Work Text:
August, 2002
“On the capital charge of Murder in the First Degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant, Saleem El-Amir, guilty.”
Rita felt her knees go weak, and clutched the table. She would not—could not—pass out right now. Saleem’s mother let out a choked noise, something between a scream and a sob, and there was bile surging up in Rita’s throat.
“Defendant is remanded to Riker’s Island until sentencing,” the judge was saying. People shuffled out of the courtroom. The jury would surely go for the death penalty at the sentencing hearing. It was wrong.
“You got him, Ree. You should be proud.” Dale clasped her hand. She must have shook it, because he smiled. She packed her things in a daze. Sweat trickled down her back.
This hadn’t been justice, it had been a crusade. And like a good little soldier, Rita followed orders. She had sent an innocent man to his death, and she was going to throw up.
February, 1995
“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Raf,” she sobbed into his chest. “I’m a fucking Harvard graduate and they have me doing coffee runs and looking up useless case law to keep me busy when they’re not staring at my ass.”
“Just say the word and I’ll go to the DA myself,” he said, hugging her tight.
“You don’t have the status to do that and it wouldn’t make a difference,” she sniffed.
“You’re entitled to basic respect.”
“I can deal with the stares and the groping, but you’ve tried two cases already and I’m just as good if not better—“
“Groping?” Rafael asked in surprise.
“It’s not a big deal,” she mumbled, and shrank away from his embrace.
“Who did it? I’m reporting it whether you agree or not.”
She scoffed and cried harder.
“Rita, tell me,” he tried.
A part of her wanted to tell him how Dale Logan had asked her to grab a file off the table last week and when she turned, his hand cupped her ass. She had jumped and looked at him in shock, but he pretended that nothing had happened. She wanted to tell Raf about how she had been stewing in guilt and anger about it for days, and how pissed off she was that she couldn’t get over it. It really hadn’t been that big of a deal. She wasn’t hurt. He was a pig. So what? It happened. Get over it, Rita.
“I can take care of myself,” she hissed. Raf put up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were angry and hurt. Her face felt hot, her head hurt from the crying, and it wasn’t fair. Rafael was moving up in the office. He was fitting in, making friends with some of these assholes, and trying actual cases. She hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom since observing cases in Boston.
Suddenly, she was so angry at Rafael that she couldn’t stand it. She knew it wasn’t his fault. She didn’t really care.
“I really think you should report it,” he said.
Something inside her snapped, and white-hot rage surged in her chest.
“You have no right to tell me that! You have no idea— no fucking idea —what it’s like to be a woman!” She was screaming now. The words poured out and seared her throat. Rafael recoiled.
“I’m a damn good attorney, but it doesn’t matter! You think reporting it will make it magically better? I’ll be fired in months because no one will work with a woman who causes problems !” Tears were spilling onto her blouse. He was silent, staring at her with wide eyes.
“Women don’t get to say no, Rafael! I don’t get to say no!”
“Rita… I’m sorry,” he whispered. She knew she had ruptured something between them. It hurt. She wasn’t ready to be sorry about it.
“Get out. I need to be alone,” she cried, and tore open the apartment door.
He took his coat and left without another word. She slammed the door, sank down behind it, and sobbed.
September, 1999
She looked around her new office in the Brooklyn courthouse. It was bare, had only one tiny window near the ceiling, and smelled like wet cardboard. But it was hers , and after four years of cutting her teeth on the busy work, playing nice, and building a reputation for being absolutely fucking flawless , she finally had her own office. She set her bag down, and took it all in.
“Knock, knock,” Rafael announced, as he strode into the room. She turned. He was beaming, carrying a bottle of champagne and two styrofoam cups. She felt a smile tugging at her lips.
“It’s definitely a fixer-upper,” she said, “but I’m glad to be out of the bullpen.”
“You deserve it.” He started unwrapping the foil on the bottle.
“I don’t have anywhere for us to sit.” She motioned around the empty room. “We should take it back to my place instead.”
“No, we need to christen it.”
“What is it, a ship?”
“Sure, whatever. Or are you too old to sit on the floor and get drunk with me now that you’re thirty?”
“Fuck you, your birthday is in less than a month.”
“Exactly,” his eyes lit up, “I have exactly 27 days left to tease you about being old.” She shook her head at him. He sat down criss-cross on the floor, looking completely ridiculous in his suit and tie, popped the cork, and poured the wine.
The setting sun had cast orange shadows on the walls as they drained the bottle. Rita felt radiant. Raf’s cheeks were pink, and he had shed his jacket and loosened his tie. They must look crazy—sitting on the floor of an empty office, drinking expensive wine out of disposable cups. She started to laugh.
“What?”
“Did you ever think we’d get here? I thought I’d quit after that first year.”
“I never had any doubt. We’re good at this.”
“We are.” She nodded.
“I’m sorry that it took them this long to notice you. It’s fucked up.”
She shrugged in response. It had been a long four years of too little pay and too much nonsense, and she had learned to expect a lot of sexist bullshit by now. Her jealousy at Rafael’s success had been carefully tamped down and controlled, because she wouldn’t have survived without a real friend in the office.
That explosive fight years ago had wrecked her for a long time. Months of shutting everyone out of her personal life, moving on autopilot, finding herself wishing that someone would just stab her on the subway and get it over with. It had been hell.
God bless Rafael’s stubborn streak. He called her nearly every night, invented flimsy reasons to talk to her at work, started looking for the leers and nasty comments, spoke up, and suffered the consequences. He hadn’t been second chair for any of the old boys’ cases since. Rita had been scared, angry, and profoundly thankful all at once.
Naturally, word about Rafael’s liberal agenda and who he had been defending got around to the new DA, and to her surprise, Rita had started getting real cases. They were small, and she had yet to be first chair, but it was work she could be proud of.
“By the way, I saw Dale talking to your chest instead of your face yesterday during that meeting. Do you want me to trip him? I’ll make it look like an accident.” A giggle bubbled out of her mouth.
“Tempting, but Judge Linden might ask too many questions about a broken nose right before voir dire. Although,” she grinned, “he has to stop by soon for some deposition records that I did. Wouldn’t a portrait of Madeleine Albright look lovely right behind my desk?”
“That rant of his about Albright having a secret pact with Milosevic was straight out of a right-wing conspiracy machine.” Raf’s eyes sparkled. “I think a portrait would be a lovely touch.”
She sighed and leaned back on her elbows. Life was good.
February, 2000
“You know you can’t go there. Not unless he opens the door, and Capello’s too good at prepping his witnesses,” Rita sighed. It was late already. She rubbed her eyes. Finally getting to work a case with Raf was worth the missed sleep. He relied on her to catch the things he missed, and she could poke holes in his arguments like no one else. She knew that he respected the hell out of her. Unlike a lot of the idiots she worked with.
“We just need to weave a good trap. This guy isn’t a genius, Rita. He had the gun on his kitchen table, remember?”
“Alright, if you think you can get around hours of prep, then by all means. I’m going to make more coffee. Do you want some?”
“Obviously.”
It was really too late for coffee. Rita had a good balance going. In bed by ten, wake up in time to go to the gym, leave work at the office. She had prosecuted a few small solo cases, but nothing that challenged her. It all felt safe. Stagnant. So when Rafael was assigned his first major case as lead, she had jumped on his offer to be second chair. It was complicated, exhausting, and perfect. It was everything she had wanted when she decided to go into prosecution.
Coffee mugs in hand, she sat down next to him on the couch. He was scribbling through yet another question tree.
“How can you read any of that?”
“Don’t need to read it, just need to work it through and then I’ll re-write,” he said, still scribbling away.
She sipped her coffee and watched him work for a bit. They had a solid attack plan. She knew him well enough to be sure that he would toss and turn all night if they called it quits now. Rita hadn’t expected to sleep much tonight anyway. Glenn Stuart was weighing on her.
As soon as she convinced herself one way, her mind would supply counterarguments. She needed to talk it out, and Rafael was the only person who might get it, who might be able to see the dilemma and help her figure out what to do. She hoped that he wouldn’t be too upset at her for seeing an opportunity.
When he finally sat back and dropped his pen, she tamped down her nerves and dropped the bomb.
“I had an interesting interaction with Glenn the other day.” Rita watched his face for the reaction that she knew was coming, and pressed forward. “He asked me out. I was going to tell him to kick rocks, but I’ve been thinking about it.” Sure enough, Rafael’s lip curled up in distaste.
“What? Glenn, as in Glenn Stuart? The man who laughed at Dale’s joke about women belonging on their knees yesterday?”
“That’s the one,” she grimaced.
“Are you trying to be funny right now? It’s a bad joke if you are.”
“Think about it. He’s been getting some major cases recently. If he thinks he has a chance with me, he might ask me to work on them.”
Raf stared at her, eyebrows furrowed, considering.
“Sleeping your way to the top is for the talentless,” he finally decided. You’re better than that.” Frustration ran through her. He still didn’t get it, after all these years.
“You and I both know that. But Raf, it’s taken a long time for me to get assigned just solo cases, and I’m tired of being patient. I want more. There’s an opportunity here.”
“That’s disgusting. It’s unethical. And I can’t imagine a world in which you’re okay with sleeping with him just to advance.”
“I’m not going to sleep with him,” she bit out. “He’s awful. I’m not disputing that.”
“Good, so why did you even consider it?”
“You don’t get it.” She shook her head in irritation. “What if I say no? Reject him completely? He could actively work against me just for being a bitch to him.”
“We’ve gone down this road before. The DA won’t stand for it, and I won’t stand for it.”
It irritated her. He wasn’t her knight in shining armor, and this conviction that he held—that everything would be fair and everything would turn out right if she just spoke her mind—felt infantilizing. The only goddamn reason that he was assigned a big case first was because he had a dick. She hated everything about it.
“You’re not my protector.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it messy. He looked so much younger at that moment. God, when had they gotten so old? They weren’t kids anymore. Why was she still fighting the same battles?
“I know that you can take care of yourself. Trust me, Rita, I know! But I don’t know how to talk to you about this without you hearing that,” he admitted.
They had had this fight so many times, and if he had told her that years ago, she would have exploded. She didn’t want to fight. It wasn’t going to help either of them, especially not when they needed to be in sync in everything—prove themselves as the dream team—and win this case or else, so she swallowed her anger.
“Think it out. Like a case. What could happen if I say yes? What could happen if I say no?”
He stared off into space, biting at his lip. Thinking, considering, planning. Good. He was finally thinking strategically. She hated that it was necessary.
“I think you should say no,” he finally said.
“There’s nothing to gain from that—“
He held up a finger, a small smile twitching at his lips. She would have slapped anyone else who had cut her off like that. But she held her tongue.
“I wasn’t finished. Do it politely. Not with your usual charm at the bar,” he said. She rolled her eyes. Raf had witnessed a fair amount of particularly brutal rejections that she had given when office politics weren’t involved.
“He’ll be annoyed. But he’ll still want you, and that gives you a fair chance at working on his cases. Although, the best case scenario is that things keep going the way they have been, we win this case, and then you’ve proven yourself even more.”
She didn’t like it, but it was a fair analysis.
“I’m so afraid of getting stuck. I hate feeling worthless.”
“The only way you’d get stuck is if you forgot everything about the law overnight. And even then, I still think you’d have a better shot at making it to Congress than half the idiots in this city. It’s just going to take time.”
She smiled. Her political aspirations were an old pipe dream, mostly abandoned at this point, but she was thankful all the same for his vote of confidence.
“I just wish I could make a little more money by being patient,” she sighed.
“You and I both,” he laughed. “Now can we get back to work please?”
September, 2001
When the towers fell, she had been in court. The court officers had locked everything down, the judge had been handed a note, and they had sat there for hours. The only explanation offered: Emergency situation, matter of national security, wait for further instructions.
So she waited. Nothing like this had ever happened. No one knew anything, and the fear was making her crazy. Whatever it was had to be bad. Had a bomb gone off? “Matter of national security” was said when the feds came in to fuck up a case, not for whatever this was.
Sirens could be heard for the first few hours, then nothing. It was hot. Someone opened a window, but they were quickly stopped by the officers. A faint whiff of smoke curled through the room. Where was Rafael? Where was her family? Were they okay? She had no way of knowing.
When the lockdown was lifted, people packed into the bars to watch the news. Two planes had hit the towers. It played on repeat. The mayor was urging everyone to avoid lower Manhattan, to keep shopping and spending money to offset the economic blow that was surely coming. Outside, the sky was hazy. Thick, chemical-smelling smoke blanketed the sky. An attack of this magnitude on American soil—it was unprecedented. It didn’t feel possible. It was like time had stopped, like everyone was moving through a strange dream.
Rafael had been in Manhattan. She called his number repeatedly, clinging on to the desperate hope that he had made it home, filling up his machine until there was no space left. The fear of not knowing was torture.
She went to his apartment, and rang his buzzer until her fingers cramped. She sat on the front steps. She had a key. It didn’t feel right to let herself in when she didn’t know—and he would have to come in this way first anyhow—
A dark-haired man in a suit turned the corner. It looked like him, but she couldn’t see—
“Rita?”
“Raf! Oh my God—“ She ran to him, nearly tripping in her heels. He dropped his briefcase and clung to her like his life depended on it. They spoke over each other, relief crashing through their words.
“I didn’t know if you were alive, I was so scared—“
“I’m okay, they shut down the bridge—“
The fear spilled out of her and she was sobbing, terrified to let him go.
“I’m okay,” he repeated. She could feel him shaking. “We all thought the courthouse might be a target, too. They had us all in the basement for hours, although I don’t know how safe that actually would have kept us if…” he trailed off. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go inside. I could really use a drink.”
She nodded, but couldn’t get herself to let go. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked directly into her eyes.
“Rita, I’m alive. We’re alive.”
She nodded and sucked in a breath.
By the time they were finally curled up on Rafael’s couch with a stiff drink each and emotions receding, the speculation started.
“McCoy thinks it was the Saudis. I think there’s a decent case to be made for Iran,” Rafael said.
Rita shook her head.
“If it was state organized it would’ve been more militaristic. Commercial planes? That doesn’t make sense.”
“So you’re thinking individual actors?”
“It had to have been.”
Rafael scrubbed his eyes. The exhaustion was settling in, and the weight of all of it was heavy in the air.
“Bush is supposed to address the nation at 8:30,” she started, “but I’d be shocked if he says anything that the news outlets don’t have already.” Rafael regarded her for a moment. His face was tight with worry, eyes full of questions that had no answers.
“Everything’s about to change, isn’t it?” he whispered.
All she could do was nod.
December, 2001
Life went on. Lower Manhattan looked like a war zone, and the smoke had taken weeks to clear. Missing persons posters went up everywhere, and there was nothing to do but keep living. Things were normal, except for the deep, pervasive feeling that none of it was normal.
Rita was working with Rafael on almost every case now, and it kept her sane. He was always the lead on paper, but the work felt even. She did just as much of the prep work, sparkled on cross-examinations, and they had an undefeated record.
The DA had lauded them as his new “power couple,” a barely disguised suggestion that they should be dating (if they weren’t already) in his humble opinion. Rita would love to see the look on his face once he pieced it together that Rafael wasn’t interested in women.
She was working on a summation when Dale Logan knocked on her office door.
“The 75th caught something interesting last night. A twelve-year-old black girl was found strangled in an alley. Signs of sexual assault,” he grimaced. Well, at least Dale had some decency. “They need warrants for security tapes and searches of the surrounding businesses. The DA thinks you’re up for it. I’ll be assisting if it gets big.”
Rape and murder of a twelve-year-old. It was already big. No use in pretending otherwise. She hadn’t prosecuted a murder case yet, not even with Rafael. Nerves curled in her stomach, and something else that made her jittery. She was disgusted with herself once she identified the feeling—she was excited.
Dale’s assistance wouldn’t have been her first pick, not by a long shot, but they had come to an understanding. He minded his tongue and kept his hands to himself, and she wouldn’t kick him in the balls. Simple enough.
She still didn’t relish the idea of working with him, but he had experience with capital cases, and she’d need his input. Stay focused . Her brain was jumping ahead. There wasn’t even a case yet, but once they found a suspect—and if that suspect was stupid enough to take it to trial—she’d almost certainly have to ask for the death penalty.
Stop. One step at a time.
Her meeting with the detectives was chaotic. They spoke over each other, full of righteous fury and aggression, and the only thing that was clear was that they had nothing. The victim’s mother had nodded out during the initial interview, the father was serving time upstate, the grandmother was inconsolable, and the 16-year-old brother had insisted that Imani didn’t have a boyfriend, never got into trouble, and there was no reason why she should have been out so late.
The detectives wanted warrants for everything. It was a fishing expedition, and Rita told them as much. They jumped on her for being callous. She started crafting arguments in her head to the judges she’d have to bother. It was going to be a mess. Emotions were running high, and everyone wanted to act. This was exactly what Rita hated about cops. No one wanted to shut their mouths and think.
A week into the investigation, they still had very little to go on. Imani’s best friend had been carefully interviewed with her mother, and told detectives that Imani had talked about hanging around her brother’s friends. Rita knew that the boys had gotten into some trouble: petty vandalism and theft, but nothing that suggested an escalation of this magnitude.
Security footage had placed Imani entering and leaving a bodega owned by Saleem El-Amir twice the night of her death. The first time had been with the boys, the second time was alone.
Detective Wade, a man who had begun to bother Rita with his talkative nature and over-inflated sense of his own importance, was becoming obsessed with the bodega owner.
“I’m telling you, the man is shifty,” he insisted for the second time in the past five minutes. “His eyes kept darting around the shop when we talked to him, and he made up some excuse about praying to get us to leave. He’s hiding something, and he’s nervous.”
“I don’t care what the president said,” McMahon, his partner, butted in, “I don’t trust any of these Arabs now.” Rita rolled her eyes. Bigotry. Great. Just what this clusterfuck of a case needed.
“Then go talk to him again if you think he’s hiding something. Get me probable cause to search the bodega,” she said.
“Get a load of that, Wade, twenty-year-old prosecutor telling us how to do our jobs,” McMahon groused. Thirty-two. Not twenty. Rita held her tongue.
“You heard the lady, go do your damn jobs!” Captain Brooks yelled. Rita liked him. He was an older man, sporting a goatee and a shiny bald head, and seemed to have more sense than the rest of the meatheads. He reminded her of her father a bit. Stern, no-nonsense, and an unflinching kindness in the way he made decisions.
McMahon and Wade grabbed their coats and headed out, grumbling to each other. Rita was glad she couldn’t make out the words. It probably wasn’t anything she wanted to hear.
“Apologies for my idiot detectives, Miss Calhoun. They do good work when they aren’t running their mouths.”
She didn’t trust that that was entirely true—bias was worn on their sleeves when she needed them to stay objective—but there was no choice. Time was ticking. The community was on edge, and they needed answers.
January, 2002
District Attorney Maxwell Huber’s office was spacious, if not cozy. The entire room was wood, a relic of the sixties that clashed with the marble halls, and it still stank of the cigarettes doubtlessly chain-smoked before ’90. The office could have been comfortable if it wasn’t so utilitarian. A conference table took up the majority of the window space, and the only other furniture was a wooden desk and Huber’s dark green office chair. The man himself sat in it, absolutely fuming. Rita stood in front of the desk, biting her lip while he chewed her out.
“ It’s been a goddamn month!” he yelled. “I’ve been hounded by community advocates, reverends, the mayor, you name it! You have a dead little black girl, a Muslim shop owner who has a history of being friendly with her, blood in his storage room, and you still haven’t arrested him? What the hell is taking so long?”
“Sir, we really can’t rule out the boys—“ she tried.
“If you keep pressing those boys, this city is liable to explode. I’m already fending off the press about the city’s lack of expediency in the murder of a black girl, and you’re dragging your heels on the suspect you have enough to crucify with, just to take another look into the black teenage boys ?” It sounded so cut and dry, so easy when he put it like that, but there were pieces missing.
Everyone they interviewed told a different story. The girl loved the shop owner, the girl hated the shop owner, the boys had been giving her pot, no they hadn’t, Imani had cut her knee and Saleem had patched her up in the storage room, Imani had never cut her knee… Rita couldn’t escape the feeling that too much of it was circumstantial, and she wasn’t convinced that they had gotten the truth from anyone.
“The girl was missing her underwear. Detectives couldn’t find it in Mr. El-Amir’s bodega or in his home. The brother told us that his friends have been acting strange, withdrawn—“
“That’s what happens when people grieve, Rita!”
She bit down on her frustration. Grief was intimately familiar. Yes, it was possible that the friends had pulled away because it was too much, but something else was going on here.
“Say I send detectives to arrest Mr. El-Amir. What’s to stop the Muslim community from claiming persecution?”
“Look, you have enough to make the case. It’s your first murder charge—I get it. You want all your ducks in a row before you make a move, but Rita, you’re out of time . Arrest him. Today. Or I’ll have Dale do it for you.” She nodded. Bit back her protests. There was no choice.
Saleem El-Amir was arrested within the hour.
July, 2002
“I don’t think I can do this,” Rita said. Her stomach was in knots as she stared at the blank screen. Rafael leaned towards her from his seat across the desk.
“You got the indictment. If there wasn’t enough evidence to convict, then you wouldn’t have made it past the grand jury.”
“I could get a grand jury to indict a piece of toast,” she scoffed. Rafael offered her a sad smile.
“You’re going to trial in less than a month. If there wasn’t some part of you that believed that this man is guilty, then you would have backed out by now.”
Would she have?
“The evidence is overwhelming,” she said, desperate to convince herself. “He was almost certainly grooming her—she was at that bodega every damn day. I just can’t shake the feeling that we rushed this, and I don’t know, maybe we missed something.”
“Lay it out for me. What are the weaknesses in your case?”
“He never confessed. He vehemently denies it, still.”
“Okay, but that’s why it went to trial. It’s a lack of remorse.”
“I know, and that’s what I have to put in this damn notice! This is everything that I hate about the death penalty—what if we got it wrong?” Her eyes burned, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. It was an old tactic. She refused to cry at work. “Why the hell couldn’t he have taken the deal? I don’t know if Bates got cocky and convinced him he could beat it or if he’s actually innocent…”
“You gave him a choice. Life, or risk the needle. He chose to roll the dice.” She was biting her cheek again, looking down at her hands.
“Rita, look at me.”
Her eyes rose to meet his. The tears were threatening to spill, and she was so angry at it all: the incredible pressure, the prejudice, the horror and the grief, and most of all, she was angry at herself.
“You gave the threat. It’s time to follow through.”
“I should never have let it get this far. I should have fought harder, I should have given a better deal, I should have…” Tears were falling. She wiped at her cheeks, tried to swallow it down.
“Oh Rita… Come here.” He came around the desk, wrapping her in a tight hug. She hid her face in his shoulder, and let herself cry.
“If you didn’t do it, someone else would have.” He carded his fingers through her hair. It would look a mess, just like the rest of her, but she couldn’t tell him to stop.
August, 2002
Voir Dire
“The People have entered a notice of intent to seek the death penalty,” Rita began. It had been nearly eight hours of carefully calculated back-and-forth. She had reserved challenges just for this question. She took a deep breath. “Would any of you be unable to return a guilty verdict solely based on any personal or moral objection to the death penalty?”
Four potential jurors stood.
“The People challenge jurors 5, 17, 19, and 23.”
“Understood. Miss Calhoun, you have one challenge remaining,” Judge Harris reminded.
She nodded at him, then raised an eyebrow at Dale. He tilted his head in agreement. She had her jury. “I’m satisfied, Your Honor.”
“Is the defense also satisfied with the panel as seated?”
Bates glanced at his list, then at his client.
“Yes, we are.”
“Then, ladies and gentlemen, we have our jury. Clerk, please swear them in.”
“Please stand and raise your right hand. You do solemnly promise and declare…”
The oath and the judge’s instructions to the jury passed in a blur of speech that Rita had heard nearly a hundred times. Her mind was shot. Eight hours of single-minded focus, thinking ahead, playing the game, weighing her options… She needed to sleep.
“Opening arguments will start at 9:00 am tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening, everyone.”
She gathered her mess of notecards, a bad habit picked up from working with Rafael. Everything had to be neat now. No mistakes, no cracks. Hair and makeup pristine. Emotions locked down tight.
She was going to win. Losing was not an option.
Day 1
She had barely slept. Anxiousness that she refused to acknowledge had kept her in a fugue. Strange mental arguments—half-concocted dreams or imaginations of a tired mind—played in a loop for hours, and through it all, Imani’s face burned under her eyes. She had pressed cold black tea bags under her eyes at five, and then rehearsed her opening to a dark apartment until it was time to dress.
She was one of the first people in the courtroom that morning. She smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her grey skirt, and took her seat behind the prosecution table. Her opening statement ran through her mind over and over, an unstoppable force.
She barely noticed Dale come in, unpack his notes, and place a coffee in front of her. She stared into space. People filed into the gallery and into the jury box, crowding the room with whispers.
Saleem was led in by the court officers. He was dressed in a navy suit. It drew attention to the dark circles under his eyes. Was the color intentional? A play for sympathy? Or just a bad coincidence? Too many variables to consider.
The hand on the clock inched closer to 9. Dale pushed the coffee cup towards her.
“Ready? Your opening is solid. I’d be the first to tell you if it wasn’t,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“All rise,” the clerk announced. “The Honorable Christopher D. Harris presiding.”
She stood. The sounds of many bodies moved behind her. A hush fell over the room.
“Please be seated,” Judge Harris said with a wave.
“Are the People ready for opening statements?”
“We are, Your Honor.”
She stood. Smoothed her hair behind her ear, and caught the jasmine and vanilla notes from the Chanel No. 5 she had spritzed on her wrists that morning. Elegant. Powerful. She strode in front of the jury, and began to speak.
Day 3
She was on fire. The power, the presence that let her captivate the jury was intoxicating. It was written all over their faces. They ate everything she gave them with rapt attention, wide eyes, frowns of disgust and fury. They clung on her every word as she wove her case.
If she let herself feel any of it, the facade would crumble. She was steel. Play up the injustice, the sorrow, the horror. Prosecute the crime.
She was born for this, alight with the feeling of everything going to plan. She worked way too damn hard to get where she was. She would not feel it. Would not doubt herself.
“Prosecution rests, Your Honor.” She went to take her seat. Saleem was watching her. She looked away.
Day 6
“I’m going to win,” she stated. Flat. The defense’s case had bothered her. It brought back every doubt she had shoved to the back of her mind. It wouldn’t be enough to acquit. Her case was too solid. She had picked her jury well.
“Dale told me,” Rafael said. “Closing statements are in the morning, right? Bates is done?”
“Yeah.” She downed her drink. “I need a cigarette. You’ve got this?” She gestured to the bar.
“Of course.” Rafael was looking at her in a strange way. Rita didn’t care to identify the expression. She grabbed her purse, and went to the alley.
She leaned against the wall, fished out her lighter, and took a cigarette from the pack. Her feet were killing her. She should have changed into flats.
Saleem’s testimony played in a loop in her mind. It was a Hail Mary to put him on the stand. Bates shouldn’t have let him. He had cried while denying that he would ever hurt a child. Rita destroyed him on cross.
She let the smoke curl in her lungs. Pull, exhale, repeat. The acrid taste sat in her throat. A fuzzy numbness wrapped the edges of her mind. It wasn’t enough.
Rafael came up beside her, shoving his wallet in his pocket. She was silent as she offered him a cigarette. He took it, and she lit it for him as he breathed in. The flame illuminated his face, and the wrinkle in his forehead cast a strange shadow. It was getting more pronounced every time she looked. The job was taking its toll.
He stood close, letting his arm brush hers as they smoked. The noise of the city droned on.
“Are you going to be okay?”
She ground the cigarette butt into the asphalt. Tucked the lighter back into her purse.
“I don’t know.”
Day 8
The jury was locked away, deliberating. At the end of the first day, the foreman had reported that they expected to be able to reach a conclusion soon. A traitorous glimmer of hope for a deadlock and a mistrial snuck up on her the longer she waited. She pushed it away. A mistrial would be a major disappointment for the DA.
Rita survived on cigarettes and toast. Couldn’t seem to stomach much else. Her hands shook when she tried to write. Her mind refused to focus. Anger and fear were constant companions, simmering under the surface, locked up tight. She couldn’t think about it. As soon as she did, the cracks would threaten to burst.
Rafael visited her office too many times. He brought her coffees that went cold on her desk, untouched. He talked about nothing of importance. He tried to make her smile. She gave him grimaces.
“Have you eaten anything today?” He tried at one point.
“No.”
“Let me buy you lunch. Whatever you want.”
She would have jumped on that offer at one time—told him she wanted to go somewhere expensive just to watch him cringe at the price—but the idea made her nauseous.
“I’m okay.”
“Please? You need to eat.”
She snapped.
“I said I’m fine!”
He held up his hands. “Alright, point taken. I’ll leave you alone.”
Rafael closed the door on his way out. She wanted him to come back.
Day 9
The jury returned their guilty verdict. Rita clutched the table, and felt the color drain from her face. The cracks were opening. Saleem’s mother screamed. It tore at her, and nausea threatened. She was losing control.
“Defendant is remanded to Riker’s Island until sentencing,” Judge Harris said. The jury was dismissed. People were moving, talking, crying, cheering. She couldn’t look. Her mind raced. The jury would go for the death penalty—she had done her job very well.
Dale shook her hand. “You got him, Ree. You should be proud.” She was going to be sick. All the doubts she had shoved down, all the vicious fear that this was wrong, that she had prosecuted a man she couldn’t convince herself was guilty, came surging to the surface.
They had led a crusade against this man. The city’s grief and outrage had found its target. It didn’t matter if he had done it—if he had killed that girl or if he had crashed a plane into the towers. Someone needed to be punished. The pressure keg would have exploded without a conviction.
“If it wasn’t you, someone else would have done it.”
What could have happened if she had found the courage to drop the charges? It would have torpedoed her career, made her real enemies, with real power. Dale Logan would re-open the case and get his conviction. Her hands would be clean. She would have destroyed her life. Was this any better?
She held it together until she made it to the bathroom, locked a stall, and vomited into the toilet until there was nothing left.
October, 2002
“I’m worried about you,” Rafael said. “You don’t sleep, you barely eat.” His eyes plead with her. “Talk to me, Rita.”
She picked at fried rice that he had forced into her hands when he knocked on the door. Her favorite sweatshirt hung around her frame. It used to be tighter.
“I’m doing good work. I’m on top of my cases.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
“Your heart isn’t in it anymore. Try to tell me I’m wrong.”
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to deny it, tell him that she was fine–repeat the lie she had been telling since August. She felt nothing. She was so tired.
“That case wrecked you,” he whispered. “I’d understand if you’ve lost your nerve. You can still be a shark with the small stuff.” There was a smile in his voice. She put the takeout container down, still avoiding his gaze.
Tears prickled at her eyes. She had been crying too much recently. Her emotions were volatile, all over the place. She had almost convinced herself she was pregnant at one point, but the lack in her sex life was an even more painful reality. She wasn’t very good company anymore.
“That’s part of the problem,” she choked. “I hated myself for how much I loved it.” The walls were falling. She couldn’t stop it, and words poured out.
“I loved being in charge, making that case, doing it well, and I still can’t stop thinking about how he looked, the sound his mother made, and how wrong it all was! I convinced myself he was guilty because it was the only way I could do my job, but Bates brought up every single thing that I knew we were missing—how the hell am I supposed to go on? Rafael, I think I sent an innocent man to his death, and I can’t get it out of my head!” She looked at him with wide, streaming eyes, pleading with him to give her answers, to tell her that she did the right thing. She knew that he couldn’t. “It’s tearing me apart,” she sobbed.
He gave her a tissue and she wiped her nose. The tears kept falling.
“This was a once-in-a-lifetime case.” He was being so gentle, holding her hands. “The pressure was coming from all sides, and you didn’t have much choice. If this ever happens again, you’ll push for more investigation, more time. You’ll be sure you got it right, Rita.” His face was earnest.
“I don’t want it to happen again,” she whispered. “I became the worst version of myself. I can’t trust that I won’t do it the next time, too.” It was a devastating realization. Something in her stomach clenched. It felt final. There was no getting around it. She couldn’t take it back.
He was quiet, giving her space, but his hands tightened around hers. She was sure he knew what was coming. It was terrifying.
“I’m going to have to resign, aren’t I?”
He blinked hard against wet eyes, and gave a tight, sad smile. He nodded. The pain and the acceptance—knowing that this was the end—was written all over it.
November, 2003
“Your Honor, Mr. Barba’s motion clearly violates my client’s right to privacy, and it’s outside of the scope of this trial. What’s next, a subpoena for his tax returns?”
“Miss Calhoun knows very well that Mr. Anderson’s computer files include crucial evidence of his business dealings,” he fired back, “and she should remind her client that the People have refrained from adding additional charges surrounding the other… misadventures that were recovered from said files.” She glared at him.
“Save the bickering for trial, counselors,” Judge Hanna sighed. “The files relating to the transactions are in.”
Rita opened her mouth to argue.
“Ah! Save it, Miss Calhoun. It’s been a very long day, and I’m in no mood. The files are in. Now please get out of my chambers, both of you. I’d like to go home tonight. ”
Rafael smirked at her. She held herself back from hitting him.
“So, are you up for a drink? Or do you need to tell your client the bad news?” He sniggered as they made their way down the marble hall.
“I think Mr. Anderson can wait until the morning,” she smiled.
“Did you really think you had a chance there? The files were clearly relevant.”
“Against you? Of course I had a chance,” she laughed. He rolled his eyes at her.
“You’re buying since you lost.”
“Well, I think I can afford it…” She picked at her nails.
“God, your rate is outrageous.”
“Yes it is.”
He pushed the elevator button and the doors closed around them.
“I miss it sometimes. Working with you,” he said. A pang of remorse hit her—old grief for the life she thought she would live. She had struggled for it, fought like hell chasing those dreams.
“I miss it too.”
“Are you happy?”
She didn’t have to think about it, not really. It wasn’t the life she had imagined. She had clients from all walks of life. Some were almost certainly innocent, some were astoundingly guilty. It didn’t matter. Everyone deserved a defense. She gave them her raw, honest advice, and fought for every single client. It was fulfilling. The partners at her firm respected her. She was comfortable, challenged by the work, alive in a way that she hadn’t felt since school. A smile grew on her face. She couldn’t hold it back.
“I am.”