Deadlock

Lewis shook his head. “But as Professor Graebner says, that is not in the statute. Does this court have the power to give the jury something that the legislature has decided, to this point at least, it should not consider?”

This was like tag-team wrestling, only it was Graebner and Lewis against Charlene. “I appeal to Your Honor, in view of all that we have been through, the time and expense to my client, to the court, to the jurors, that you not dismiss this case. Rule, Your Honor, on the basis of fundamental fairness. Justice is also in the hands of a trial court in its discretion. Mr. Winsor and Professor Graebner can take the matter up on appeal if they lose.”

“You have the same prerogative,” Lewis said.

Yes, but not the same pockets. Not the same unlimited funds.

“I urge Your Honor to allow the case to continue to verdict,” Charlene said, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.

Judge Lewis looked at the clock. “I will take the matter under advisement. The court will recess until one-thirty.”

Sarah Mae was shaking as she took Charlene’s arm. “What’s that mean?”

“We’ll know at one-thirty, Sarah Mae.” But Charlene had a sick feeling that she already knew.

3

Millie stood in an empty space in the hospital parking lot. She herself was empty. Only a dull reverberation inside her reminded her she was alive, but it was a distant sound – a fading echo, like the rolling of thunder after it has crossed the valley. She held her tears back; it was not easy. Her mother was gone. And Millie had not been there when she died.

Jack Holden, who had been silent beside her, finally said, “I am so sorry.”

Millie nodded, wishing he would go away and knowing he wouldn’t, wondering if she was grateful or not, finally deciding she didn’t care one way or the other.

“There’s an old saying,” Holden added, “they don’t say it much anymore, but it seems so appropriate for your mother. She’s gone to her reward.”

Millie shook her head.

“That’s what she believed with all her heart,” Holden said.

“I don’t care to hear it.”

“I think she would want you to know.”

She turned to him. He seemed, somehow, not real. A ma

“Not always,” he said.

“I don’t want to be comforted right now, okay?” she said. “I know it’s your job, and you’re good at it, but just, for now…”

“You’ll need help – ”

“I know what I need! Yes, you can do the funeral. Of course. Take care of it. Make it happen. This week. I’ll hire a lawyer to take care of the estate. I’m not going to stay here. After the funeral, I’m going home. Thank you very much for everything.”

Jack Holden did not leave her alone. “It helps to talk.”

“I already did. Please.”

He turned toward the hospital. She felt a little guilt, but only a little. She did not want to feel anything. She wanted to shout at Jack Holden, ask him why God did not answer prayer, and was this the killer argument he had to offer? Where was his music now?

She hated herself, but did not care. Hate dulled grief, too. But only for a moment. The waves were too big. Grief was not a stream. It was an ocean.

4

The usual afternoon crowd was in License, the hot upscale bar in D.C. that had become a regular hangout for A

Jill “Cosmo” Ha

Usually she was perfect company for A

Now, sitting over her Tanqueray martini – up, with a twist – Cosmo was uncharacteristically down.

“What’s going on?” A

Cosmo looked up from her drink. “I was in the kitchenette at the office on Friday. One of the partners came in, Mr. Baer. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“It should. He’s about sixty, and he’s been a player in the firm for thirty years.”

“Wait, wasn’t he one of the Clinton lawyers in the Paula Jones thing?”

“He’s the guy. Well, anyway, we’re alone in the kitchenette. He comes in, and his tie is loose. But Baer’s tie is never loose. He’s always perfectly dressed. He had this faraway look on his face, too. I say hello to him, and he doesn’t look me in the eye. He doesn’t say hello. What he says is, ‘What am I doing?’ ”

“And you said what?”

“I asked him if he was looking for something. That’s when he looks at me and says, ‘What am I doing here, in this office? I should be with my family.’ And then he walks out.”

A

Cosmo said, “No. He hasn’t got a family. His wife divorced him years ago. His grown kids hardly talk to him. That was the freaky part.”

“Why freaky?”

“Just that he was thinking out loud, like he had regrets or something.”

“Middle-aged angst.”

“No, it was more than that. It was like he was calling everything he’d done into question. But as long as I’ve known him, he’s never had any doubts. Always hard driving, hard charging, great at what he does. It got to me. Because the way I’m going, that’s where I’ll be someday. And I don’t want to have the same regrets.”

“You won’t.”

Cosmo reached out and squeezed A

“Look, I thought about that once. When my folks died I had a couple of days there. But I got over it. You just have to keep moving so they can’t hit you. And there are no answers. Life is pretty much absurd. The existentialists had it right. So what do you do? You just do your own deal, that’s all. It’s a game, and you try to win.”

“What is wi

“It’s just what it is. Getting what you want before the other guy gets it.”

“And then what?”

“Man, you’re cheery today. Did you watch Old Yeller or something?”

“No,” Cosmo said. “I went to church.”

A

“I just wanted to go,” Cosmo said. “I hadn’t been since I was a girl.”

“So what did you find out, Joan?”

“Joan?”

“Of Arc.”

“Very fu

“I’m in a fu

“Methodist. Down the street from me.”

“So? Did you get saved or what?”

“I just listened. I listened to the singing. I listened to the words of the songs.”

“Hymns. They’re called hymns.”

“I know that. And I listened to the sermon. I don’t know, I just felt like doing that.”

“Please,” A

“Then why can’t I talk about this?”

“Finish your drink,” A

Cosmo thought about it, then smiled. “You drive.”

At least they laughed out on the street, where A

Standing right next to her car was the homeless guy. The one who had looked at her on her balcony.