’s because of your wife, isn’t it? She has a much sunnier aura than you do.”
“You’re right about that,” I say, feeling a glow at the mention of Ruthie. It’s like she’s here with me, my own personal sunshine.
“I feel that way about my boyfriend too, but we figured it would be for the best if he didn’t come after what happened between him and the plaintiff.”
“Yes, I’m the one who told you that.”
“But I already knew you were going to say it.”
Seems I’m not the only one who enjoys having the last word.
It doesn’t take long for us to get into the swing of it. Jury selection. Opening statements. I call witnesses. A woman who claims Josie saved her life because she predicted—correctly—that her house was in danger of burning down (the heating system was broken.) A man whom she’d helped find a lost relative. Plus a few more for good measure.
The opposing attorney cross-examines them, but even though he’s adept at creating doubt, will it be enough? Because many of the predictions she’s made have come to pass, more or less.
We break for the day, and in the morning, the wife whose affections were supposedly alienated goes on the stand, called by the opposition.
