Sawyer, Meryl (29 page)

Val was more subdued, but every bit as sincere. "We're with
you, Royce, all the way."

"Thank you," Royce said. "I don't know what I'd do without
you two. I love you both."

Mitch put his arm around her and guided Royce into the building.
Behind them she heard Wally still answering questions. How could she have ever
doubted those closest to her?

"Listen," Mitch whispered in her ear as they passed
through the metal detector, "Judge Ramirez's name and the word
delay
are
rarely mentioned in the same sentence. Don't be upset if she refuses the
continuance."

Royce walked into the already packed courtroom and braced herself.
What else could go wrong?

The courthouse had been built after the Depression and it had been
that long since the room had been painted. For the walls, once a
government-issue green, the nonsmoking ban had come too late. They'd become a
wash of mustard green that did nothing to take the edge off the straight-backed
oak benches, giving Royce the feeling that she was indeed in prison.

None of the courtrooms had windows, enhancing the trapped feeling
that gripped her more each moment. How would she be able to get through a
trial? What if she were convicted?

Royce took her seat at the counsel table in the defendant's chair
and looked down at the table where gang members had etched their signs into the
wood. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Abigail Carnivali—in a red suit the
color of a fire hydrant—take her seat at the state's table. Abigail shot a smug
smile at Mitch. This was a lost cause and she loved it.

A clerk rushed up to the bailiff to let him know the judge was
ready. "All rise," he said, his voice coming from a barrel chest that
became a loose slab of flesh that hung over his belt and partially hid his
holster.

"Hear ye, hear ye! Department seven of the Superior Court of
the city and county of San Francisco is now in session. The Honorable Judge
Gloria Ramirez presiding."

Judge Gloria Ramirez had flown into the judicial nest on the wings
of affirmative action. Her appointment clobbered three birds with one stone.
She was a woman with an Hispanic surname, and best of all—in San Francisco—a
lesbian.

If anyone had bothered to check her background, they would have
discovered she had nothing in common with the millions of Hispanics in the
state. She was the product of an age of Aquarius marriage that lasted less than
a year.

As for her sexual preference it was her private business. She
wasn't active in the gay movement, but she liked the political clout it packed.
After all, gays could be counted on to vote in a state where less than half the
eligible voters ever made it to the polls in any election.

Gloria was proud of her reputation as a tough judge. Never let it
be said that she tolerated senseless delays. No, sir. Her court didn't add to
the legal logjam that threatened to bring down the whole system.

She had to admit, though, she was a little embarrassed about her
decision to allow television cameras to cover Royce Winston's trial. She hated
to see any trial become a media event, but pressure from her superiors colored
her decision. She was positive they'd been influenced by the Farenholts' money.
After all, judges had to run for election.

"Your Honor," Mitchell Durant began his motion for a
delay of Royce Anne Winston's trial. "The defense requests a postponement
of the defendant's trial. The death of an important witness has created a highly
prejudicial situation for the defendant if she goes on trial as
scheduled."

"Highly prejudicial." Ha! Gloria knew the tinkling of
the appeals bell when she heard it. But Durant didn't have a leg to stand on.

Gloria leveled him with her this-is-bullshit look. She knew Mitch
was stalling because he didn't have his defense strategy worked out.

She listened to his argument, which was weak, but brilliantly
delivered, and made the proper notation in the trial notebook. What Durant
didn't win, he appealed—with amazing success. Gloria would never make it up the
next rung of the judicial ladder, the appeals court, if Durant tricked her and
was granted an appeal on what promised to be a surefire conviction.

"Your Honor." Abigail Carnivali rose for the prosecution.
"The State believes the defense's request is merely a delaying tactic.
There's no valid reason this case shouldn't go to trial as scheduled."

Gloria couldn't have agreed more, but she despised Abigail. The
nickname "Carnivorous" didn't convey the contempt Gloria had for the
legal nymphomaniac.

Durant was another case entirely. He never tried to flirt with
Gloria in the typical macho belief she wouldn't be a lesbian if she had slept
with him. Mitch gave her what she wanted—respect. She gave him what he deserved—respect.

"What should I do?" Gloria asked herself as she made
another note in her log. If the trial proceeded as scheduled, Royce would be
convicted—not that Gloria cared.

She'd watched the interview outside the courthouse on the small
television she kept in her chambers. Royce's plea would play well on the six
o'clock news, but Gloria wasn't fooled.

Still, Wallace Winston's interview had been inspired. Now, here
was a man that she liked. He'd covered several of her cases, being extremely
complimentary, which, coming from a Pulitzer-winning reporter, never hurt a
prospective appeals court judge.

"Where is Wallace Winston?" Gloria asked herself,
looking across the standing room only courtroom. She spotted him directly
behind Royce, his hand on the rail that separated the gallery from the court.
Obviously, he loved his niece and he'd been close to his brother, the respected
columnist, Terence Winston.

How lucky. Gloria experienced a pang of unadulterated envy.
Gloria's family had disowned her as soon as she announced she was a lesbian.

Her family's attitude was typical of what all gays faced. Gloria
had long since accepted it, but she had to admit she missed her family. Could
she really deprive Wally of his family, when another senseless delay—in a parade
of delays that plagued the court—could possibly save a family member he loved?
And who, more importantly, loved him.

"The motion to postpone this trial is"—she looked out
across the blur of faces, conscious only of one kindred spirit, Wallace
Winston—"granted."

Gloria ignored the astonished rumble that swept the court, and she
didn't really notice the shocked look on Mitchell Durant's face. Even Abigail
Carnivali's angry scowl almost escaped her. Gloria focused on the tears of
relief in Wally's eyes.

Royce practically skipped up the steps to Mitch's back door. She
should have been exhausted after a full day of being bullied by Mitch's crew in
a mock trial, but she wasn't. They'd taken a break midafternoon to watch Mitch
on a local cable station that had televised the Fish and Game Department
hearing on the fate of the cougar who'd attacked a hunter. Seeing Mitch had
given her a much-needed boost of confidence.

She opened the back door. Had she forgotten to set the alarm after
feeding Jenny and Oliver this morning? Obviously. The alarm wasn't on. Setting
the security system was so new to her that she sometimes forgot to do it.
"Jenny, where are you?"

The retriever usually met Royce at the door. She called again and checked
Oliver's litter box. For once there wasn't gravel all over the floor. When
Mitch was out of town like this, Oliver tormented her by kicking kitty litter,
and he was getting really good at it.

"Jenny," she called again, and the retriever came bounding
into the kitchen, her tail whipping through the air. Royce sat on the floor and
hugged Jenny.

"You should have seen Mitch defend that cougar." My God,
was she actually talking to a dog—like a friend? Once she would have felt
silly, but she spent so much time alone that talking to Jenny had become a
habit.

"First, the Fish and Game warden showed these gruesome
pictures of the turkey hunter's back where the cougar had mauled him. Believe
me, it's a miracle the guy lived." Jenny wagged her tail as if she understood.
"The warden kept referring to the hunter as 'the victim' and saying how
'vicious' the cougar was. Then it was Mitch's turn.

"You wouldn't believe how great Mitch looks on TV. Tall,
handsome—really sexy." It was true; the females in his office steamed up
the conference-room television set watching the hearing. "Incredibly
sexy."

Jenny wagged her tail and Royce decided Jenny knew all about sex.
Undoubtedly, she'd seen plenty of it in that huge bed or the adjacent bath with
its sunken tub. Inside the night-stand drawer Royce had found enough condoms
for an army. Yup, Jenny understood sex.

"Not only did Mitch look sexy, but he projects supreme
confidence. He whips out these charts that show 'the hunter' —notice Mitch
didn't call him 'the victim'—was smack in the middle of cougar terrain hunting
wild turkeys.

"Then he calls a game warden to testify that the wind was
blowing the other way so the cougar couldn't smell the hunter. Next Mitch
produces an expert witness, a vet who claims the cougar is nearsighted."

Jenny nuzzled her. "Can't figure out what his plea will be,
can you? Well, don't worry, neither could the hotshots Mitch has working for
him. Obviously, Mitch isn't going for self-defense. Finally, he shows pictures
of the hunter in camouflage gear and he demonstrates how the man was squatting
in tall grass blowing a turkey whistle to lure a turkey close enough to
shoot."

Royce leaned back against the cabinet. She could still feel the
excitement of watching a stellar performance. Mitch was the best. If he
couldn't get her off, no one could.

"His summation was brilliant. Mitch said: Put yourself in the
cougar's place. You're wandering through your own land, looking for dinner. You
spot something in the tall grass.

"Looks just like a turkey. Sounds like a turkey. You sniff
the wind. Nothing. So, you figure here's din-din." Royce smiled, recalling
Mitch's final comment. "This is clearly a case of mistaken identity. The
cougar thought the guy was a turkey."

Royce slapped the floor and laughed the way everyone in the office
had burst into astonished laughter earlier that afternoon. "It was so
simple, so obvious, but no one thought of it. Mistaken identity."

Jenny cocked her head to one side and Royce caught a movement out
of the corner of her eye. She whipped around and saw Mitch. The contours of his
bare chest, feathered with dark hair, dipped and curved, tapering to narrow
hips clad in sweatpants faded from countless washings. Didn't he ever wear a
shirt around the house? And look at him! Obviously he was naked beneath the
snug-fitting sweats, his sex a full bulge.

"You creep, you're always sneaking up on me."

He smiled, a grin that would have convinced the toughest jury that
he'd just received a supreme compliment. "I live here, remember?"

"How long have you been there?"

"I came in at the sexy part." He had the audacity to
wink. "Mighty interesting."

That's what she'd been afraid of. Fine. He already knew she was
attracted to him. They'd even spent the night in the same bed—although nothing
had happened. "What are you doing back here so soon?"

"The Nature Nazis gave me a lift in their jet."

"You mean the Ecological Society? Jeeez, you're
cynical."

"I'm realistic. They wield a lot of power, and because
they've convinced everyone they have the moral high ground, they can stop
development or cost people jobs to save an endangered gnat."

"But, Mitch, they do a lot of good. Remember—"

"I don't want to argue. Let's celebrate. Find the champagne
glasses." He pointed to a cabinet.

He should celebrate, she thought. He'd done the impossible. Again.

While she found the glasses, he trotted upstairs and returned
wearing a T-shirt. Thank God. The Big-Dog shirt had a huge dog on it and said:
if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.

Outside in the small garden lingering shadows melded into each
other, softening the angles of the building, signaling day was yielding to a
cool summer evening. The light breeze stirred the leaves on the thick robe of
ivy cloaking the high stone wall around the yard. Mitch dropped to the ground
under the chestnut tree, Jenny at his side. Royce carefully positioned herself
near him, but not too close, as he popped the cork.

Mitch filled the two flutes with champagne and handed her one.
Royce touched her glass to Mitch's, edging just a little nearer to do it. At
this range she could see each individual eyelash, thick and spiked. "To
you—and the cougar."

"We're toasting you, Royce."

"Me!" She almost spilled the champagne. "What on
earth for?"

He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, his eyes resting on her
lips for an uncomfortably long time. "For holding up through pure hell
until we saw the light."

"What light?"

"Sometimes things get so bad in your life, so terrible, that
you think it's hopeless. But if you have the tenacity to hang on, you'll spot
the light at the end of the tunnel."