Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A throng of reporters blocks the circular entrance to the George Edgecomb Courthouse on Twiggs Street. The group has stopped us by the statue of a blindfolded Lady Justice. A live sparrow is perched on her upper palm. A reporter for the Tampa Tribune swats if off as he mutters the indecency of it crapping on justice. Adam rolls his eyes then presses forward, shouldering his way through the crowd until he reaches the entrance.

An officer points him to a metal detector. While Adam easily passes through it, another officer rifles through his briefcase. A manilla folder falls onto the floor and papers scatter. As the officer apologizes profusely, Adam scoops the papers into the folder and stuffs it back into the briefcase. He waves off the cop and moves toward the elevator, his shoulders tense.

We pass a young boy tossing coins into the water fountain and talking about adoption day, how he is so excited that he is being adopted just in time for Christmas. The elevator doors close as his mother leans down to give him a kiss. On the ride to the fifth floor, Adam rakes his fingers through his hair and cracks his knuckles one by one.

As he takes a seat at the back, I notice the size of the courtroom. It is much smaller than I imagined, than what the footage from various televised verdicts had led me to believe. My guess is thirty people might fit inside the room.

Lanie is seated to the left of Estela Garcia-Blanca. The lawyer is attired in a black pantsuit, the hem a little low against the heel of her matching pump. She looks nice, less frumpy than yesterday, but her clothing's undoubtedly cheap price reflects that she might be out of her element, that her experience in the courtroom is minimal at best.

Lanie yawns as she gathers her hair into a ponytail and secures it at the nape of her neck. She wears an orange jumpsuit, her face is bare, and the scratchmarks gracing her neck are clearly visible.

A thin-skinned hand strokes Lanie's shoulder. It belongs to Lanie's mother, and I see my mother beside her. Both women seem to have aged considerably since I last saw them. Fran gives her daughter a smile, says it will be okay. Lanie's frown upturns but does not reach her eyes. It quickly turns to a full-on scowl. I follow her line of sight and determine Adam is the cause. She spins around, practically burning a hole into the flags behind the judge's bench.

"Mr. B---," says a young reporter out in the hallway as the door to the courtroom opens.

None other than Harold C. Bertwinkle steps into the room, followed by the always elegant Vanessa and a deluge of reporters trying to outscoop each other for the coveted first comment from the tycoon. He points to a pew at the back, on the side for the prosecution, and Vanessa gathers the hem of her dress to slide in. Mr. Bertwinkle approaches the bailiff. Within seconds, the reporters are told to leave and order is back in the room.

If looks could kill, Lanie's skull would have a hole bored into it by Mr. Bertwinkle's laser-like stare. His attention does not flicker, despite his wife's attempt to carry a conversation with him. Eventually, she slinks in the pew and faces forward, seemingly upset at all that has transpired.

The door squeaks open once again, and Grant enters the courtroom. He is plainclothed, in a dress shirt and khakis. A scowl crosses his face, as he looks from side to side for available seating. His choices are limited to beside the Bertwinkles or Adam. I'm sure neither choice appeals to him. He settles for talking to the bailiff, who has not left his station beside the door. They remain speaking until the bailiff leaves to call the court into session. Grant slides into the pew, but leaves plenty of space between he and Adam.

The crowd rises as the honorable Judge Keith Hall approaches his bench. Judge Hall stifles a yawn while he looks out at the court attendees. His attention locks on Grant and Mr. Bertwinkle.