matched his expensively tailored suit. My gaze accompanied him through the metal detectors and around the corner until he disappeared. “Too bad the judge won’t allow TV cameras into the courtroom,” Jo Lynn was saying, sounding very knowledgeable about thewhole proceedings. “Of course, if there were cameras, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe. White doesn’t photograph very good on TV. Did you know that?”
“White doesn’t photograph very
well,”
I corrected, trying to decide whether or not she was serious.
She looked stricken. “Well, who died and appointed you Mrs. Grundy?” We didn’t speak again until we’d passed through the metal detectors ourselves and were in the crowded elevator on the way to the courtroom on the top floor.
I didn’t know what to expect, and I was astonished when I stepped out of the elevator and found myself staring out an expansive wall of windows at a truly spectacular view of the city, the Intracoastal Waterway, and the ocean beyond. A dreamscape, I remember thinking, as I proceeded down the long corridor, knowing I was walking into a nightmare.
The spectacular view continued inside the courtroom itself, where the entire east wall was made up of windows. The trial was taking place in Courtroom 11A, the so-called ceremonial courtroom, and the largest courtroom in the building. I’d never been inside a courtroom before and was amazed to discover how familiar it all felt. Years of watching fictional trials in the movies and on TV, plus the relatively new experience of Court TV, had rendered the arena more accessible, if not downright cozy. There was the judge’s podium, flags to either side, the witness stand, the jury box, the spectator’s gallery with room for about seventy-five people, everything exactly where I’d known it would be.
“Colin sits there.” Jo Lynn indicated the long, dark oak table and three black leather chairs of the defense team with a nod of her head. “In the middle.” She was already sitting on the edge of her seat, straining her body forward to get a better look, although there was nothing yet to see.We were in the third row of the middle section, just behind the prosecutor’s table and the two rows reserved for the families of the victims. “We get a better view of Colin from this side,” she explained.
I watched the courtroom fill, wishing that she would stop referring to the accused serial killer as if he were a close personal friend. “Wait till you see how handsome he is,” Jo Lynn said. The shoulders of the woman sitting directly in front of us stiffened, her back arching, like a cat’s. I turned toward the back of the room, stared absently at the cloudless blue sky, my face flush with embarrassment and shame.
It was several seconds before I realized that someone was staring back. It was the man I’d noticed outside, the man with the autumn-colored hair and expensively tailored suit. In profile, he’d appeared lean and angular, intense and inaccessible; full-face, he appeared kinder, softer, less formidable. Too many years of Florida sunshine had rendered his handsome face somewhat leathery, and there were crease lines around his full mouth and hazel eyes.
How could I know his eyes were hazel? I wondered, looking away, then immediately back again, staring at him outright, watching in awe as the years fell away from his features, like layers of paint being stripped from the side of a house. The grown man vanished; a boy of eighteen took his place. He was wearing a white track suit, a bright red number 12 stamped across his chest, the sweat of victory from his final race trickling down his cheeks and into his smiling mouth, as he accepted the congratulations of the adoring crowd around him.
Way to go, Bobby! Hey, guy, great race.
“Robert?” I whispered.
Jo Lynn’s elbow pierced the side of my ribs. “That’s the prosecutor, Mr. Eaves, coming through the door. I hate him. He’s really out to get Colin.”
Reluctantly,
“White doesn’t photograph very
well,”
I corrected, trying to decide whether or not she was serious.
She looked stricken. “Well, who died and appointed you Mrs. Grundy?” We didn’t speak again until we’d passed through the metal detectors ourselves and were in the crowded elevator on the way to the courtroom on the top floor.
I didn’t know what to expect, and I was astonished when I stepped out of the elevator and found myself staring out an expansive wall of windows at a truly spectacular view of the city, the Intracoastal Waterway, and the ocean beyond. A dreamscape, I remember thinking, as I proceeded down the long corridor, knowing I was walking into a nightmare.
The spectacular view continued inside the courtroom itself, where the entire east wall was made up of windows. The trial was taking place in Courtroom 11A, the so-called ceremonial courtroom, and the largest courtroom in the building. I’d never been inside a courtroom before and was amazed to discover how familiar it all felt. Years of watching fictional trials in the movies and on TV, plus the relatively new experience of Court TV, had rendered the arena more accessible, if not downright cozy. There was the judge’s podium, flags to either side, the witness stand, the jury box, the spectator’s gallery with room for about seventy-five people, everything exactly where I’d known it would be.
“Colin sits there.” Jo Lynn indicated the long, dark oak table and three black leather chairs of the defense team with a nod of her head. “In the middle.” She was already sitting on the edge of her seat, straining her body forward to get a better look, although there was nothing yet to see.We were in the third row of the middle section, just behind the prosecutor’s table and the two rows reserved for the families of the victims. “We get a better view of Colin from this side,” she explained.
I watched the courtroom fill, wishing that she would stop referring to the accused serial killer as if he were a close personal friend. “Wait till you see how handsome he is,” Jo Lynn said. The shoulders of the woman sitting directly in front of us stiffened, her back arching, like a cat’s. I turned toward the back of the room, stared absently at the cloudless blue sky, my face flush with embarrassment and shame.
It was several seconds before I realized that someone was staring back. It was the man I’d noticed outside, the man with the autumn-colored hair and expensively tailored suit. In profile, he’d appeared lean and angular, intense and inaccessible; full-face, he appeared kinder, softer, less formidable. Too many years of Florida sunshine had rendered his handsome face somewhat leathery, and there were crease lines around his full mouth and hazel eyes.
How could I know his eyes were hazel? I wondered, looking away, then immediately back again, staring at him outright, watching in awe as the years fell away from his features, like layers of paint being stripped from the side of a house. The grown man vanished; a boy of eighteen took his place. He was wearing a white track suit, a bright red number 12 stamped across his chest, the sweat of victory from his final race trickling down his cheeks and into his smiling mouth, as he accepted the congratulations of the adoring crowd around him.
Way to go, Bobby! Hey, guy, great race.
“Robert?” I whispered.
Jo Lynn’s elbow pierced the side of my ribs. “That’s the prosecutor, Mr. Eaves, coming through the door. I hate him. He’s really out to get Colin.”
Reluctantly,
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