” ‘Yes, your honor. The defense moves for a directed verdict of acquittal.’
“Bingham looked at Loescher the way he does when it’s your turn to say something.
” ‘The prosecution does not object,’ she said with a slight nod.
“That was it, all of it. Five minutes and it was over. Bingham thanked the jury and told them that while he did not think any of them would ever forget what had happened, he hoped they would also remember that justice had been done and an innocent man had been set free.”
We raced down a straight stretch of road, the engine screaming, and Jennifer lifted her head and smiled as the wind rushed past us.
I kept on talking. “Sometimes I think about Elliott and the things that happened to him and the things he did.”
Sinking low behind us, the October sun turned the fields and the vineyards and the orchards brown and orange, dark green and black, the last colors of autumn before the winter rains turned everything a damp, dismal gray.
“Sometimes I think about those people out there, the ones who live under the bridges, the ones who don’t have anywhere to call home. Sometimes I wonder if they’re everywhere, all the time, but we only take notice of them at night, because that’s when we’re most vulnerable and most afraid. Sometimes I wonder if there are any more of them out there, ones that Elliott knew in the hospital.”
After a while I stopped talking, and just watched the road in front of us, glancing across every so often at the face that had haunted me all my life, glad we were once again together.
“There was one good thing that came out of this. Danny won’t be homeless anymore. You were right about Howard Flynn, when you said he thought of Danny as his son. Howard took him in, gave him a home.”
It was getting dark, and we had been gone all afternoon. Jennifer was tired. I helped her out of the car and held her by the arm as we walked to the door. The light was on inside.
“Good evening, Mr. Antonelli. Did Jennifer enjoy the drive?”
the nurse asked as I let go of her arm. “See you next week?” she asked with a kindhearted smile.
“Of course,” I replied. I watched them walk down the corridor together, hoping until they disappeared around the corner that Jennifer would look back, remember finally who I was, and call my name.
Outside, in the cool night air, I opened the door to the Porsche and then, before I got in, glanced down the street toward the opposite end of the three-story brick building and remembered the first time I had come here, to the state hospital, to see Elliott Winston.
I drove through the darkness on my way back to Portland. To keep my mind off Jennifer, I turned on the radio and a few minutes later, after the music stopped, I heard the news. Asa Bartram had been killed, stabbed to death outside his office, in the street next to his car.
D. W. Buffa
D W Buffa served as a defence attorney for ten years and has a doctorate in political science. He is now a fulltime writer and lives in Napa Valley, California.
