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One Hundred Nine
THE JURY COMES BACKlate Thursday afternoon, after being out for a day.
Seven women. Five men.
I am seated in an attorney room with Rob Jacobson when the bailiff raps sharply on the door. Jacobson jumps at the sound, like a gun has gone off.
The bailiff pokes his head in and says, “They’re back.”
Just like that, the color drains from my client’s face, nothing he can do to stop it. He’s not cocky in this moment, or smug, or some kind of smart-ass. He’s not slick and acting as if he’s smarter than everybody, including me. He’s just scared to death. I haven’t been able to shut him up since we both sat down. It’s as if it’s finally sunk in that this is no game, that he can’t bullshit his way out of a conviction, that his life is in the hands of those twelve people, more powerful on his day in court than the Supreme Court.
A jury now back.
Jacobson just finished asking me again what it means that they’ve been out this long.
“It’s the same answer I gave you yesterday. You never know. This isn’t an exact science. I’ve had juries stay out for a couple of hours, or a couple of weeks.”
“But then you’ve always gotten acquittals,” he says.
“That doesn’t matter now. Not even a little bit. And not to put too fine a point on things, but the district attorney has never lost, either.”
“I can’t spend another day in that cell,” he says.
And he sounds as honest, and human, as he’s ever been. With reality waiting down the hall. His old life, or life without parole. Those are the stakes, and now all the money in the world can’t buy him out of the walk we’re both about to take.
“I thought I was ready for this,” he says. “I’m not.”
“Hardly anybody ever is.”
Before we leave the room Jacobson says, “You really don’t like me very much, do you?”
The way he’s asked it, as if he’s somehow still curious about where I weigh in, actually gets a smile out of me, even if I’m as jumpy as he is, not that I’m going to let him see that.
“I’m sorry to say that the verdict on that one came in a while ago, Rob.”
He holds the door for me, as if he’s suddenly decided to be courtly, this late in the game. Somehow he’s gathered himself by now, as if getting back into character, and doesn’t want to walk in there looking scared. Or weak. Or both.
“Once and for all,” he says, “don’t you want to know if I did it?”
“No.”
He leans in then, and once more puts his lips near my ear. I don’t know if he’s going to whisper something or kiss me.
I frankly don’t care, either way.
I step back and slap him across the face. I slap him and snap his head back in the process, feeling the sting in my hand.
It feels good.
Verygood.
Every part of it.
I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to do it.
Something changes in his eyes then.
And then, just like that, no hesitation, he slaps me back, as hard as I slapped him, knocking me back into the table, and nearly knocking me down.
