The First Time (3 page)

Was it possible Jake had already left for court? Mattie glanced at the two digital clocks on the other side of the room. The clock on the microwave oven said it was 8:32; the clock on the regular oven below it read 8:34.

She was about to hang up when the phone was answered between the fourth and fifth ring. “Mattie, what’s up?” Jake’s voice was strong, hurried, a voice that announced it had little time for small talk.

“Jake, hi,” Mattie began, her own voice delicate and tentative. “You were out the door so fast this morning, I didn’t get a chance to wish you good luck.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait for you to get up. I had to go-”

“No, that’s fine. I didn’t mean to imply—” Not on the phone ten seconds, and already she’d managed to make him uncomfortable. “I just wanted to wish you good luck. Not that you’ll need it. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”

“You can never have too much good luck,” Jake said.

Words to write on a fortune cookie, Mattie thought.

“Look, Mattie. I really have to get going. I appreciate your call—”

“I was thinking of coming to court this morning.”

“Please don’t do that,” he said quickly. Far too quickly. “I mean, it’s not really necessary.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, not bothering to disguise her disappointment. Obviously, there was a reason he didn’t want her in court. Mattie wondered what the reason looked like, then pushed the unwelcome thought aside. “Anyway, I just called to wish you good luck.” How many times had she said that already? Three? Four? Didn’t she know when it was time to say good-bye, time to exit gracefully, time to pack up her good wishes and her pride and move on?

“I’ll see you later.” Jake’s voice resonated with that fake, too-cheery tone that was too big for the thought being expressed. “Take care of yourself.”

“Jake—” Mattie began. But either he didn’t hear her or he pretended not to, and the only response Mattie got was the sound of the receiver being dropped into its carriage. What had she been about to say? That she knew all about his latest affair, that it was time for them to admit that neither was happy in this prolonged farce of a marriage, that it was time to call it a day?
The party’s over
, she heard faint voices sing as she hung up the phone.

Mattie moved slowly out of the kitchen into the large center hallway. But her right foot had fallen asleep again, and she had trouble securing her footing. She stumbled, hopping for several seconds on her left
foot across the blue-and-gold needlepoint rug while her right heel sought in vain to find the floor. She realized she was falling, and even more frightening, that she could do nothing to stop it, ultimately giving in to the inevitable, and crashing down hard on her rear end. She sat for several seconds in stunned silence, temporarily overwhelmed by the indignity of it all. “Damn you, Jake,” she said finally, choking down unwanted tears. “Why couldn’t you have just loved me? Would it have been so hard?”

Maybe the security of knowing her husband loved her would have given her the courage to love him in return.

Mattie made no move to get up. Instead, she sat in the middle of the hallway, her wet bathing suit soaking into the fine French needlepoint of the large area rug, and laughed so hard she cried.

E
xcuse me,” Mattie said, crawling across the stubborn knees of a heavyset woman, dressed in varying shades of blue, toward the vacant seat smack in the middle of the eighth and last row of the visitors’ block of courtroom 703. “Sorry. Excuse me,” she repeated to an elderly couple seated beside the woman in blue, and then again, “Sorry,” to the attractive young blonde she would be sitting beside for the better part of the morning. Was she the reason Jake didn’t want her in court this morning?

Mattie unbuttoned her camel-colored coat, shrugging it off her shoulders with as little movement as possible, feeling it bunch at her elbows, pinning her arms uncomfortably to her sides so that she was forced to wiggle around in her seat in a vain effort to dislodge it, disturbing not only the attractive blonde
to her right but the equally attractive blonde she now noticed to her left. Was there no end to the number of attractive blondes in Chicago, and did they all have to be in her husband’s courtroom this morning? Maybe she was in the wrong room. Maybe instead of
Cook County versus Douglas Bryant
, she’d stumbled into some sort of attractive-young-blondes convention. Were they all sleeping with her husband?

Mattie’s eyes shot to the front of the room, locating her husband at the defense table, his head lowered in quiet conversation with his client, a coarse-looking boy of nineteen, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable in the brown suit and paisley tie he’d obviously been advised to wear, the expression on his face curiously blank, as if he, like Mattie, had wandered into the wrong room and wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here.

What was
she
doing here? Mattie wondered suddenly. Hadn’t her husband specifically told her not to come? Hadn’t Lisa advised the same thing when she gave in and called her? She should get up now and leave, just get up and slink away before he saw her. It had been a mistake to come here. What had she been thinking? That he’d be grateful for her support, as Kim had suggested? Was that why she was here? For support? Or had she come hoping to catch a glimpse of his latest mistress?

Mistress, Mattie thought, chewing the word over in her mouth, fighting the sudden urge to gag as she craned her neck across the rows of spectators, sighting two young brunettes giggling at the far end of the first row. Too young, Mattie decided. And too immature.
Definitely not Jake’s type, although, truth be told, she wasn’t sure what her husband’s type actually was. Certainly not me, she thought, eyes flitting briefly across a head of brown curls occupying the aisle seat of the second row before moving on down the rows, stopping at the perfect profile of a raven-haired woman she recognized as one of the junior partners in her husband’s firm, a woman who had joined Richardson, Buckley and Lang at approximately the same time as Jake. Shannon something-or-other. Wasn’t her specialty estate planning, or something equally nondescript? What was
she
doing here?

As if aware she was under observation, Shannon whatever-her-name-was did a slow turn in Mattie’s direction, eyes stopping directly on Mattie, a slow smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She’s trying to figure out where she knows me from, Mattie understood, recognizing the look, smiling confidently back. Mattie Hart, her smile announced, wife of Jake, the man of the hour, the man we’re all here to see, the man you possibly saw last night in rather more intimate surroundings.

Shannon whatever-she-called-herself broke into a huge grin of recognition. Oh, that Mattie Hart, the grin said. “How are you?” she mouthed silently.

“Never better,” Mattie answered out loud, giving the sleeve bunched around her elbow another tug, hearing the lining rip. “You?”

“Great,” came the instant reply.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” Mattie heard herself announce, almost afraid of what she was going to say next. “I want to change my will.” She did? When had she decided that?

The smile vanished from Shannon whatever’s lips. “What?” she said.

So maybe her specialty isn’t estate planning, Mattie thought, lowering her gaze, signaling the end of the conversation, looking back several seconds later, relieved that Shannon whoever-she-was-and-was-she-sleeping-with-her-husband had returned her attention to the front of the courtroom.

You don’t want to be here, Mattie decided. You definitely don’t want to be here. Get up now. Get up and go before you make a complete fool of yourself. I want to change my will? Where had that come from?

“Let me help you with that,” the blonde to her left volunteered, tugging at Mattie’s stubborn coat sleeve before Mattie had time to object, smiling at Mattie the way Mattie smiled at her mother, the expression a little forced, containing more pity than goodwill.

“Thank you.” Mattie flashed the woman her most sincere smile, a smile that said, This is the way it’s done, but the young woman had already turned away, was staring toward the front of the stately old courtroom, holding her breath expectantly. Mattie straightened the folds of her gray wool skirt, fidgeted with the collar of her white cotton blouse. The blonde to her right, who was wearing a pink angora sweater and navy slacks, shot her a sideways glance that said, Don’t you ever sit still? which Mattie pretended not to notice. She should have worn something else, something less schoolmarmish, something less Miss Grundyish, she thought, smiling at the image of Kim that popped into her brain. Something softer, like a pink angora sweater, she thought, glancing enviously
at the woman beside her. Although she’d never liked angora. It always made her sneeze. As if on cue, Mattie felt a sneeze building in the upper recesses of her nose, had barely time to fumble in her purse for a tissue, before burying her nose inside it, the force of her sneeze ricocheting through the room. Had Jake heard her? “Bless you,” both blondes said in unison, inching away from her side.

“Thank you,” Mattie said, stealing a glance in her husband’s direction, relieved to find him still deep in conversation with his client. “Sorry.” She sneezed again, apologized again.

A woman in the row in front of her swiveled around in her seat, soft brown eyes flecked with gold. “Are you all right?” Her voice was deep and vaguely raspy, older than the round face it emanated from, a face surrounded by a halo of frantic red curls. Nothing quite matched, Mattie thought absently, thanking the woman for her concern.

And then there was a slight stir as the county clerk asked everyone to rise, and the judge, an attractive black woman, whose curly dark hair was flecked with specks of gray, like ashes, assumed her seat at the head of the courtroom. It was only then that Mattie noticed the jury, seven men and five women, plus two men who served as alternates, most of the jurors hovering around middle age, although several looked scarcely out of their teens, and one man was likely closer to seventy. Of the fourteen, six were white, four were black, three were Hispanic, and one was Asian. Their faces reflected varying degrees of interest, earnestness, and fatigue. The trial had been going on for almost
three weeks. Both sides had presented their cases. The jury had, no doubt, heard all it wanted to hear. Now what they wanted was to get back to their jobs, their families, the lives they’d put on hold. It was time to make a decision, then move on.

Me too, Mattie thought, leaning forward in her seat as the judge directed the prosecution to proceed. Time for me to make a decision and move on.

Light my fire. Light my fire. Light my fire
.

One of the assistant state’s attorneys was instantly on his feet, doing up the button of his gray suit jacket, the way lawyers always did on TV, and walking toward the jury. He was a tall man, about forty, with a thin face and a long nose that hooked at its tip, rather like a candle dripping wax. There was a noticeable stir in the visitors’ block as everyone inched forward simultaneously, their silence heavy, like a dense fog, waiting for the lawyer’s voice to lead them toward the light. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor began, making deliberate eye contact with each juror, then smiling. “Good morning.” The jury smiled back dutifully, one woman’s smile disappearing into an aborted yawn. “I want to thank you for your patience these last few weeks.” He paused briefly, swallowed, his large Adam’s apple bobbing into view above the pale blue collar of his shirt. “It’s my job to recount for you the simple facts of this case.”

Mattie coughed, a sudden, violent spasm that brought tears to her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the blonde to her left asked, offering Mattie another tissue, while the blonde on Mattie’s right rolled her eyes in exasperation. It’s
you, isn’t it? Mattie thought, wiping at her tears with the tissue. You’re the one sleeping with my husband.

“On the night of February twenty-fourth,” the prosecuting attorney continued, “Douglas Bryant returned home from an evening of drinking with his friends and was confronted by his mother, Constance Fisher. There was an argument, and Douglas Bryant stormed out of the house. He went back to the bar, had a few more drinks, then returned home at about two
A.M
., by which time his mother had gone to bed. He walked into the kitchen, took a long, sharp knife from one of the drawers, proceeded to his mother’s bedroom, and with deliberate calm plunged the knife into his mother’s stomach. One can only imagine the horror that Constance Fisher felt at realizing what was happening to her, and she made a valiant effort to ward off her son’s repeated blows. In all, Douglas Bryant stabbed his mother a total of fourteen times. One thrust punctured a lung, another went straight for her heart. As if this weren’t enough, Douglas Bryant then slashed his mother’s throat with such force he almost severed her head from her body. He then returned to the kitchen, where he used the knife to make himself a sandwich, took a shower, and went to bed. The next morning, he went to school and boasted of the killing to his fellow students, one of whom called the police.”

The assistant state’s attorney continued to go over the so-called simple facts of the case, reminding the jury of the witnesses who’d confirmed that Constance Fisher was afraid of her son, that the murder weapon was covered with Douglas Bryant’s fingerprints, that his clothing was covered with his mother’s blood, simple
fact after simple fact, each item damning enough in itself, devastating when added together. What could Jake Hart possibly say that would mitigate the horror of what Mattie had just heard?

“It sounds pretty clear-cut,” she heard Jake agree, as if he were privy to her thoughts, as if he were speaking directly to her. Her eyes shot toward her husband as Jake rose to his feet, the jacket of his conservative blue suit already buttoned. She was gratified to note that he’d taken her advice and selected a white shirt instead of a blue one, although the deep burgundy tie he was wearing was unfamiliar to her. He smiled, a little Elvislike curling of his upper lip, and began addressing the jury in the soft, conversational, even intimate fashion that was his trademark. He makes you feel as if you’re the only person in the room, Mattie marveled, watching as each member of the jury unknowingly succumbed to his spell, leaning forward, giving him their undivided attention. The women to either side of Mattie fidgeted expectantly in their seats, their shapely rear ends nervously polishing the hard wooden bench beneath them.