“Horn,” Dick Selby said, approaching Lou and taking a place next to him. Dick was a short thin man who used to be bald on top but, a few years ago, had undergone a hair transplant. Now the top of his head looked like a cornfield, except instead of rows of the crop there were columns of curly hair lining his scalp. Some members of the bar called him “Pube Head” behind his back, but Dick didn’t care. Lou figured that when your name was “Dick,” it was hard to get too riled up by any other handle someone bestowed upon you.
“Dick, how are you?” Lou spoke without looking at the man as both gazed past the sea of their colleagues to the double doors that marked the exit and entrance to the courtroom.
“A lot better now,” Dick said, his voice gruff.
“Why is that?”
“A little birdie just told me that Gloria was doing the docket today by herself.”
Relief washed over Lou like a cool blanket. If that was true, then settlement of his case was possible. He couldn’t suppress the smile that came to his lips. “Dick, you just made my—”
He stopped when he heard the double doors creak open. All conversation and laughter in the courtroom died in an instant. Seconds later, Gloria Sanchez walked through the opening rolling a large black briefcase behind her. Lou’s smile widened as he heard the collective exhale of fifty lawyers who all knew their day was about to be much better. Gloria strode forward with a lean, her eyes locked on the prosecution table in front of her. She was an attractive young woman who Lou thought would be far prettier if she smiled more. Of course, when you worked for who Gloria did, the smiles were probably few and far between. He was about to approach her when he heard another sound that made his blood run cold. The clicking of high heels on hardwood.
Every head in the room turned again to the double doors, and Lou felt hot breath in his ear that smelled like coffee and bacon. “April Fools,” Dick said, nudging Lou’s elbow with his own and snickering.
Lou Horn felt the unmistakable twinge in his scrotum that he always absorbed every time he heard the echo of the General’s footsteps. He wondered how many other men in this room had the same reaction and what the corresponding vibe was for the smattering of female defense attorneys. The General didn’t cut anybody slack. If there was a dog in the room, Lou figured the animal would be whining and pissing a puddle on the floor.
“Shit,” he said.
As the sound of the clicks grew louder and Lou saw her walk through the opening, Dick Selby muttered, “Have you ever figured out where she parks her broom?”
It was an old joke, and Lou didn’t laugh. For once, he was more afraid of his client, who was expecting a settlement today, than he was of the woman striding down the aisle.
“Shit,” he repeated.
Helen Evangeline Lewis relished the look of fear she saw in her colleagues’ eyes. The familiar expression sent electricity through her bloodstream and, in truth, was the only feeling anymore that gave her a high. Better than alcohol. Better than sex, though it had been years since she had felt that sensation. To be respected was wonderful, but to be feared was divine. Part of the feeling was the power of her office. She was the district attorney general of the Twenty-Second Judicial Circuit, which comprised the counties of Giles, Maury, Lawrence, and Wayne. The lawyers in this courtroom represented clients whose futures could rest in her decision whether to deal or go to trial. But she knew that wasn’t entirely it. The attorneys didn’t just fear the office. They feared her.
She walked slowly, her back straight and her head completely still, just as her mother had taught her when she was a teenager entered in every beauty contest in southern Tennessee. She had never won a single event, though she had gotten third place in Ms. Teen Giles County. But the training in posture and stride had served another purpose: it had given her poise, confidence, and discipline, which she had later relied on to succeed in the male-dominated world of law.
The color of Helen’s hair, which fell to her shoulders, was midnight black, and her skin was pale. She wore a black suit and matching high heels, with lips painted bright red. The outfit was her trademark, so to speak, and she figured there were few attorneys in Giles County who could remember her wearing anything different to court. She knew the clothes added to her aura, and oddly enough, it was her ex-husband, Butch, who had unwittingly suggested the look.
During their marriage, which had ended in divorce in 1995, he liked to watch NASCAR on Sunday afternoons. He even took Helen to the Talladega 500 in 1991. Butch’s favorite driver was Dale Earnhardt, and it wasn’t just the man’s ability behind the wheel that made him a fan. “The Intimidator,” as Earnhardt was known, drove a black stock car with a white number 3 outlined in red painted on the sides. His helmet, jumpsuit, and racing glasses were also black and white, which made him strike a formidable pose on the track. At the race in ’Dega, Butch got them a seat close to Earnhardt’s pit crew. He said that the black car and uniform were the perfect complements to Earnhardt’s fearless, almost reckless brand of racing and made him stand out among all the other sponsor-supported cars with their colorful, forgettable designs. “Brilliant marketing,” her ex-husband marveled. The week after the race, Helen wore a black suit to work every day. Since then, it was the only color she had donned in the courtroom.
As she strode to the front, she let her eyes move over the swell of attorneys, a few of who were brave enough to issue a greeting. “General, how are you?” “Morning, General.” Helen nodded, saying nothing, but she relished the military bearing that was an oddity of Tennessee law. In most jurisdictions in the United States, the district attorney bore no title. He or she was simply called by Mr., Ms., or Mrs. in the courtroom. If there was any reference beyond that, it was simply as “the prosecutor.” But in the state of Tennessee, the district attorney was referred to as “General” during court proceedings. For Helen Lewis, who had been one of only a handful of women to graduate in her law school class of over one hundred at the University of Tennessee in 1978, to be referred to as “General” by the opposing attorney, who was almost always a man, was empowering.
When she stopped at the prosecution table, where Gloria Sanchez was removing file jackets from the briefcase, she caught the same look of trepidation in her young assistant’s eyes as she had seen in the gaze of the defense attorneys whom she had just walked past. And though Helen knew that her look and title added to her intimidation factor, the final and most important piece was her attitude.
Helen Evangeline Lewis, for lack of a more sophisticated term, was mean. Not evil. Not bad. Mean. She had tried being nice and cordial early in her legal career, but the effort made her feel weak, and she found that her male counterparts did not take her seriously. Worst of all, she had lost cases she should have won and pled matters that should have gone to trial. When she thought of those days, it was hard not to be sick to her stomach.
“Docket sheet,” Helen said, her voice sharp and clipped.
Gloria handed her a stapled packet filled with the names of the defendants who were on this week’s trial agenda. Helen scanned the list for show. She had meticulously gone over the docket in her office for the past hour and knew exactly what she wanted to do with every case.
“General, can we talk?”