Even Dana Whitfield was still.
Judge Pruitt cleared his throat, and it sounded loud. "Thank you, Mr. Cole," he said quietly. "Ms. Whitfield, rebuttal?"
Whitfield looked at the jury for a long moment. Then she shook her head. "The state rests on its evidence, Your Honor."
"Court is adjourned until morning," Pruitt said. "The jury will be charged at nine."
Chapter 25: The Charge and the Wait
The next morning Judge Pruitt charged the jury, reading the instructions in his slow, deliberate courtroom voice while the twelve jurors listened with the particular attention of people who know they are about to be alone with a decision.
When he finished the pattern instructions, Jesse stood.
"Your Honor, the defense requests one additional instruction."
Whitfield was on her feet before he finished. "Objection, Your Honor. The pattern instruction on witness credibility is sufficient."
"Let me hear it first, Ms. Whitfield," Pruitt said. "Mr. Cole?"
Jesse read from a single sheet of paper, in a voice that did not tremble.
"Members of the jury: the state has offered the testimony of an eyewitness who identified the defendant. You should consider such testimony with caution. In weighing it, you may consider the witness's opportunity to view the offender at the time of the offense, including the lighting, the distance, and the duration of the observation; the witness's degree of attention; the accuracy of any description given before the identification; the length of time between the offense and the identification; and whether the procedures used to obtain the identification were suggestive. If you conclude that an identification was the product of suggestion rather than the witness's independent memory, you should give it little weight."
Silence. Whitfield said, "Your Honor —"
"Overruled." Pruitt looked at the jury. "Given the evidence in this case, the jury will hear it." He read Jesse's instruction aloud, word for word, and Jesse watched the forewoman's pen move across her notepad.
Then the bailiff led the twelve out, and the courtroom emptied, and the waiting began.
They gathered on the wooden bench in the corridor outside the courtroom: Lena, Andre, Jesse, Silas Grant, Theo Marsh with his notebook. The corridor smelled of floor wax and old paper. Somewhere down the hall a door closed, and then there was only the ticking of the big clock above the water fountain.
Jesse had memorized the corridor too, in the way he memorized everything: the scuff on the third tile from the door, the stain on the ceiling shaped like Alabama.
Lena's lips moved in the prayer she had been saying since Andre was born. Her hand found Jesse's and held it. Her palm was rough from years of cafeteria work, and Jesse held it the way he had held it when he was small.
Theo opened his notebook to a fresh page and then, after a moment, turned back through the filled ones instead.
"You want to hear them?" he asked quietly. "The things you said in court."
Jesse nodded.
Theo read, in a low voice: "'Objection. Argumentative.'" He turned a page. "'I don't have to prove my brother innocent.'" Another page. "'You cannot convict a man on a shadow.'" He looked up. "And yesterday — 'I am my father's son.' I'm keeping this forever, you know. All of it."
"You're a good friend, Theo," Jesse said.
"I'm a witness," Theo said. "Somebody has to write it down."
Silas Grant leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. He had been quiet all morning, but now he spoke, and his voice carried the weight of forty-eight years at the bar.
"Your father sat in that gallery once," he said to Jesse, "when I tried my first case in this courthouse. Nineteen seventy-eight. I was terrified. He squeezed my shoulder on the way in and said, 'Tell the truth, Silas. The truth can stand up by itself.'" The old attorney smiled. "He would have been proud yesterday, son."
Jesse looked down at his hands, flat on his knees. "He'd have objected to my tie," he said, and Silas laughed, a short surprised sound, and Lena laughed too, through her tears.
Andre had been pacing the corridor in short turns. Now he sat down heavily beside Jesse.
"You did everything," he said. "Whatever happens in there. You did everything."
Jesse didn't answer. He was thinking about the work order, and the alarm log, and the mask in its evidence bag, and the three words he had carried into that courtroom like stones in his pocket: shadow, clock, mask. He had done what his father's books had taught him to do. The rest belonged to twelve strangers behind a closed door.
The clock above the water fountain ticked. Ten-forty became eleven. Eleven became noon. The bailiff brought sandwiches at one, and nobody ate. Lena dozed against Silas's shoulder and woke with a start, apologizing, and Silas patted her hand.