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“But isn’t the evidence overwhelming, Jane?” I hear a woman’s voice say.
“Whoa. Are you here reporting or prosecuting?”
Then I’m gone, and through security. I suspect that Rob Jacobson is already waiting for me inside the courtroom. Ten forty-five now. A late start today.
But as I make my way down the hallway I feel myself getting the spins. Take a fast right into the ladies’ room. Blessedly, it’s empty. I get past the door and lean against the wall inside and feel myself start to slide down it before I stop myself.
For the second time this morning I feel as if I can’t breathe.
Fourteen months.
I think about splashing some water on my face but remember at the last second that I would be making a stupid mess out of a makeup job I’d been pretty proud of when I left the house. Can’t have that, not when I’m ready for my close-up. So I reach down and turn on the cold water and cup my hand and drink some.
Stare at myself in the mirror. Same face I saw in the mirror at home before I rushed over to Sam Wylie’s office. But the only thing really the same now is the job. The trial that begins in a few minutes, ready or not.
For some reason, I think about the movieAll That Jazz. Roy Scheider, who lived in the Hamptons at the end of his life, played Bob Fosse, even though his character had a different name. Joe something. But a director and choreographer, like Fosse. And when it was time to get to work, he’d look in mirror, smile brightly, and say, “It’s showtime, folks!”
I don’t usually go for old movies. But there has always been something about this one, even if it was made before I was born. Or maybe because I saw Scheider on the beach a few times.
I’m the one looking into the mirror now.
“Showtime, folks,” I say, forcing a smile.
When I turn around, there is a woman staring at me from across the room. I hadn’t heard her come in.
“What areyoulooking at?”
Nine
NO JUMPSUIT FOR ROB JACOBSONtoday. He’s wearing a suit that I’m thinking might have cost more than my Prius Prime. As I take a closer look at him, I decide I’m not the only one at the table wearing makeup.
“Well,” he says, leaning toward me, “the ball’s about to go up, isn’t it?”
I am briefly back in Sam Wylie’s office.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“The ball in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. You ever do that? I did it a couple of times when I was a kid.”
“Yeah. That’s where I always wanted to be on amateur night.”
I’m taking out my yellow legal pad and pens and the manila folder that contains the printout of my opening statement. I went through it one last time the night before, start to finish, not rushing it, wanting to make sure I had it down cold, knowing I had a doctor’s appointment early in the morning.
My favorite leather bag was a gift from my first husband. Unless it was my second. When I have everything I need out of the bag, I turn to face my client.
“And to be clear, Rob,” I say, unable to stop myself, “the balldropson New Year’s Eve. It’s the balloon that goes up. It’s a military expression my old man used.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I begin to underline the phrases and moments from my statement I want to step on when the time comes.
“You are some piece of work. You know that, right?”
“Actually, I do.”
I look around the room. Jury over to our right, already in their seats. The clerk’s small desk in front of the judge’s bench. Spectators behind Rob Jacobson and me. His wife, Claire, is in the first row, staring straight ahead, as if her eyes are fixed on the world she had before this trial became her world, and her husband’s. I turn to look at her. She nods at me without changing expression. And Jimmy Cunniff likes to talk aboutmyresting bitch face.
Less than five hours since I woke up in the car. Less than three since I got the news from Sam Wylie. Time flies.
Two minutes to eleven.
