I stood and helped Ringer up. He was shaking so badly now, I could hear the chains on his ankles rattling.
The clerk read the verdict in a quavering voice. “We, the jury in the above-entitled cause, find the defendant, Harold Ringer… not guilty.”
The courtroom went dead silent. I blinked for a moment, then stared at the clerk. I couldn’t have heard that right. But then a cry came from the audience. “No! You can’t! You’re wrong!”
I turned to see Aidan standing, red-faced, as he clutched the back of the bench seat in front of him. Tears began to roll down his face as he stared at the jury in disbelief. A stab of pain shot through my heart. The judge called for order, and the victim advocate put an arm around Aidan’s shoulders. He sank back onto the bench and put his face in his hands. I turned away and glanced at the jury. Some of the jurors looked shame-faced; others looked sad. The judge thanked the jury without much enthusiasm and told them they were discharged. A few minutes later, the show over, the courtroom emptied out.
Ringer had been subdued, but now he snapped back to his old obnoxious self like a rubber band. He fist-pumped the air. “I knew it! I knew they’d never believe that little faggot!”
I glared at him. “You didn’t know it ten minutes ago.”
“I was just nervous. But I killed up on that stand. I was a fucking rock star!”
Disgusted, I started to pack up my briefcase.
Jimmy, the bailiff, gave me a look of sympathy as he came over to escort Ringer back into lockup. “I’ve got his court clothes. They his? Or yours?”
I sometimes had to provide a decent-looking shirt and pants for clients so the jury wouldn’t see them in their orange jumpsuits. But Ringer had brought his own. He wasn’t wearing them now because once the jury has a verdict, there’s no point in bothering. “They’re his. You got them in lockup?” Jimmy nodded. I thought for a moment. “Give ’em to me. I’ll take them over to Twin Towers, put them with the rest of his stuff. Is he going to process out today?”
“Yeah. Should be out by five o’clock or so.”
Jimmy took Ringer by the arm. I picked up my briefcase and nodded to my client. “I’m taking off. Good luck.” Ordinarily, I’d make arrangements to get him a ride home, but as far as I was concerned, this jerk could walk.
Ringer gave me his old, snotty smile. “Yeah, thanks.”
A few minutes later, Jimmy emerged from lockup with a dress shirt and a pair of slacks on a hanger. I took them and headed out to the Twin Towers jail.
