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Show not appeal. I already know what my attorney's answer will be. "No," he says. He is silent for a moment, drawing snakes on his notepad, " I t won't make any difference," he adds. Although both of the older people on the panel are challenged, my attorney makes no objection; he already knows we w i l l lose. * * * Each day of the proceedings, I allow myself to study a part of the courtroom: first the floorboards and the walls, then the angles of the chairs, the pleated valances of the draperies, now the surfaces of the desks. My attorney and I sit on the same side of a single large desk; on it sits a plastic water-tray, moulded to look like crystal. There are two glasses, one right side up, one still upside down, and a sweating pitcher of water. There is a sparse sheaf of papers in front of my attorney; before me, despite my attorney's express instructions to the contrary, I have placed my journals. I see my own lean, uncreased hand resting lightly on the edge of them; I wonder briefly if I will succeed in reading from the journals here. I study my hand: it is fine-boned, lithe, small. But then I look over to the counterpart desk on the other side of the courtroom: there is Luel, protected by the arrogance of her father and the corpulent greed of the attorney they have employed. On their desk are stacks of notes, manuscripts, photographs, depositions, the records of the GoldenGlow home. No doubt there will be an annotated inventory of Sadie's possessions, perhaps even a copy of her will. |