Alex Cross's Trial

Ames and the court stenographer were on a first-name basis. No telling which parts of Gracie’s testimony had been left out or “improved.”

    The stenographer flipped back the pages in his tablet and began to read in a droning voice.

    “Miz Davenport was always a mean old lady. Never had a nice word for anybody. Ask me, she had it coming to her. The day before she got killed, she told me she was fixing to fire me because I was too stupid to know which side of the plate do the fish fork go on. She was a mean old witch, she was. I’m telling you, she had it coming.”

    I jumped up from my chair.

    “Your Honor, obviously my client did not mean—”

    “ Sit down, Mr. Corbett.”

    I had one more thing to say—I just had to get it out.

    “Your Honor, the prosecutor is deliberately twisting my client’s words!”

    Carter Ames turned to me with a smile. “Why, Mr. Corbett, I’m not twisting a thing. Your client has spoken for herself very clearly. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

    “In that case, court will adjourn for a two-hour recess, so we can get ourselves a cold glass of tea and some dinner,” the judge said. “I believe that Mrs. Warren said my personal favorite, chicken pot pie, is on the menu today.”

    Bam! Bam! Bam!

    Chapter 3

    THE TWO-HOUR DINNER BREAK before Carter Ames and I gave our closing arguments seemed to last at least twice that long. I never had much appetite during a case, so I spent the interval pacing the block around the courthouse square, mopping my face and neck with a handkerchief.

    Washington was in the grip of a torturous heat wave, and it was only June. The air was as thick and swampy as any summer afternoon back home in Mississippi. Carriage horses were collapsing. Society ladies called off their afternoon teas and spent their leisure time soaking in cool tubs.

    Back home in Eudora I rarely had to wear the full lawyer suit with high stiff-starched collar and all the snaps and suspenders. Down south, folks knew how to survive the heat: move slowly, and wear light clothing.

    It must have been ninety-five degrees when we finally returned to the courtroom. The newfangled electric fans barely stirred a breeze. Gracie’s face streamed with perspiration.

    The judge entered. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”

    Carter Ames sauntered toward the jury box. He put on a big friendly smile and leaned in close to the jury foreman. Ames was justly famous for the high drama and fancy oratory of his closing arguments in murder cases.

    “Gentlemen, I want you to join me on an important journey,” he said, in his orotund voice. “I’ll let you in on our destination before we commence—the Kingdom of Truth. Few who set out on the journey toward the Kingdom of Truth ever reach their destination. But today, gentlemen, I can promise you, that is where we shall arrive.”

    The smoke from Judge Warren’s after-dinner cigar wafted blue through the air around the dandyish little city attorney. He slowly paced the length of the jury box, turned, and paced the other way.

    “We are not going to make this journey by ourselves, gentlemen. Our companions on this journey are not of the fancy kind. They don’t wear fine clothes and they don’t ride first class. Our companions, gentlemen, are the facts of this case.”

    As metaphors go, it seemed fairly simpleminded to me, but the jurors were apparently lapping it up. I made a mental note to lay on an even thicker layer of corn pone than I had originally intended. It was the least I could do for Grace and her chances.

    “What do the facts of this murder case tell us?” Ames asked. His voice dropped a few notes on the scale. “The first fact is this: Grace Johnson has all but confessed to the crime of murder, right here in front of you today. You heard her admit to a most powerful motive, the hateful emotions and vitriolic resentments she bore toward her employer.”

    It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and shouting “Objection!” Judge Warren’s earlier warning served to keep me in my seat.

    “The second fact speaks even more loudly. Grace claims that Lydia Davenport shouted at her. Let me repeat that shocking claim, gentlemen. Lydia Davenport dared to shout at the woman who was a willing employee in her household. In other words, Mrs. Davenport deserved to die because she shouted at a maid! ”

    Ames was not just a skillful actor; when it came to the facts, he was also quite the juggler.

    “Now let another fact speak to you, friends. The fact is,