But there was more to it than the elimination of distractions. She loved the circuit courtroom of the Giles County Courthouse. She thought of the area between these four walls as her church. Her cathedral. Her home, if you wanted to get it down where the goats could eat it. She gazed up at the old balcony, whose original purpose was to segregate black spectators from the whites and which now was more of a museum piece that Willa Michaels, the archives custodian, would show visitors during tours of the courthouse. So much history had transpired between these four walls. Some good. Some bad. Some downright ugly.
In that sense, the courtroom’s past mirrored that of the town of Pulaski.
Helen never took for granted the importance of her position and the fact that during each trial she had a chance to create her own legacy, one carved in justice.
The lower gallery had four separate seating areas with six rows of wooden chairs that converged upon a railing that separated the judge, jury, and lawyers from the spectators. Beyond this barrier were the prosecution and defense tables and, between them, a box with a high-back chair inside, where witnesses were called to testify.
Helen ran a hand over the wooden armrest of the witness stand, thinking about Mandy Burks, who would be the first witness called by the state. After jury voir dire and opening statements, Helen knew that the jury would be chomping at the bit to hear from the victim, and she wouldn’t make them wait.
“Feet hurt?”
Startled, Helen turned toward the voice, which sounded familiar. The lights in the gallery had been turned off, and Helen squinted into the darkness. After a couple of seconds, she saw the shadow of a man rise from a seat on the left side, about halfway back, and approach slowly. He had his hands in his pockets, and when he walked, each shoulder dipped slightly. Helen knew the stride without seeing the man’s face, and she subconsciously gritted her teeth. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” the man said, opening the small gate that separated the gallery from the bench and bar. “About five minutes.” He paused and took a step closer. “I’ve always enjoyed watching you work.”
Helen felt heat on her face. “Maybe because work has always been such a foreign concept to you.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But it might be because you’re so damn sexy when you walk around the courtroom in your socks.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Butch? I’m prepping for a trial.” She turned away from him and walked back to the chair in the jury where she had placed her file.
“So I’ve heard,” he said, following after her. “Michael Zannick, right?”
“Your buddy,” Helen said, sitting down and pulling out a folder from the file. “Did Lou send you down here to try to get me to change my mind on the deal I offered?”
“No,” Butch said. “I was actually hoping you would let me take you to dinner tonight. Maybe Legends? Or, if you’re up for a short drive, we could go to Fayetteville and eat at Cahoots. Get a table in one of the old jail cells. You used to love that place, remember?”
Helen gazed up at him. Even at sixty-four years old, Butch still reminded Helen of a matinee idol with his athletic frame; thick, perfectly combed hair; and toothy grin. The only differences were that his once blond locks were now silver, and his blue eyes, which had always seemed to carry a hint of mischief, now contained the dull and permanently bloodshot afterglow of alcohol abuse. “Are you drunk?” she asked.
He scoffed and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to take my ex-wife to dinner. That’s not a crime is it, General?” He forced a smile, and Helen noticed he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s nervous, she thought. “Or maybe you don’t want to go to dinner because you’re dating someone,” Butch said, squinting down at her.
Helen felt a tingle of irritation, but she bit her lip to quell it. There was something wrong here. Since their divorce almost twenty years ago, Butch had kept his distance, occasionally calling her but never stopping in to see Helen at work. “Who I date is none of your business,” she said, her voice measured.
“Have you seen anyone since . . . Professor McMurtrie?”
Helen felt a wave of sadness ripple through her. More than a year had passed since Tom McMurtrie had succumbed to lung cancer, but hearing his name was like a kick to the stomach. For a moment, she struggled to breathe. His loss had begun to resemble a wound that almost had started to heal and then, at the mention of a place, the recall of a memory, or sometimes even a whiff of aftershave, broke open, and the hurt was fresh and even more painful than before.
“Are you OK, Helen?”
Helen exhaled and bit her lip. She glared at her ex-husband, unwilling to show any weakness or vulnerability in front of him. “Why are you here?”
Butch took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them together while gazing down at the floor. Then he walked around the front row of the jury and took a seat next to Helen in the back. “I’m in trouble,” he whispered, still looking at the floor.
Helen’s stomach tightened. “You need money?”
“It’s more complicated than that.” He shook his head and turned to look at her. The whites of his eyeballs were a forest of red fissures, and she smelled the familiar scent of bourbon masked by mouthwash on his breath. “I need you to dismiss the rape charge against Michael Zannick and plead him to a misdemeanor.” He paused. “A slap on the wrist.”
Helen shot to her feet. “Lou did send you.”
“No,” Butch said. “He didn’t.”
Helen picked up her file jacket and placed it under her arm. “Then Zannick did. You’re in deep with that son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
Butch didn’t answer, his hollow eyes looking out toward the dark gallery.
“Answer me,” Helen demanded, stepping closer to him. “You’re Zannick’s contract lawyer, right? If the deal between that rapist and Hoshima goes through, then you make a huge commission.” She paused, and when he remained silent, she stuck her index finger in his chest. “Am I right?”
He gave a swift nod of his head and continued to gaze at the gallery. The scene reminded Helen of the many times Butch had come home drunk at night and she had laid into him while he sat at the kitchen table and gazed dull-eyed toward the den. The memory only angered her more.
“You listen to me, you selfish leech. There is no way in hell that I’m going to dismiss the charges against Michael Zannick. He raped a fifteen-year-old girl, and he’s going to serve the maximum.”
“I’m not here because of the deal with Hoshima.” He paused. “Or my commission.” He chuckled bitterly. “I wish that was it.”
Helen cocked her head at him. “What then?”
Finally, he pulled himself to his feet, but he still didn’t look at her, now peering at the floor. His mouth curved into a tired smile. “We should’ve had kids, you know. I think that would have done it.”
“Done what?” she asked.
“Saved our marriage.”
She scoffed. “You think a couple of rug rats would have stopped your boozing?”
He finally looked at her, and his eyes were now blood red. “They might’ve made you take a step back. Maybe paid a little more attention to what was going on at home instead of your all-powerful career.”