Burners Read Free

was thinking about conceding everything.
    The honorable Ezra D. Malvo finally entered the courtroom—slowly, very slowly. He had his left hand pressed against his abdomen, the right one reaching around his back to complete the vise. His face was as white as the thin strands of hair clinging to his liver-spotted head.
    “Let’s get this thing rolling,” the judge said in a voice thick as concrete. “We got ourselves a jury yet?”
    The attorneys for both sides looked at one another before the D.A. brushed back his unruly hair, a gesture that made it worse, not better, and spoke.
    “Um, no, no Your Honor. We’re still two short.”
    “Well let’s get on with it then,” Judge Malvo carefully turned to face me. “This gentleman been sworn in yet?”
    The bailiff responded with a slow nod.
    “This guy looks like a viable juror,” the judge said, then gave me the once over. “More or less.”
    “Your name is Alex Chapa?” Prosecutor Lipscomb asked as she stood, eyes locked on the notes in her hand.
    I rifled through a mental list of possible wise-ass responses, determined that my favorite was,
That’s what the much better looking guy in the waiting room paid me to say
, but figured that under the circumstances it was best to play it straight.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Is that short for Alexander?”
    “No, Alejandro. I was born in Cuba, but when I became a U.S. citizen my mother decided it was a good idea to go with something less ethnic, so she changed it to Alex.”
    I heard a high-pitched creaking to my left. Judge Malvo was slowly leaning in my direction.
    “That was a wise decision,” he said, his voice trailing the stench of his breath—coffee, cigarettes, and decay, wrapped in stale indifference.
    Because the thing I wanted most at that moment was to get out of there and get on with the rest of my life, I chose to ignore the judge’s remark. In a different setting I would have told the old fart how my mother had apologized to me on more than one occasion for a decision she’d long regretted. Instead, I waited for the next question.
    Lipscomb, too, had chosen to ignore Judge Malvo. She was probably accustomed to his idiotic side comments. “It says here you work for a newspaper.”
    “On my good days, yes
.
”
    She looked up from her clipboard.
    “And what about on your bad ones?”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    Lipscomb lowered her brow without taking her eyes off me, like a parent on the verge of unloading on an unruly child. This was good.
    “You’re a reporter, then, Mr. Chapa?”
    “I’m a columnist.”
    I heard Simon Lebanon snicker, then he said, “Isn’t a columnist just a reporter who gets his photo in the paper?” He sat back, apparently pleased with himself, and ran a hand through his hair. I watched the brown tufts retreat for a moment before beginning their southbound journey back to the usual resting place.
    Still focused on escaping the stand and getting out the door, I opted to ignore Lebanon just as I had the judge, and turned my attention back to Lipscomb.
    “Have you ever written any stories about crimes or criminals?”
    “Many.” What cave had this woman been living in the past fifteen years? There was even a better than fair chance I’d mentioned her in one or two of my stories. Or could be this was just a formality on the road to dismissing me. I hoped that was it.
    “And how do you feel about the police and our justice system, based on your work experience?”
    Finally.
    “I believe that the police get it right nearly all of the time, and that anyone charged with a major crime is usually there for a reason.”
    “And what about the justice system, the courts?”
    “In my work, I’ve covered a great many trials. Most have ended in a conviction.”
    Apparently Lebanon had somewhere else he needed to be. After sneaking a glance at his watch, the D.A. abruptly got up, left the table, and walked out the same set of doors he’d entered through.
    “And how have you