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“I was always apologizing for something. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you enough credit for my success in my last interview.’ ‘I’m sorry I gained two pounds.’ It doesn’t matter what his lawyer says now. I wasn’t apologizing for forced—” She halted at the word “penetration,” then finished in her own way. “For forcedanything.”
Imani fell angrily into a chair. Jack gave her a moment to regain her composure. Finally, she looked at him and spoke, her voice laden with bitterness.
“That Jennifer Ellis is a pick-me girl.”
“A what?” asked Jack.
“You should know that term. You have a daughter.”
“Righley is only seven.”
“How do I explain this?” she asked herself, massaging between her eyes. Then it came to her. “There’s an old Janis Ian song about girls with ravaged faces lacking in the social graces. You know it?”
“‘At Seventeen.’ It’s a classic. Of course I know it. But I’m kind of surprised you do.”
“She’s actually one of my idols. Anyway, that song has a perfect line about the girls whose names are never called when choosing sides for basketball. Jennifer Ellis was never one of those girls. She was always picked, and she did whatever it took to get picked.”
“What does that have to do with this hearing?”
“Once a pick-me girl, always a pick-me girl. She lives for validationand approval by men, and she will do whatever it takes to get it, even if it means throwing other women under the bus. Men never see it, but believe me, other women do. ‘The world is out to get you, Shaky. You’re the victim, Shaky. Women use sex as a weapon. Imani is the abuser.’ ‘Pick me, Shaky! Pick me!’”
Jack had never seen his client this angry, but she was far from irrational. “I can’t say you’re wrong,” he said.
“That’s because I’m right.”
Silence hung between them. The reporters arguing with Theo on the other side of the door to the jury room were just white noise, unnoticeable.
“What do we do now?” asked Imani.
“We fight back,” said Jack. “With everything we’ve got.”
Chapter 6
At three o’clock, Jack and his client were back in the courtroom. The gallery seemed to swell beyond capacity, the buzz about “forced penetration” apparently having sparked even greater interest in the growing public spectacle. Imani sat in silence beside her lawyer, but Jack noticed that her leg was in high gear below the table, bouncing up and down with restless leg syndrome in nervous anticipation of the judge’s evidentiary ruling.
“I’ve reviewed the text messages submitted by the plaintiff,” the judge said from the bench. “There is nothing in any of those communications about forced penetration or any other sexual misconduct. They are apologies, but they could be apologies about anything. For that reason, I will exclude them from evidence.”
It was a setback for the prurient interests, and the disappointment among spectators was palpable. Jack took the win and pressed forward, emboldened by the reassurance that his client had told him the truth.
“May I cross-examine the witness?” asked Jack, rising.
“Proceed,” said the judge.
Jack knew he had his hands full with Shaky. The key was to ask the right questions. Not questions that might elicit the answer a lawyer hoped for, but questions that could be answered only one way. Baked into this calculation was the sad reality that when the case was on the line, a witness like Shaky Nichols told the truth only when the lawyer left no alternative.
Jack approached the witness and faced him squarely, with feet planted firmly at shoulders width—his position of control.
“Mr. Nichols, you testified that you purchased Imani’s master recordings through your company, Clover Investments. Do I have that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I understand that Clover borrowed three hundred million dollars to make that purchase.”
“Yes.”
“Even though Clover is the borrower, you, personally, guaranteed repayment of that loan, correct?”
“Correct.”
