Damn Adam Stohn, she thought, the cramping in her shoulders spreading to the other muscles in her back. He was responsible for her current malaise. He’d gotten her to
open up, to talk about her mother. He’d unleashed all the anguish and the sadness and the guilt she’d been suppressing for so long.
It wasn’t Adam’s fault, she knew. He couldn’t have known the emotional minefield he was walking into when he’d asked his simple questions, the raw nerves he was exposing. You can’t put a Band-Aid on a cancer, she thought, and expect it to heal. Pull the Band-Aid off after years of benign neglect, and you had a full-scale malignancy raging out of control.
No wonder he hadn’t wanted to stick around, that he’d been in such a hurry to leave. “Do you want me to go?” he’d asked, and she’d said, “I think it’s probably a good idea if you don’t come back.” And that was that, she thought now, remembering that she’d also once told him that a lawyer’s good word was the only currency she had.
He was only being as good as her word.
“Damn you, Adam Stohn,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” Barbara asked, looking up from her desk.
Jess shook her head, an acute sense of unease creeping into her chest, toying with her breathing, playing havoc with her equilibrium. She felt dizzy, light-headed, as if she might topple from her chair. Oh no, she thought, automatically stiffening, the world around her disappearing into a cloud of anxiety. Don’t fight it, she told herself quickly. Go with it. Go with it. What’s the worst that can happen? So you fall off your chair. So you land on your ass. So you throw up. So what?
Slowly, she released the air in her lungs and floated into the center of the large, miasmal mist. Almost immediately,
it began evaporating around her. Her dizziness subsided and her breathing returned to normal, the muscles in her shoulders relaxing, surrendering their tension. Familiar sounds filtered to her ears—the hum of the fax machine, the clicking of computer keys, the ringing of the telephone.
Jess watched Neil Strayhorn walk over and pick up the phone on her desk. How long had it been ringing? “Neil Strayhorn,” he pronounced clearly, his eyes locked on Jess. “They are? Now?”
Jess took a deep breath, rose quickly to her feet. She didn’t have to ask. The jury was in.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?”
Jess felt the familiar surge of adrenaline race through her body, though she was holding her breath. She both loved and hated this moment. Loved it for its drama, its suspense, the knowledge that victory or defeat was just a word away. Hated it for the same reasons. Hated it because she hated to lose. Hated it because, in the end, winning or losing was really what it was all about. One lawyer’s truth against another’s, justice relegated to the role of hapless observer. No such thing as the whole truth.
The foreman cleared his throat, checked the paper in his hand before speaking, as if he might have forgotten the decision the jury had reached, as if he wanted to make absolutely sure what it said. “We, the jury,” he began, then cleared his throat again, “find the defendant, Terry Wales, guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Immediately the courtroom erupted. Reporters ran from the room; briefcases snapped shut; friends and relatives of
the deceased hugged each other in tearful abandon. Judge Harris thanked then dismissed the jurors. Jess embraced her partners, accepted their congratulations, caught the look of resignation in Hal Bristol’s eyes, the sneer of scorn on the defendant’s lips as he was led away.
Outside the courtroom, the reporters thronged around her, pushing microphones up against her mouth, waving notebooks in front of her face. “Were you surprised at the verdict? Did you expect to win? How do you feel?” they asked as cameras clicked and flash strobes exploded.
“We have great faith in this country’s jury system,” Jess told the reporters, walking toward the elevators. “We never doubted the outcome for a minute.”
“Are you going to ask for the death penalty?” someone called out.
“You bet,” Jess answered, pressing the button for the elevator, hearing Hal Bristol tell another reporter he intended to appeal.
“How does it feel to win this case?” a woman shouted from the back of the throng.
Jess knew she should remind the reporters that what was important here wasn’t winning but the truth, that a guilty man had been convicted of a heinous crime, that justice had been served. She smiled widely. “It feels great,” she said.
“Hey, was that your picture I saw in the paper this morning?” Vasiliki watched as Jess pulled her hair into a ponytail in front of the long mirror of the Wen-Do instruction hall.
“That was me,” Jess acknowledged shyly, her head still thumping from too many beers at Jean’s Restaurant the night before. Normally she didn’t frequent Jean’s after
work, unlike many of the prosecuting attorneys to whom Jean’s was a second home. But everyone kept telling her a celebration was in order, and in truth, she’d felt like a nice long pat on the back.
She’d called her father right after she got back to her office, but he wasn’t home, phoned her sister, but she was busy with the babies and had time for only the briefest of congratulations.
She’d called Don, told him of her victory, heard him mumble his apologies about not being able to take her out for a celebration dinner, something about a prior commitment. A prior commitment named Trish, Jess thought but didn’t say, wondering what she expected from the man.
Then she’d done something she’d never done before, never permitted herself the luxury of doing before: She’d gone into the washroom, locked herself in a cubicle, closed her eyes, and just stood there. “I won,” she’d said softly, allowing the ghost of her mother to pull her into a proud embrace.
The celebration at Jean’s lasted until the early hours of the morning. Her trial supervisor, Tom Olinsky, had driven her home, walking her right to her door and making sure she got inside safely. Jess never saw the man Don had hired to watch out for her, but she knew he was there, and was grateful in spite of herself.
She’d fallen into a deep sleep, hadn’t even heard her alarm clock go off, and was almost late for her self-defense class, arriving just seconds before everyone else, her hair not even brushed.
And now here she stood, her stomach empty and her head pounding, and she was expected to yell and execute
eagle claws and zipper punches and hammer fists. “Use those bony knuckles!” she could hear Dominic shouting even before he entered the room.
“You didn’t tell us you were some hotshot district attorney,” Vasiliki scolded as the other women circled around her.
“State’s attorney,” Jess corrected automatically.
“Whatever—you’re a celebrity!”
Jess smiled, uncomfortable with her new status. The other women stared at her with open curiosity.
“I read you’re gonna ask for the death penalty,” Maryellen said. “Think you’ll get it?”
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
“I don’t believe in the death penalty,” Ayisha stated.
“She’s young,” her mother whispered.
The curtains parted and Dominic entered the room. “Good afternoon, everybody. Are you ready to kick ass?”
The women responded with a variety of grunts and raised hammer fists.
“Good. Let’s all spread out now. Give yourselves lots of room. That’s right. Now, what’s the first line of defense?”
“Kiyi,”
Vasiliki shouted.
“Kiyi
, that’s right. And what is
kiyi?”
Dominic stared directly at Jess.
“It’s a cry,” she began.
“Not a cry. A great yell,” he corrected. “A roar.”
“A roar,” Jess repeated.
“Women cry too easily. They don’t roar nearly enough,” he instructed. “Now, what is kiyi?”
“A roar,” Jess responded, the word reverberating against her brain.
“So, Jess, let me hear you roar,” Dominic instructed.
“Just me?” Jess asked.
“These women probably aren’t gonna be with you when someone tries to grab you off the street,” he told her.
“You don’t seem to have any trouble roaring in the courtroom,” Vasiliki reminded her slyly.
“Come on,” Dominic ordered. “I’m coming at you. I’m big and I’m dangerous and I want your ass.”
“Hohh!” Jess yelled.
“Louder.”
“Hohh!”
“You can do better than that.”
“Hohh!”
Jess roared.
“That’s better. Now I’m having second thoughts about messing with you. What about you?” Dominic turned his attention to Catarina.
Jess smiled, pushing her shoulders back proudly, listening to the sound of women roaring.
“Okay, let’s see those eagle claws through the attacker’s eyes,” Dominic told them, once again starting with Jess. “That’s right. A little more defined,” he told her, fitting his fingers over hers, shaping them into an eagle’s talon. “Now, go for my eyes.”
“I can’t.”
“If you don’t, I’ll cut you into little pieces,” he warned. “Come on. Go for my eyes.”
Jess lunged at her instructor’s eyes, watching with relief as he ducked out of her way.
“Not bad. But don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. Try it again.”
She did.
“Better. Next,” he continued, again working his way down the line.
They worked on their eagle claws and zipper punches and hammer fists until they were fluid motions. “Don’t be afraid to drive the bone from your attacker’s nose right up into his brain.”
“In that case,” Vasiliki quipped, “shouldn’t we be aiming for below the belt?”
The women laughed.
“Hey, why is it that women don’t have any brains?” Vasiliki asked teasingly, her hands on her wide hips.
“Why?” Jess asked, giggling already.
“Because we don’t have penises to keep them in!”
The women hooted.
“I got another one,” Vasiliki continued quickly. “Why can’t men ever tell when women have orgasms?”
“Why?” they all asked.
“Because they’re never there!”
The women roared.
“Ouch!” their instructor yelled. “That’s enough. I give up. You got me, ladies. I’m a dead man. You can put away those hammer fists. You don’t need ‘em.”
“What’s that small piece of flesh at the end of a penis?” Vasiliki whispered to Jess as the women rearranged themselves in a straight line.
Jess shrugged her shoulders.
“A man!” Vasiliki shouted.
“Okay, okay,” Dominic said, “let’s start putting some of that hostility and aggression to good use, shall we?” He paused to make sure he had their undivided attention. “Now, I’m gonna teach you some other moves that are designed to help
you fend off an attacker. Say you’re walking home alone, and some guy grabs you from behind. Or some guy lurches out of the bushes and grabs you. What’s the first thing you do?”
“Kiyi!”
Maryellen answered.
“Hohh!”
her daughter said at the same time.
“Good,” Dominic told them. “Start screaming! Anything that’s gonna get attention. Doesn’t have to be
Hohh!
, but it does have to be loud. Now, what happens if he’s got his hand around your mouth, or a knife at your throat? You’re not gonna scream. What are you gonna do?”
“Faint,” Catarina said.
“No, you’re not gonna faint,” Dominic assured her. “You’re gonna … what?”
“Go with him,” Jess stated. “Don’t resist. Use the attacker’s force against him.”
“Good. Okay, let’s try a few moves.” He motioned to Jess. “I’m gonna grab you and I want you to pretend to go with me.” He reached out and grabbed Jess’s hand, pulling her toward him in slow motion. “Come with me, that’s right. Okay, now you’re here, push hard against me. That’s right. Use my own weight against me. Use the force of my pulling you in to push me off. Push. Good.” He let go of Jess’s hand. “Once you’ve got the bastard off-balance, remember to use whatever weapon is at hand, including your feet. Kick, bite, gouge, trip. We’ve gone over some of the things you can do with your hands. Now here’re some moves you can do with your feet.”
Jess watched carefully while Dominic executed a few choice maneuvers.
“What about flips? Can we flip ‘em into the air?” Vasiliki asked.
They learned flips, how to use their shoulders to lead the attack, carry the weight. At the end of almost two hours, the women were breathing hard and fighting harder.
“Okay, let’s see you put this together,” Dominic told them. “Divide up into twos. Vas, you and Maryellen pair up; Ayisha, go with Catarina. You,” he said, pointing at Jess, “come with me.”
Jess took several tentative steps toward Dominic. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed her, pulling her toward him.
“Hohh!”
she screamed loudly, hearing the word fill the room, as she instinctively pulled back. Damn, she thought, how many times did she have to be told? Go with him. Don’t resist. Go with him.
She allowed herself to be pulled forward, fell against him, then pushed her full weight into him, quickly using her feet to trip him and her shoulder to upend him before falling with him to the ground.
She’d done it, she thought triumphantly. She’d gone with her attacker, used his superior strength against him, flipped him flat on his rear end, proved she wasn’t so vulnerable after all. She threw her head back and laughed out loud.
Suddenly she felt a tapping at her forehead, turned to see Dominic smiling at her, the index and middle fingers of his right hand pressed against her temple like the barrel of a gun. His thumb snapped down, then up, as if pulling an imaginary trigger. “Bang,” he said calmly. “You’re dead.”
“G
oddamn son of a bitch.” Jess was still muttering as she walked along Willow Street. What the hell was she doing wasting her time, her Saturday afternoons, for God’s sake, one of the very few free afternoons she had, for God’s sake, trying to learn how to defend herself, pretending she was invulnerable, for God’s sake, when, in truth, she was no match for anyone really determined to do her harm. A well-timed “Hohh!” wouldn’t do much good against a crossbow; an eagle’s claw to the eyes was no match for a bullet to the brain.
Here she’d been roaring away, feeling invincible, in control, all-powerful, and all it took was a couple of fingers to rip her illusions into pathetic shreds. There was no such thing as control. She was as vulnerable as anyone else.