“Emily Hartog came to you in pieces. She broke her leg, lost her job, her house. Her car was repossessed. You can’t make her completely well again. She’ll always have that limp. But by finding in her favor, you can give her new wings. Thank you.”
Loud, slow clapping booms from the rear of the room. I duck my head in slight embarrassment, but I am proud of what I did. It felt good too.
I stop by my table and address Heather. “So, something like that. Start with a catchy opening, recite the elements of the law. Hit the key points of our case and close with an emotional appeal.”
“Gotcha,” Heather replies with wide eyes.
I busy myself with the papers on the table to hide how pleased I am that she’s finally looking at me as if I’m not the weakest link in this group, that I can actually contribute.
“I think we’re done.” Randall’s voice is gentle, but filled with affection. He knows how much this means to me.
Gratefully, I gather up my stuff and fly to Matty.
“The jury finds the defendant not guilty,” he says instantly.
I grin stupidly. “It’s not that kind of trial, but thank you.”
He hugs me and leans down to give me a soft kiss on the lips. “How about we celebrate the verdict with some food?”
How about we celebrate with some you? I swallow back the naughty words. Instead I say, “That sounds wonderful.”
24
Matty
After watching Lucy make the closing argument, I’m convinced of two things. First, there’s no one better than her to convince Ace to move to safety. And second, why in the hell is she pawning this task off on Heather? The other guy had it right. That Heather girl’s good at curing insomnia but not much else.
“Jesus, that was good. I think you could sell baseballs to a football equipment manager. Here, these round balls are much faster than those oblong pigskins you’re using.” I hold out my hand, pretending to present a ball.
“Plus, no pesky deflation problems,” Luce grins.
I snort. “Why aren’t you doing this for your team? I mean, if that was practice, just off-the-cuff argument, you must be mind-blowing in competition.”
Her grin immediately falls off, and her shoulders hunch up. “It’s actually the reverse. I’m good in practice, good when it doesn’t matter, but during competition? When something is actually on the line? I suck hard.”
“I can’t see it. After watching you back there”—I jerk my head behind us to the practice room—“I just can’t envision you being anything but awesome.”
Hammer’s right. Luce is my best option.
“Thanks, but it’s true.” She takes a deep breath. “The summer before I came to college, I prepped for weeks for the mock trial tryouts. I wanted to be a lawyer. I’d spent four years in high school mock trial. Had a pre-law track all set out in front of me. I killed my tryout.”
“I’m guessing the story doesn’t end happily?” I take her hand and tuck it into my jacket pocket as we walk out of the room.
“Not once in the fifteen-year history of mock trial club here at Western had it fielded a winning team. We’ve never made it out of Regionals, let alone to a national tournament. After my tryout, everyone was convinced that I was the closer they’d been looking for. So we were at Regionals and we were slaying it. Randall delivered an awesome opening, and I nailed their expert on cross. Caught him making up facts that weren’t in the packet. I was so excited for the closing. So excited.”
Her eyes are gleaming in remembrance, but I know it’s not going to end well, so I brace myself. From what she’s revealed before, it’s not hard to guess what happens next.
“When I stand up to give the closing, I can’t remember a thing. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. It’s eight minutes of total silence. Do you know what that sounds like? What it feels like? It sounds like death and feels worse.” She looks pale, as if her mind—and her confidence—are back in that mock courtroom, suffocating under the weight of silence. “Closings aren’t for me,” she says in a shaky voice.
And neither are risks. I get it now, better than I ever did before. Being with Luce these past couple of weeks has showed me how rigidly she has to monitor herself. What she eats, what she drinks. I don’t blame her for being cautious. The one time she took a step outside her comfort zone, she was humiliated. It’s burned into her psyche.
Success in sports is almost entirely mental. The best quarterbacks have terrible short-term memory. You have to forget your mistakes or be paralyzed by them. Luce hasn’t moved on from that. Still…it says a lot about her that she didn’t quit on the team entirely.
“You’re tough. Anyone else would have quit and run away.”
“I love it too much,” she admits. “Like you love football.”
“I do.” I hesitate, gulping hard.
“What’s wrong?”
I grip her hand tightly. I’m afraid of how she’s going to react and I feel, foolishly maybe, that if I’m still holding her at the end of this, we’ll be okay.