“Darren here is offering to keep watch over Marcus,” Deacon said. “There’s a little apartment back of the kitchen, got its own sitting room and all. He’ll be fine.”
The news met with such a chorus of approval that Marcus felt his own objections swept away. Amos said, “I better be off, Marcus. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Not so fast.” Charlie hefted his platter. “We need all the help we can get here.”
“We got us cheese-grits soufflé,” Boomer agreed. “Sausage-and-eggs casserole. Spoon bread. Sweet-potato pie. Coffee cake with pecans from my own tree. And scratch biscuits with smoked country ham.”
“Marcus, stop cluttering up the door,” Charlie ordered. “Go do something useful like putting on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“All rise. The Seventh District Court of the United States is now in session. Judge Nicols presiding.”
Marcus’ multiple pains protested loudly as he stood, yet he did not mind at all. Alongside the throbbing in his head and gut, closer to him still than the arm plastered and aching, was the laughter he had heard that morning in his kitchen. Boomer Hayes had never in his entire life met a stranger, and not even Alma Hall could hold on to her pretrial nerves. Marcus had sat and eaten until his belly felt bruised inside as well as out, and marveled at his home’s momentary change of atmosphere.
“Be seated.” In her dark robes and high-backed leather chair, Gladys Nicols looked impossibly solid and as regal as a queen. Her features appeared even more sharply defined than usual as she inspected Marcus long and hard. “Counsel are requested to approach the bench.”
The courtroom was an elegant walnut-paneled theater. Attendance was free, participation outrageously expensive. For the losers the cost was everything they had, pride and freedom included. Only the United States flag was mounted behind the judge, as the state flag did not belong in a federal court. A carved wooden Great Seal of the United States was set in the wall above the judge’s head. The seal and the flag were the courtroom’s only adornments. The result was a chamber both grand and uncompromisingly stern. The tables, jury box, witness stand, judge’s high bench, and the recorder’s station and public seats were the same polished walnut as the walls. A rich and impressive seat of law, or a very public morgue for the mourning of shattered ambitions-it all depended on who won.
The judge’s bench rested high upon its carpeted platform, ringed by lower stations for the reporter and two clerks and the witness stand. The court reporter started to rise as Marcus and the others approached, but was waved away. Up close, Judge Nicols was so somber as to appear ageless. “Marcus, are you up for this?”
“Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”
“I’m willing to grant a continuance if you want.”
“Every day counts here, Your Honor.” Because of his throbbing head, Marcus found it easier to swing his entire body toward Logan. “Have your client release Gloria Hall and we will immediately drop all charges.”
Logan pulled his gaze from the head bruise extending beyond the borders of Marcus’ bandage. “Your Honor, I find the implied accusation offensive in the extreme.”
But Judge Nicols was not done with Marcus. “I had my clerk speak with the hospital staff. They doubt your ability to handle the rigors of trial work so soon.”
Charlie moved in closer. “I’ll be taking care of jury selection, Your Honor.”
Gladys Nicols unbent enough to offer a small smile. “How are you, Mr. Hayes?”
“Raring to go, Your Honor.”
“All right. Marcus, if you need to retire early, say the word.”
“I’ll be fine, Your Honor. But thank you.”
He held to his stoic denial only as long as it took to return to the plaintiff’s table. As Judge Nicols greeted the prospective jurors, Marcus palmed a tablet from his jacket pocket. He could do nothing about the palsied shake to his hand, however, and was grateful when Alma took the carafe from him and filled the glass. Charlie watched from Marcus’ other side and commented, “You’re in a bad way.”
Austin was seated to the right of Alma, the closest person to the jury box. “The man should be lying down.”
Marcus set down his glass and touched his forehead. His fingers came away damp. He said to Charlie, “You’re on your own today.”
“Don’t you worry, son. I’ve prepped more juries than you’ve had hot meals.”
The pill settled the pain and the courtroom into a soft, dull drone. Marcus sat and pretended to observe as Charlie went through the jury questionnaires. Nothing registered, save for the fact that little mattered, since the case’s outcome was already decided. It was all for show, and Charlie could handle that just fine.
Mercifully, the judge called it a day before the pill wore off. Marcus listened to her instructions as he would the buzzing of an insect, then rose and found himself mildly surprised to find the four of them joined by Darren and Kirsten. He was glad to discover his legs could carry him to the elevator. There the judge’s receptionist was standing with the building’s security detail, all retired police, all wanting to ask how he was. Marcus let Charlie speak for him, wishing he could curl up right there on the floor.
Tuesday started better and faded more slowly. In the time between awakening and coming downstairs, Marcus took great comfort in the quiet sounds of someone else moving around his house. Darren drove him into Raleigh as though he had been doing it for years, silent and very watchful.
At midmorning, when pain and fatigue threatened, he slipped a pill from his pocket and waited while Charlie poured him a glass of water. The old man murmured, “They’re stacking the jury.”
“I know.”
“They’re turning the jury box the color of fresh mayonnaise.” Both teams were granted eight peremptory strikes. Logan had used six, Charlie one. Judge Nicols had excused four others. The one black person among the five jurors chosen thus far was a dentist, also the only professional among the group. Marcus knew the defense had let this one stand because medical personnel were notorious for loathing big payouts.
“Why didn’t you strike the dentist?”
“Can’t rightly say. Just had a hunch about him is all.” Charlie motioned toward the rows of potential jurors behind them. “Wish I knew what to look for in this bunch.”
Marcus started to say it hardly mattered, since the case was bound to be dismissed long before the jury retired. Charlie went on, “The next five prospects are white. I could strike them all, then-”
“Don’t bother with that.” Marcus pointed vaguely with his water glass. “Nicols will hardly take kindly to the defense using race as a selection tool. Let’s not lower ourselves to their level.”
“Can’t see how that matters if we wind up with a jury that’s firm against us.” Charlie wore a poplin suit and a bright yellow bow tie. This close he smelled slightly of camphor and hair oil. The eyes behind his thick lenses swam with intelligent concern. “Bound to be some whites in that bunch who’d love to give an intelligent black troublemaker her comeuppance.”
Marcus swallowed his pill. “Charlie, listen to me.”
“Not to mention the work the defense team must have put into studying the jurors’ profiles. Look at that bunch, like vultures in drag. Bet they’ve got some whoop-de-do jury consultants prying through those folks’ garbage-”
“Forget them.” Marcus felt his will and focus fading. “Find out which ones are churchgoers.”
Charlie Hayes seemed to have difficulty getting Marcus into the right frame of his bifocals. “Shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as how we’re sitting on the buckle of the Bible Belt,” Charlie replied. “But in case you haven’t noticed, most every church I’ve set foot into has its share of racists. Ain’t saying it’s right. Just saying it’s so.”
Marcus lacked any will to argue. “Just the same.”
“Mr. Hayes,” Judge Nicols interrupted. “Any question for prospective juror seventeen?”