I sat back down, knowing that I had won the battle but lost the war. The objection as well as Judge Polansky’s instruction did the exact opposite of what was intended. By telling the jury that they were to disregard Officer Butler’s statement that the police force knew Cecil Bates “and his problems,” the likelihood of them remembering it doubled.
Curtis was pleased. She turned to me and smirked, then continued.
“Did you approach Mr. Bates?”
Officer Butler nodded. “I did.” He was having fun now. “I was concerned I might need to call an ambulance, so I went up to Mr. Bates and sort of nudged his shoulder to see if he was OK.”
“And then what happened?”
“He woke up and was very disoriented and agitated. He wanted to fight me.”
“Did you believe he was under the influence?”
Officer Butler nodded. “Most definitely.” I wanted to object, but I was too slow. The answer came out and I decided to let it go. No need to highlight another bad fact.
“And then what happened?”
“I called for backup and placed Mr. Bates under arrest.”
“And the bottle?”
“The bottle fell and broke.” The officer shrugged. “Once Mr. Bates was taken to detox, I took a picture of the broken bottle on the ground.”
Curtis stood, then walked over to the court reporter holding three large color photographs. “I’m asking these photographs be marked as State’s exhibits one through three.”
The cross-examination of Officer Butler didn’t go badly, but it didn’t go particularly well, either. He stuck to his story and didn’t get flustered or lose his temper. Officer Butler didn’t remember most of the details, but that wasn’t too surprising. It had been just another night of work. Cecil Bates was one of hundreds of arrests he made in a month.
By the end of his testimony, even I had a hard time believing that Officer Butler was making the whole incident up.
Judge Polansky looked at the clock. He then looked at me and, out of mercy, decided to end the day a little early.
The judge turned to the jurors. “This court is going to stand in recess until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. In the meantime, you are not to discuss this matter among yourselves or with anyone else. Although the prosecution rests, the trial is not over. You should avoid all media, television, or Internet. And again, do not discuss this matter with anyone or begin any deliberations.”
Judge Polansky looked back at the prosecutor and then at me. “Anything you all need to put on the record before we recess?”
Both of us stood. “No, Your Honor.”
“Good.” Judge Polansky nodded, and then he stood. “Court is in recess. Please rise and wait as the jurors exit the courtroom.”
We did as we were told. As I turned to watch the jurors leave, I noticed that Emma and Nikolas were in the back of the courtroom.
Over lunch, Emma had told me that she was going to be coming down to the courthouse to deliver some files for review and “see me in action.” But I was surprised to see Nikolas. Except for the night he was robbed in the alley, I don’t think I’d ever seen him outside his little office in the back of the coffee shop.
I turned back to the bench. Judge Polansky and his clerk were gathering up their things. As they left, I walked over to Cynthia Curtis. Quietly, so that Cecil couldn’t hear, I asked, “Any chance that plea offer is still on the table?”
Curtis pursed her lips into a cruel smile. “Not a chance, Glass.” She put her file into her briefcase and slung it over her shoulder. “It’s done. Can’t wait to see what the judge does to you.” She started to walk away, then stopped and looked back. “My guess is that we have a guilty verdict in twenty minutes. How about you?”
She didn’t wait for my answer.
“Not a nice lady.” Cecil watched her go.
“I agree.” I patted Cecil on the back. “Unfortunately, she’s not the worst.” Then we walked toward Emma and Nikolas.
We were now the only people left in the courtroom.
“What’d you think?” I asked Emma.
She hesitated, considering my performance. “You didn’t drool.” She paused. “That’s good.” Another pause, and then a broad smile, and we all began to laugh.
“Cecil,” I said, “let me introduce you to Nikolas. He’s Emma’s cousin.”
“I know.” Cecil nodded and held out his hand and the two shook like old friends. “How’s our project, Nick-o?”
Nikolas was about to answer, but Emma cut him off, nodding toward me. “That’s something Mr. Glass doesn’t need to know about.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I missed the tour at Parker Catholic. Although court ended early, I still had to return all the phone calls and e-mails that I couldn’t respond to while we were in trial. But I was only ten minutes late for the next one at the South County Day School, SoCo for short. I fought through traffic, got off the highway in Clayton, drove down a frontage road, and then pulled into a long drive leading to the main building.
From the looks of it, SoCo appeared to be twice as expensive as the others that I had seen and probably just as expensive as the many other schools that Sammy and the Judge had toured without me. Its campus, once a farm in the late 1800s, unfolded in a series of a dozen classic buildings nestled among a patchwork of gardens and manicured lawns. Despite the late burst of fall heat, the grass was a perfect hue of vibrant green. Through the copious use of magic chemicals, it was unlikely a dandelion had ever sullied the grounds of SoCo.
I parked the car and started walking up to the main campus building. It was solid brick with a large portico. Four white columns rose up three stories, supporting a base that was crowned with an ornate tower, clock, and bell.
It took a few minutes, but I eventually found the admissions office.
I knocked on the door, was told to come in, and stepped inside. Sammy and the Judge were already meeting with the admissions officer. She smiled at Sammy and then at me. “You must be Justin Glass.” She stood and held out her hand. As we shook, she said, “Your daughter is delightful.” Then she winked at Sammy, and Sammy looked away, embarrassed and proud at the same time.
The admissions officer sat back down behind her desk. “As I was saying, we hire local artists and grad students from Washington University to come after school and help our students pursue their own individual passions.” Then to me, “Our curriculum is structured enough to ensure that each child gets a classic education, but flexible enough to provide the appropriate resources for each child to achieve whatever they’ve set as their goals. In short, we want a place where it is cool to be smart.”
. . . and it’ll only cost you $50,000 per year to transform your nerdy kid into a cool one.
For dinner, we all went to Carl’s Drive-In off Manchester Road. The commonfolk of Saint Louis swear by Steak ’n Shake, but the enlightened find their way to the little white building with a seating capacity of about sixteen off a divided road creeping toward suburbia.