Washburn had the option of coming out swinging now with his defense opening statement, or waiting until the People had presented their case and delivering it then. After Mills had sat down, Tollson asked him what he wanted to do, and he said he'd be going right ahead with his statement now. He didn't like to let the jury sit too long with one story without being made aware that there was another one, or another version of the same one. He found that if the prosecution got to make an unrebutted opening statement and then followed it with up to a week or more of its own witnesses, all he could do was play defense. And this passive style didn't win too many cases.
But, furthering his earlier strategy of avoiding interruptions and objections, he no sooner indicated to the judge his decision to give his opening statement-enthusiasm to defend his innocent client!-than he got the gallery chortling by commenting, in his folksiest manner, "But after Ms. Whelan-Miille's eloquent opening statement, Your Honor, the bladder of a poor old country lawyer could sure use a short recess." Which of course, reflected his opinion that the prosecution's opening had not in any way threatened his client, or even called into question Evan's innocence. Washburn would get to all that in just a minute in his own opening statement and clear up any nagging little inconsistencies that might point to Evan's guilt.
But first he had to pee.
Though, actually, he didn't.
The judge gave them fifteen minutes, and Washburn and Evan took the opportunity to walk out the courtroom's back door to the small holding cell, where they sat across from each other on the cold cement blocks that served as benches. Washburn had shaved carefully but had missed a fairly obvious spot along his jawline for three days running now. Beyond that, never sartorially close to splendid, in a too-large wheat-colored suit with a ludicrous orange tie, he looked particularly disheveled today, as he would every day of the trial. His ten-year-old brown wing-tips had frayed laces and holes in both soles, so he could cross either leg and get the regular-guy message out. Juries, he believed, didn't like fancy dressers as defense lawyers. They liked real people who talked straight and respected their intelligence. And it didn't hurt if you had a personality either.
But now his immediate concern was his client. Evan had cleaned up pretty good. In contrast to defense attorneys, juries tended to like handsome and decently dressed defendants. Not too handsome, especially in a jury with seven men, but respectable. Evan's body language already spoke with an accent of defeat and dejection-not unexpected, given Mills's effective castigation of him-but troublesome nonetheless.
They both sat with their elbows on their knees, heads nearly touching. "You don't look good," Washburn said. "That get to you?"
Evan raised his eyes. "I can't believe I did so many stupid things."
"You were injured," Washburn said with apparent sincerity. "You weren't back to yourself yet. You are now."
"You believe that?"
"I do."
A pause. "You believe me?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
"Is that true?"
Washburn took a long beat. "That is God's truth, my son. You may not know what you did, and you know what that's consistent with?"
"What's that?"
"Innocence. If you weren't there, you wouldn't know what happened, would you?"
Evan sighed. "Everett, I broke into his house."
"You did not break into his house. You let yourself into his house."
"Either way. That was just stupid."
"Granted. It's one of the things I find fascinating about this case, all the stupidity." He held up a hand. "No, I'm serious. You've admitted to a lot of stupid behavior, plus you were drinking way too much, which never helps, but you've never admitted planting that evidence at Nolan's, have you?"
"That's because I didn't."
"You know that. I know it. And that would have been another stupid move. So it's not the stupidity that's keeping you from copping to it. You see what I'm saying? Staying drunk for four days after your fight with Nolan was stupid. Not going to work all that time was stupid. But you didn't drive up to Nolan's in an alcoholic stupor, somehow get into his home without alerting him, get ahold of his gun, and kill him. You couldn't have done it. Your state of mind, pardon me, was too stupid. Whoever did this planned it, timed it, did it right. And call me a soft-hearted romantic, I don't see that being you."
Evan almost broke a smile. "You going to argue that?"
"If I can get the right spin on it, which might be a trick. But, listen, the main thing…"
"I'm listening."
"I need you to buck up in there. You don't have to be indignant, or angry, or anything negative. But you've got to sit up straight and don't let the weight of all the shit she's piling on you get you down. You'll look guilty and pathetic."
"You want me to look happy?"
"No! God, no. You're unjustly accused. Nobody's happy with that. But you're a soldier. You're fighting the good fight. You've been through battle, betrayal, brain injury, bottle-epsy, and now this bullshit. You beat every other one of 'em, and now you're standing up to this one. That's the message. Stick with it. Those jurors are going to try to be objective, okay, but they're twelve unpredictable human beings. Don't forget that. And if they're inclined to like you, that's not a bad thing. Every one of their votes is going to count equally. You get one of 'em on your side, it's over."
Evan sat up straight, his back against the wall. "You really think we can still win this thing?"
"We're not in it to lose, Evan. So when I go out and razzle-dazzle 'em in the next few minutes, it'd be good to have an enthusiastic fan in the peanut gallery. You think you can do that?"
"I'll give it a shot. If I knew what the peanut gallery was."
"You know. The peanut gallery. Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob, Clarabelle the Clown. All those guys." But clearly, Evan was clueless about The Howdy Doody Show. Washburn hit him on the shoulder. "Anyway, so forget the peanut gallery. Just hang tough out there and remember that the jury's looking at you. We're doing good."
"If you say so, Everett. If you say so."
At that moment, the bailiff knocked and opened the courtroom door, telling them their time was up. Washburn let Evan precede him, then stopped short in the doorway. His heartbeat stuttered. And again. He'd had a heart attack about five years previously, and this did not feel like that. There was no pain. The arrhythmia caught his breath, that was all, and then the moment was over. But suddenly he found that the confidence he'd been exuding in his pep talk with Evan had vanished. The harsh reality, as his body took another opportunity to remind him, was that he was getting old. He persisted in living each day with the myth that he was still at the peak of his powers and would live forever. When in truth, he was even older than the Howdy Doody generation, maybe even older than Buffalo Bob himself, now long deceased. He'd lost the PTSD fight to a far younger opponent and now, no matter what he'd told Evan, he faced a far more difficult uphill battle against Mills. It struck him that he might not have the advantage this time, that age and treachery might not overcome youth and skill.
As he stepped into the courtroom behind his client, he realized that he'd allowed his shoulders to slump, that his right hand had lingered at his chest. He willed it down, squared himself away, caught the eye of the young and confident Mary Patricia Whelan-Miille at her table, and flashed her a mouthful of teeth that would have done a horse proud.
"My friends, I'm going to speak to you for just a few minutes to tell you about the rest of the evidence in this case-things that the prosecution chose not to mention because they don't fit Ms. Miille's version of what happened, and things that at the close of this case will still be unexplained. This evidence will make you wonder whether Evan Scholler killed Ron Nolan, and will leave you with a reasonable doubt and will require you-require you if you fulfill your oaths as jurors-to find Evan Scholler not guilty."