The Cutting Room. Jilliane Hoffman
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Joe Varlack and Anne-Claire Simmons were standing outside the jury box, at the side of their client, who was at the far end of the box. Although they were speaking in hushed voices and she was too far away to hear what was being said, it wasn’t hard to read the body language — both attorneys were pissed and the client wasn’t listening. More than not listening, handsome Talbot wasn’t even affected. And that was what held her attention as she stood at the door. Accused of a brutal murder, remanded to a jail cell for the foreseeable future, facing imminent indictment by the grand jury, and, ultimately, a possible death sentence, and the guy seemed about as interested or affected as if the crowd around him were discussing the weather in Nepal. She’d seen cold-blooded gang members more worked up over a traffic ticket. He almost seemed amused.
Just as she was thinking that her defendant’s reaction, or lack thereof, to what was happening was bizarre and disturbing, she saw his lips move. Then, with a smug smirk, he raised his shackled hands together and pointed straight at Daria across the room. Those in the courtroom who had been watching the exchange looked over at her, which, in turn, started a chain reaction of courtroom rubbernecking — everyone wanting to see what or who the accused sadist was pointing at with his jingling chains, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
The blood rushed to her face. It was as if she’d been caught peeking in someone’s bedroom window and now the whole neighborhood was up and out on the front lawn staring at her. The case file slipped from her hands, spilling papers and crime-scene photos all over the floor. She rushed to pick them up and dropped her purse. Makeup, pens, tampons, loose change, and an assortment of hoarded receipts shot everywhere. Court again came to a complete halt. Dixon, the correction officer who was manning the door, and Manny both stooped down to help her.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled to both men as she hurriedly stuffed papers into her file and things into her purse. ‘It must’ve slipped.’
After a few painful, all-too-quiet minutes, the judge finally broke the rubbernecking trance. ‘Okay, back to work, everyone. Ms DeBianchi, you got it together there? You okay now?’
Daria waved a hand in the general direction of the bench. She wished she could disappear.
‘Harmony, where’s my file on Acevedo?’ Slow Steyn barked. ‘This is the wrong one, I think.’ Court started up once more.
‘Let’s go now!’ Corrections shouted. ‘Take your seats. That means you, too, Lunders! Caused enough trouble now, didn’t ya, pretty boy?’
‘I think she’s hot for him,’ she heard one observer in the gallery remark with a chuckle.
‘I got the door, Counselor,’ Manny said as Daria stood to leave. ‘Have a nice day, Judge,’ he called with a wave as she scuttled past.
Once in the hallway, Daria took a breath and tried to shake off her embarrassment. She felt like a complete idiot, dropping her file all over the floor like an incompetent intern. Or worse, like a flustered schoolgirl who’d made eye contact with the school quarterback.
Why the hell had she gotten so rattled? Why had she lost her composure? It pissed her off, was what it did.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was defiance. Or maybe it was an attempt to reestablish her authority that had made her steal one final glance in the direction of the box as the mahogany doors began to close behind her with a hydraulic hiss. Whatever her intent, whatever the reasoning, she instantly wished she hadn’t. Because in all her years prosecuting terrible men for the terrible things they’d done, she’d never before felt the icy-cold sensation of fear race through her veins when she looked at a defendant. She’d never before had to fight off an overwhelming urge to run as hard and as fast as she could away from a moment. And she had never before wished that she’d not been assigned a case.
But that day had come.
Her defendant had not moved. He had not sat down. He was still standing in the box, still pointing at her with his manacled hands, a knowing smile frozen on his face, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. As if he knew she would try to look at him once again, try to break him. The Ghost of Christmas Future now, staring at her as though she had none. Watching her at the door she’d just walked through, those beautiful hazel eyes of his fixed on the small sliver of her person that remained visible before the door finally closed and the judge ordered him removed from the courtroom.
8
‘Looks like somebody’s got herself a secret admirer,’ Manny said with a touch of sing-song in his voice that made him sound like a pesky little brother. ‘I wouldn’t get too excited, though. Your new friend reminds me too much of Michael Myers. You know, the psycho from Halloween. The guy who chased sexy Jamie Lee Curtis around for a night in that freaky mask while he whacked all her friends to pieces—’
‘Yeah, I got it, Detective,’ Daria replied, as she turned away from the courtroom and headed toward the bank of escalators, the hurried clicking of her pumps echoing like a jackhammer down the deserted hallway. She was still embarrassed about dropping her file. ‘The guy is definitely creepy.’
‘So’s his lawyers. The big guy, anyway. What’s with the pony?’
‘Ha.’
‘What guy gets a fucking manicure? Come on. Don’t think I didn’t spot those pudgy, girly hands, Counselor. Never worked an honest day in his life, I bet. Wait a second, he’s a lawyer. Of course he hasn’t. They’re all scumbags.’
‘Remember who you’re talking to, Detective. I have an Esq after my name, too.’
‘Present company excluded, of course. I meant defense lawyers.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘We worked the room in there, didn’t we, Counselor?’ Manny said with a grin, waving at a couple of cops down the hall, who waved back. ‘Like Sonny and Cher, we were. What a team.’
‘Hmmm. Sonny and Cher?’
‘You know, I remember Varlack from that news show he used to do on Channel Ten. “Advice with Joey” or whatever. He was a big bag of wind back then, too. Damn, has Father Time been hard on that guy. Looks like he ate Father Time,’ Manny remarked with a chuckle. ‘Do you think he really believed his deranged client was gonna walk out of here today because Mom and Pop were waving a big, fat check at the system?’
Daria stepped on the escalator going down. ‘Well, if you’d been a minute later, he probably would have,’ she replied coolly.
‘Uh-oh. You’re mad,’ Manny replied, following her.
‘You’re quick.’
‘I wasn’t late. I was here the whole time,’ he said, taking the fat file from her arms. ‘Let me get that for you. It’s heavy and you look so tired. And cranky.’
‘Hey there, Manny!’ a defense attorney called from behind them. ‘You going to the game tonight?’
‘Not tonight. I got tickets for Saturday.’
‘See ya there!’ the lawyer replied before disappearing into a courtroom.
He turned his attention back to her. ‘Like I said, you look drained. Give me that.’
The man knew everyone and everyone knew him. She handed her file over without a fight. ‘Bullshit. I texted you a dozen times — no Manny.’
‘There’s your problem. I never text. Hate that thing. The world is going to shit, Counselor; no one talks to nobody no more. Everyone just sends cryptic messages. Can’t even bother to spell out the fucking words — pardon the English. I’m old school — call me if you need me. That’s not so hard.’
‘I can’t call you when court’s in session.’
‘You’re not supposed to text, either.’
‘You were so not out in the hall.’
‘I