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“Thisisn’tthe O.J. trial,” he says. “There are no real killers wandering around out there, because the real killer is the sociopath sitting right behind me.”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder without even looking at Rob Jacobson.
I feel some movement next to me and am afraid Jacobson might stand and say something stupid after hearing “sociopath.” So I put my hand firmly on his arm as I stand.
Then I’m on my way out there.
And as I’m the one taking the room now, for the last time in this trial, I feel an even bigger rush of adrenaline than I had at the start of the trial, all the way back to jury selection. I know how to do this. I knowwhatI have to do. Know exactly what I want to say and how I plan to say it.
I walk to the middle of the room and am smiling as I turn to face the jury.
Otis Miller is only partially right, as it turns out.
Iamsick.
Just not the way he meant.
And not today.
I walk slowly up and down in front of the jurors now, looking each one of them in the eyes as I do.
“Are you a murderer?” I say to the red-haired insurance agent from Manorville.
“Are you?” I say to the chef from Quogue.
“How about you?” I say to the foreperson, the retired English teacher from Riverhead whom I think of as Dame Maggie Smith. “Are you capable of murder?”
One after another, I ask them all the same question.
“Not one of you is a murderer, of course. It’s why you simply cannot give an innocent man what is the equivalent of the death penalty.”
I already feel like I’m back on my trail now, running and shooting, as I turn to face Rob Jacobson.
“Mr. Ahearn called my client a son of a bitch yesterday,” I say. “And you know something? He was absolutely right. This manisa son of a bitch.”
I smile.
“But if we’re going to start giving out life sentences for that particular crime,” I say, “we’re going to need more lawyers.”
I turn and nod at Ahearn, and think:
You’re not as good as me today after all.
Nobody is.
One Hundred Seven
WE ARE AT Around table in a corner of Jimmy Cunniff’s corner bar.
Just Jimmy and me.
Like it’s us against the world one more time.
“I gotta say,” Jimmy says to me, “that the real killer today was you, killer.”
Jimmy, allowing himself to get out of the house for a couple of hours, has suggested ordering a bottle of his best Champagne. I tell him there is nothing to celebrate yet. And remind him that neither one of us really likes Champagne.
So instead of Champagne, there’s his bottle of Pappy Van Winkle on the table in front of us. The very good stuff. And very expensive.
