“Sustained.”
“Are you aware that the political action committee America’s Tomorrow wrote a check in the amount of three hundred and eleven dollars to print up eight hundred of these flyers?” When she doesn’t answer, he says, “Ms. Parker?”
“Objection, Your Honor, lack of foundation.”
“I have the invoice right here. I’m happy to move it into evidence.”
“That’s usually how this works,” Keppler says.
During the time it takes the clerk to stamp the back side of Jay’s copy of the Prince of Prints invoice and write the evidence number and case file ID on it, Parker has started to breathe more heavily. She is sitting too close to the microphone, and her ragged breath is amplified across the courtroom. Finally, Jay shoves the invoice in front of her. “Were you aware that the PAC, America’s Tomorrow, paid over three hundred dollars to have that flyer printed?”
She smiles tightly. “That amount, no.”
In the jury box, one of the men in the front row frowns. He’s not the only one who looks slightly confused. But to Jay, it’s as good as a confession. He’s ready to ask the question more directly. “Are you, at present, doing any consulting work for the political action committee America’s Tomorrow?”
“Objection, relevance,” Nichols says. “We went over this, Your Honor.”
“Overruled,” she says, peering over her glasses.
Jay looks at Parker. “Answer the question.”
She takes so long to say the word that when it finally comes, it is just an echo of what the courtroom has by now already guessed. “Yes,” she says flatly, pushing her chin out in defiance, shooting a cold look across the room at Jay.
“And did you oversee the creation of this flyer?”
“I didn’t write it if that’s what you mean.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
The courtroom falls silent for a few seconds.
Overhead, Jay hears the clicking of the broken heating system.
“Did you, Ms. Parker, participate in the creation and distribution of this flyer disparaging the intentions of mayoral candidate Axel Hathorne, who is an opponent of the woman whose campaign you’re working on right now?”
“Can you define ‘participate’?”
“Why don’t you?”
Finally, Parker sighs.
She’s grown huffy and impatient.
This is stupid, she might as well be saying. “It was my idea,” she says, perfectly happy to take credit for the maneuver. At the state’s table, Nichols lowers his head. Neal turns and looks at his grandfather, behind him, as if he needs Sam to confirm that he actually just heard what he thinks he heard. Sam appears stunned. Parker is unrepentant. “I’ve done better, and I’ve done a hell of a lot worse. It’s politics.” She shrugs, as if this was the most elementary thing in the world and of absolutely no consequence. “I didn’t kill anybody,” she says, looking pointedly across the courtroom at the defendant.
“Are you aware that the victim had one of those very flyers in her purse when she was killed?”
Maxine Robicheaux has a hand on the bar in front of her, gripping the wood.
Parker considers this for a second. “At the time she was killed, no.”
It’s another equivocation, and everyone, from row one of the jury to Judge Keppler to Nichols himself, has grown tired of it. Jay actually turns to look behind him, to see if Bartolomo and the other reporters are taking good notes.
And that’s when he sees the two empty seats in the front row.
Directly behind him, to the left of the Hathornes, there’s a harrowingly hollow space where, just moments ago, two people were sitting: Keith Morehead and Elena Porter. He was about to ask Parker the next question, the answer to which had set this trial in motion: had Reese Parker hired Alicia Nowell to distribute those flyers in the neighborhood of Pleasantville? But he can’t get the words out, feels his throat choking on the rising bile of fear clogging up his speech, scrambling his thoughts. He thinks of Morehead putting his hand on Ellie’s knee, and feels ill. His back to the judge, the witness, he scans the courtroom from corner to corner looking for his daughter. When his eyes meet Lonnie’s in the back row of the gallery, she sees something in his face that makes her stand and intercept him by the doors. Behind him, the judge calls his name. He ignores her, ignores everyone. “Ellie,” he says to Lonnie. “Where’s Elena?”
“She walked out.”
“And Morehead?”
“He was a few steps behind her,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
But when the moment comes to put a name to his panic, he finds he can’t.
He instantly starts to doubt himself, the madness of what he’s thinking.
“Mr. Porter?” Judge Keppler says. “What’s going on here?”
“I have to find her,” he says to Lon, to anyone within earshot.
He glances at the judge. “I’m sorry,” he says, before shuffling out of the courtroom. She is standing at the bench now. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Mr. Porter? You’ll need to return to this courtroom immediately–”
He hears nothing but the door swinging closed behind him.
He’s already in the hallway, looking left, looking right.
It’s quite empty, except for a few lawyers on the benches against the wall, and a young woman in white jeans and Keds talking on a pay phone.
“Ellie!” He screams her name, not sure which way to run.