Injustice Read Free Page B

issues I want briefed are these: First, whether any action by either of the parties violates either the law or the procedural rules of this court. Second, whether the defendant’s motion for dismissal is warranted. And third, whether this jury is now tainted. Then we’ll convene at, let’s say, four-thirty on Friday afternoon.”

    That was July 3. The murder was on July 4.
    I spent the morning of the fourth at my office, writing the assigned brief. Henry had planned to write it, since it was technically his case, but I was so angry about the whole thing that I wanted to do it myself. Besides, I didn’t quite trust him to get it right. I wanted to pepper it with plenty of outrage, expressed in my best legalese, against Kendall Vance. With any luck, I could get Kendall’s scheming ass suspended from practice in the Federal District Court.
    I didn’t mind being at the office that morning. I like it when I’m the only one there. I worked with my office window cranked open as far as it would go, which was only about two inches. It was a beautiful summer day. Already you could see and hear the city getting into its holiday mood. Hundreds of baskets planted with flowers of red and white and blue hung from lampposts in the downtown section.
    As I worked, the sounds of the day slipped into the office through the narrow opening. Traffic sounds seemed happier than usual. Car horns blared not with anger but with jubilation. Kids were busy with firecrackers, and I kept thinking of war correspondents on the evening news, giving their reports via satellite from conflict regions: pop, pop, pop . You hear gunfire in the background as the reporter recounts the action: “. . . spokesman for the rebel leaders” . . . pop pop  . . . “saysthere can be no negotiations until these conditions are met” . . .  pop pop . . .

    When I got home around two in the afternoon, Barnaby exploded out the door and into my arms. Tina was rummaging in the fridge. “I thought you were going to be back at noon,” she said.
    â€œSorry, babe, I was in the zone.”
    She handed me a list. “Here’s what I need you to pick up.”
    â€œAt the store? On the Fourth?”
    â€œHmm. I guess you’re right,” she said. “I’ll serve saltines instead. And I think I have some mayonnaise I can spread on them. Won’t that be nice?”
    I took Barnaby to the store with me for a quick shop (brats, chicken, watermelon, ice cream). Then home.
    In the kitchen I started slathering barbecue sauce on the chicken. Tina came in. “Did you finish your memo?” she asked.
    â€œI’ve got a draft. It needs polish.”
    She chuckled. “You’ve got to admire Kendall. Risky tactic, but creative.”
    â€œNo, I goddamn don’t have to admire him. It corrupts the process and—”
    â€œOh, lighten up,” she said. “Personally, I can’t think of a better way to show the jury how flaky eyewitness identifications can be.”
    I started to answer but thought better of it. Tina had worked in my office as an assistant U.S. attorney for several years before resigning and going into appellate criminal defense. I hadn’t thought it would be a problem, having a prosecutor and defense counsel in the same marriage. But as her heart and soul got increasingly wrapped up in her role as an advocate for the “wrongly” accused, the rift in our philosophies widened.
    My cell rang. It was Lizzy, my daughter.
    â€œDad,” Lizzy said, “Ethan and I aren’t coming to the barbecue.”
    â€œYou sure?” I said, making no effort to keep the hurt out of my voice. “I bought some vegetarian sausage.”
    â€œYou’re sweet,” she said, “but we’ve got other stuff going on. We’ll meet you at the park tonight. Okay?”
    â€œBarnaby will be disappointed,” I said,