he has done a good job, which he has.
Meanwhile, in the jury box, another conspiracy is afoot. Several of the journalists are huddled, trying in hasty whispers to reach their usual consensus about the parts of Molto's presentation which are newsworthy. By striking this accord they ensure that no editor can complain that his reporter was scooped or missed the mark in her story. I can imagine what they're asking one another: What do you think about this stuff about the father and the gang guy having some political deal? What about the fingerprints on the money? I wonder myself. I make a few more notes.
'Again, Mr Turtle, the defendant will reserve?'
Hobie nods from his chair, then stands and nods again. We agree to begin the evidence tomorrow. Molto promises to have a witness to fill a couple of morning hours before my Tuesday motion call commences. With that agreed, Annie smacks the gavel once again. The first day of the trial of Nile Eddgar is over.
*
'See you got to renewing acquaintances,' Marietta says as I pass through her small office outside my chambers. The space here is subsumed by her desk, shiny mahogany and nearly as large as mine, which angles into the room to allow for a small matching filing cabinet. Beside the blotter, pictures of her children and grandkids repose in a Lucite frame, under a brass lamp. A fake philodendron, bedded on woolly hummocks of sphagnum moss, rests on one corner of the desk, next to a tiny plastic Christmas tree, one foot high, mold-formed with icicles and candy canes, which has been added in the last week. On her blotter, Marietta has propped a tiny portable TV, on which the screen, no larger than a compact, moves with color. She listens to the soaps throughout the day when she is here, literally with one ear, a black wire running from the set and disappearing amid the dense dark curls on her left side. We have not spoken since she burst into the courtroom this morning, but the calculating sidewards glance she briefly permits in my direction is enough to establish the subject.
'Really, Marietta,' I say. 'All that running in and out - what was that supposed to be about?'
‘I just needed some files, Judge,' she answers. ‘I meant to tell you I seen him out there, only how you arrived so late, Judge, there wasn'tany chance.' With mention of my tardiness, Marietta's full brown eyes again rise adroitly, retaking the advantage. 'Looks like you got to old times anyway.'
'It wasn't old times, Marietta. It was very brief. He apologized for heckling Turtle and I explained that I can't really talk with him now.'
She's astounded. 'You - all gotta talk,' she says. 'Marietta, he's close to Hobie. They've been best friends since childhood.'
'Lord, Judge. "Knows the defense lawyer." There's no rule like that. Judge, that happens all the time. Everybody in this building knows everybody else. They're all cousins and husbands and girlfriends and boyfriends.' Being technical, she's right, of course. But in this case I'm already walking on eggshells. And ethics are hardly what Marietta has in mind. I see how this is. Marietta's constructed the entire drama in her head. It's just like the sudsy fare on her TV. Some Rhett Butler rides back onto the scene explaining he's been a prisoner for the last twenty-five years.
'Marietta, you've got the wrong picture. He's married. He's been married forever. I know his wife, too, by the way. She was also in California.'
Shaking her head emphatically, Marietta insists I'm wrong.
'Marietta, I read the column every day. He talks about his wife all the time. He mentioned Lucy to me this morning.'
'Nn-uh,' says Marietta. 'People or one of them - I think he's getting divorced, I read.'
'I'm sure it was the Star, Marietta. Maybe the Enquirer. Right after the articles about the two-headed baby or George Bush contracting
Meanwhile, in the jury box, another conspiracy is afoot. Several of the journalists are huddled, trying in hasty whispers to reach their usual consensus about the parts of Molto's presentation which are newsworthy. By striking this accord they ensure that no editor can complain that his reporter was scooped or missed the mark in her story. I can imagine what they're asking one another: What do you think about this stuff about the father and the gang guy having some political deal? What about the fingerprints on the money? I wonder myself. I make a few more notes.
'Again, Mr Turtle, the defendant will reserve?'
Hobie nods from his chair, then stands and nods again. We agree to begin the evidence tomorrow. Molto promises to have a witness to fill a couple of morning hours before my Tuesday motion call commences. With that agreed, Annie smacks the gavel once again. The first day of the trial of Nile Eddgar is over.
*
'See you got to renewing acquaintances,' Marietta says as I pass through her small office outside my chambers. The space here is subsumed by her desk, shiny mahogany and nearly as large as mine, which angles into the room to allow for a small matching filing cabinet. Beside the blotter, pictures of her children and grandkids repose in a Lucite frame, under a brass lamp. A fake philodendron, bedded on woolly hummocks of sphagnum moss, rests on one corner of the desk, next to a tiny plastic Christmas tree, one foot high, mold-formed with icicles and candy canes, which has been added in the last week. On her blotter, Marietta has propped a tiny portable TV, on which the screen, no larger than a compact, moves with color. She listens to the soaps throughout the day when she is here, literally with one ear, a black wire running from the set and disappearing amid the dense dark curls on her left side. We have not spoken since she burst into the courtroom this morning, but the calculating sidewards glance she briefly permits in my direction is enough to establish the subject.
'Really, Marietta,' I say. 'All that running in and out - what was that supposed to be about?'
‘I just needed some files, Judge,' she answers. ‘I meant to tell you I seen him out there, only how you arrived so late, Judge, there wasn'tany chance.' With mention of my tardiness, Marietta's full brown eyes again rise adroitly, retaking the advantage. 'Looks like you got to old times anyway.'
'It wasn't old times, Marietta. It was very brief. He apologized for heckling Turtle and I explained that I can't really talk with him now.'
She's astounded. 'You - all gotta talk,' she says. 'Marietta, he's close to Hobie. They've been best friends since childhood.'
'Lord, Judge. "Knows the defense lawyer." There's no rule like that. Judge, that happens all the time. Everybody in this building knows everybody else. They're all cousins and husbands and girlfriends and boyfriends.' Being technical, she's right, of course. But in this case I'm already walking on eggshells. And ethics are hardly what Marietta has in mind. I see how this is. Marietta's constructed the entire drama in her head. It's just like the sudsy fare on her TV. Some Rhett Butler rides back onto the scene explaining he's been a prisoner for the last twenty-five years.
'Marietta, you've got the wrong picture. He's married. He's been married forever. I know his wife, too, by the way. She was also in California.'
Shaking her head emphatically, Marietta insists I'm wrong.
'Marietta, I read the column every day. He talks about his wife all the time. He mentioned Lucy to me this morning.'
'Nn-uh,' says Marietta. 'People or one of them - I think he's getting divorced, I read.'
'I'm sure it was the Star, Marietta. Maybe the Enquirer. Right after the articles about the two-headed baby or George Bush contracting
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