And then they were moving, she and Michael, making their way through the family room and the mudroom and into the garage. Jolene got into the car with some effort—her damned temporary leg was unwieldy and heavy.
She wanted to take off the prosthesis and massage her leg in the car, but she didn’t have the room. On the ferry, they stayed in the car. Jolene sat there quietly, staring out at the island’s coastline while Michael read his notes.
When the ferry rounded the bend, Seattle was in front of them, a steel and gemstone tiara set above the waters of Elliott Bay. The sky on this early morning was rose-colored, tinged in aqua blue at the horizon. Mount Rainier rose elegantly above the city, deigning on this day to be visible.
She’d forgotten how beautiful it all was and how big. From here, she could see the stream of headlights snaking along Alaskan Way, zipping over the antiquated concrete viaduct.
Please be strong enough for this, she thought, realizing suddenly that she’d be moving in a crowd—could get jostled and bumped.
On Third Avenue, Michael pulled into a parking place right in front of the courthouse. She knew he’d have to have an associate move the car later, but she was glad he understood that the shortest distance was best for her.
He came around to her side and opened the car door.
She panicked.
“You can do it,” he said evenly, reaching for her hand. She clung to him, stepped out onto the sidewalk. As she stood, clouds wafted overhead, blocking out the ineffectual sun, sending a smattering of rain to the sidewalk.
“Can you carry my crutches?” she asked. “I might need them later.”
“Of course.”
She began the long, slow walk to the courthouse. In no time, she was breathing hard, sweating. She concentrated on each step, ignoring the pain caused by her blisters.
She was slow, and none too pretty in her movements, but she was doing it: walking by herself to the courthouse. Michael’s hold on her arm was only a balance point.
At the start of the stone steps, she paused, winded, and looked up. The concrete stairs rose like Chichén Itzá into the gray sky. “If you’re going to be late—”
“They’ll wait for me,” Michael answered easily.
This time she held his arm and let him steady her as she slowly, slowly climbed upward. Step. Lift. Swing. Plant.
She didn’t know how long it actually took—minutes probably—but it felt like hours. Finally, though, they were in the courtroom. Michael guided Jolene to a seat behind the defense table.
“Good luck,” she said.
He smiled down at her. “Thanks.”
And then he was moving away from her, joining the eager young associates gathering at the table.
The courtroom filled up around her. She saw reporters milling about outside, microphones at the ready. It must be a big case. She should have asked him about it.
At the same time the bailiff entered the courtroom, so did four marines in dress uniforms. They moved in unison, sat down shoulder to shoulder beside Jolene, their backs straight, their faces grim. Before she could wonder about it, really, the defendant came into the room.
He was just a kid, probably no more than twenty-five. But she knew by looking at him that he was a vet. She could see it in his eyes.
The judge entered the courtroom, banged his gavel, and began the proceedings. The prosecutor stood and began to tell the state’s side—a story of bloodlust and anger, of a love gone tragically wrong, of a girl shot in the head by the man who had vowed to love her. For a simple story, it went on for more than an hour, so long Jolene’s leg started to ache. Pain pulsed in her missing foot.
Finally, it was Michael’s turn. He stood and addressed the jury. Unlike the prosecutor, Michael was relaxed with them, almost friendly. “Keith Keller is no monster. That would be easy, a monster. We could put a monster away and feel good about ourselves. Keith is something scarier. Keith is us. He is your brother, your son, your next-door neighbor.” He looked at the jurors one by one. “He was a popular kid at Wenatchee High, a star football player. After a year of college, he married the girl of his dreams, Emily Plotner, and found a full-time job at a local feed store. His employers and fellow workers will tell you what a great guy he is. Keith thought his life was going along on a pretty good track. He and Emily had begun to talk about children.
“Then came September Eleventh. I’m sure you each can remember where you were when you heard about the attacks. Keith was at work. He learned almost immediately that his best friend had been on Flight Ninety-three.”