Page 107 of The Devil's Advocate

Bloch looked up at the front row of seats and waved at Patricia.

‘How are they holding up?’ asked Bloch.

‘Nervous as all hell. They haven’t slept in days.’

Together we walked up to the defense table. Patricia, bent over, had her arm through the uprights of the front row, holding Andy’s hand. He was at least eating better at the hotel, but that suit shirt still looked like it could accommodate at least three Andys. Patricia had worn her best dress again. It was midnight blue, with small white and yellow flecks running through the fabric. Her hair was tied up, and she wore what she called her Sunday gloves. A pair of old leather gloves that her mother had given to her to wear to church. They must’ve been a gift she received in her youth, because the gloves now stretched tightly over her hands.

‘Today’s going to be tough,’ said Andy.

Bloch simply smiled at him. It was the first time I’d seen her holding back. She wanted to say something encouraging – something hopeful, but she knew today we had a mountain to climb and only one thin rope. Instead, she bit her lip, and patted Patricia on the shoulder. I saw Kate watching her and taking a small moment of pleasure from the exchange. She knew Bloch better than any of us, and we all knew the only time Bloch had physical contact with someone was when she was breaking an important limb. Bloch’s hand on Patricia’s shoulder was a big deal. A small miracle in a cold courthouse where miracles were few and far between.

God knows we needed one right now.

Glancing at the seats behind the prosecution, Bloch said, ‘Francis isn’t in court today?’

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Haven’t seen him. You want to take a drive, see if you can spot him?’

Bloch nodded and left just as the judge came into court. Then the jury. And then we were off, for what I knew would be one of the hardest days I’d ever had in a courtroom.

‘The State calls John Lawson,’ said Korn.

These were the first words spoken in court that morning. Korn stood a little straighter, a little taller. His shoulders were no longer hunched, his expression focused on the jury. Maybe he’d settled down into the rhythm of trial. The first day of any trial is always fraught, no matter who you are and how many trials you’ve done. It takes some time to find your feet, see where you are with the jury, with the evidence, and find a path.

Korn had found his. His assistant DA, Wingfield, looked pensive, hunched over the prosecution table.

From the back of the court a man in a brown, tight-fitting suit came forward. He wore a thin, sharp beard that snaked along his jawline and split over his upper lip. If I didn’t know it was real, I would swear someone had drawn it on his face with a magic marker. A scar sliced his left eyebrow in two, like it was a fashion statement. The suit looked expensive, but I could tell he hadn’t worn it in a long time. The arms bulged, the material spread tight across his chest and thighs. As if it had shrunk, or, more likely, Lawson had grown. He hadn’t worn the suit in a while because he’d been inside, and there’s nothing much to do there except lift weights and read.

And figure out how to get the hell out of there.

He took the Bible in his left hand, kissed the cover of the book like it was a holy relic, then held it aloft and repeated the oath. The judge gave him permission to sit.

‘Mr. Lawson, what is your current address?’ asked Korn.

‘I’m at the state penn right now,’ he said. Lawson spoke in a strange accent. It was southern, but not the slow drawl. He spoke real fast, and his lips barely moved so it came out as a mumble, and sounded like ‘Imma-at-state-pen-rightnaw.’ The court stenographer stopped typing, turned and whispered to the clerk, who in turn spoke to the judge.

‘Could you talk a little slower, and more clearly, please, Mr. Lawson. The court stenographer is having a little trouble with your accent,’ said Judge Chandler.

The stenographer mouthed athank youto the judge.

I looked at the stenographer, her fingers moving swiftly across the keys, and it gave me an idea.

‘You mean you are currently serving a jail sentence?’ asked Korn.

‘That’s right,’ said Lawson, this time more slowly. Taking care to pronounce his words more effectively for the stenographer and the court.

‘Have you served all of your sentence in the penitentiary?’

‘Nah, for a while I was in county. I shared a cell with the defendant, right there,’ he said, pointing to Andy.

‘How long were you sharing a cell with the defendant?’

‘Couple of weeks, maybe, I don’t know.’

‘Did you become acquainted with the defendant?’

‘Yeah, we were cellies, you know? You don’t got a lot of room, sharing bunks. We were locked up twenty-three seven. You got to get along with the guy you’re bunkin’ with. Otherwise you go crazy.’

‘Would it be fair to say you became friends with the defendant?’