Page 73 of Pulling Strings

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We, the Jury

The jury deliberated for hours.

Maximus left along with most of the gallery. Gone to get dinner or some fresh air, while Talbot and I sat in the hard wooden chairs as if we were trapped in them. It was either that or send me to a holding cell for the duration, probably that nice one I’d seen on my last visit to the Capitol. But Talbot refused to be rid of me, claiming that as long as I was his client, I was his responsibility. It was endearing, but I wished he put me in cold storage for a nap instead while he got us something to eat.

So, we sat because me standing or moving freely around the courtroom might be seen as “threatening.” Or worse, as an attempt to flee, which was grounds for additional felony charges.

Nerves gave way to mind-numbing boredom, then slipped into dread. Was it good that it was taking so long? Bad? Talbot appeared unconcerned, reminding me the jury had to render a verdict by midnight or cause a mistrial. Starting over a week, a month, or even longer from now sounded like a slow form of torture. Why worry about a death sentence when the possibility ofendless delay existed?

Finally, the crowd returned. Rows of seats filled fast, bringing quiet chatter and scathing glares. The jury entered next, followed by Maximus Lyle, who sat high above the rest of us as if he were the one passing judgment.

Once everything was settled and everyone silent, Maximus turned to the jury’s foreman. “Have you reached a verdict?” he asked.

The foreman stood, a pink-cheeked, mustachioed fellow who was suddenly the most important person in the world to me. He held a scrap of paper in one hand and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

“We have,” he said in a soft voice.

Talbot patted my arm and waved me to standing. Between the numbness creeping up my legs and the nerves making my knees wobble, it took all the composure I could muster to rise.

Maximus’s nod prompted the foreman to clear his throat.

“After careful consideration of the evidence presented,” he began, “we find the defendant, Fitch Farrow, not guilty on the basis of reasonable doubt.”

Sound left and so did my breath, sucking out a vacuum in my middle. My fingers tightened around the wooden table’s edge, going white-knuckled and tingly from pressure.

Not guilty.

That’s what he said.

I swallowed, hearing an ocean in my ears while the foreman droned on.

Aster Osborn leaped to her feet, red-faced and shouting. Talbot’s abrupt clap on my back nearly knocked me over while my eyes ran laps around the room. Members of the crowd stood in silent shock orshook angry fists. I couldn’t hear them, and I was glad.

Not guilty.

He kept saying it. For every charge.

When he finished, I squinted up at Maximus Lyle and found him staring back.

“Are you all right, Mister Farrow?” he asked.

I coughed at the lump in my throat. “Yes, sir.”

He looked severe, reminding me of childhood scolding when he caught Holland and I snooping in his office, or the time I wrecked the dessert buffet at a gala dinner. Kids learning magic were a liability at every occasion, and I had been no exception.

I watched the older man without blinking as the chaos of the courtroom swelled around me.

Raised voices and questions hurled from the crowd assaulted my ears at last.

“He’s a murderer!”

“He can’t get away with this!”

In the gallery a few rows back, a woman collapsed, wailing.

Maximus didn’t respond except to finally call out, “Court is dismissed!”

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