Page 128 of The Proving Ground
I shook my head. What she said was true of all lawyers, but it was not true of the case at hand. I was devastated by the decision.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “This guy has spent twenty years in prison for something he didn’t do. I know it, his daughter knows it. And now it’s a death sentence.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said.
“So am I.”
45
MAGGIE AND Ikept our distance over the weekend. Rather than work in the back office of the house, I went downtown to work at the warehouse and prepare for the trial week ahead. I couldn’t know for sure how Judge Ruhlin would decide on the future of juror eleven or the petition for mistrial, but I needed to be ready for all possibilities. To that end, I met with Jack McEvoy for three hours on Saturday, and together we structured the direct examination of Nathan Whittaker, the Tidalwaiv coder I planned to put on the stand as my last witness. By the end of the session I was confident I would be able to use Whittaker to show the jury, whether it was composed of eleven or twelve members, how the programming of Clair could have been tainted and led to the violent end of Rebecca Randolph’s life.
On Saturday night I had a quiet dinner with Maggie at the Musso and Frank Grill. We mostly talked about our daughter and the architect Maggie had just hired to design the rebuild on her home. We didn’t discuss the Snow case at all, and Alessio, the restaurant manager, fawned over us enough to distract our thoughts from the gulfthat had opened between us. Until dessert, that is. After the sand dabs, we ordered a slice of cheesecake to share, and it was then that Maggie floated the idea of moving out of the house on Fareholm.
“Maggie, you don’t have to move,” I said. “I want you to stay with me.”
“Well, you don’t like me very much right now,” she said.
“That’s not true, and even if it were, I’d get past it. We’re on opposite sides of a case. But this is about our life. I somehow feel that everything that’s happened, the fire and everything, was meant to bring us back together. I know that sounds like over-the-top magical thinking, but it’s what I feel. And the Snow case, it’s just a test to see how strong we are. How strong we could be.”
“What about that tech billionaire sticking his nose into my business? Is that a test too?”
“Look, I know that’s disturbing, and rightfully so, but he was just using you to try to get to me. I’m going to pay him back for that in court. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“You hope so.”
“I know so.”
“Don’t be overconfident.”
“Act like a winner and you’ll be a winner.”
“Legal Siegel—I know you miss him.”
“Yeah, but I had a good day prepping for my next witness and the knockout punch I’m going to deliver after that. So I don’t have to act—I am confident.”
“You know, you often talk in terms of physical violence when you talk about court. Have you noticed that?”
“Sounds appropriate to me. It’s a no-holds-barred fight. The Octagon. Even in civil. Maybe even more so in civil.”
With that, I looked out of our booth and signaled to Luis, our red-coated waiter, for the check.
I stayed on a roll until Sunday night, when I met Cassandra Snow for dinner. I didn’t want to deliver the bad news by email or text or phone. She picked the place based on ease of access, and we met at the Lab on Figueroa by USC. I got right to the point before we ordered food or even told the waiter what kind of water we wanted.
“We’ve had a setback with the DA’s office,” I said. “They’re going to pass on the petition.”
She shook her head, then held still while she composed herself.
“Did they say why?” she asked.
“They believe the medical evidence that you had OI was available to me at the time of the trial,” I said quietly.
“But that’s not true.”
“It is and it isn’t. They’re taking the position that people have known about OI for a long time, so it could have been diagnosed then. I think they’re wrong, and that’s why I will still take this to US district court.”
“That will take forever. My father doesn’t have that kind of time.”
“I’ll be asking for an emergency hearing.”
