Pamela Samuels-Young
Books
Chapter 1
T
he brain is a funny thing. Sometimes it’ll just go numb for no apparent reason. Like when you’re in the middle of a conversation and whatever you were about to say just tumbles out of your head. That’s exactly what happened when I heard the jury’s verdict. My brain went totally numb.
“Congratulations, counselor,” beamed David Winslow, my ever-arrogant second chair and a fellow associate at O’Reilly & Finney. He was smiling just like Howdy Doody. “Think this verdict’ll get us a multi-million dollar book deal?” he whispered.
I took exception to his use of the word “us” since he’d been nothing but a pain the entire trial and shook his extended hand anyway. I could still smell the stale scent of the three double espresso lattes he consumed each morning before eight.
Turning away, I gripped the edge of the plaintiff’s table and tried to steady myself. I’d just won the biggest verdict of my career and I felt faint. The entire courtroom was one big beige blur. The judge was speaking now, but I didn’t hear a word he was saying. I was buzzed from a strong blast of adrenalin, but trying hard to play it cool. As if juries handed me five million dollar verdicts every day.
I suddenly remembered my client, Roland Hayes, standing next to me. He was gasping for air like an elderly asthmatic. The verdict obviously meant a whole lot more to him than it did to me. He’d be set for life. I pulled out his chair and motioned for him to sit.
When I saw the jury rise, I assumed we were done. I sloppily stuffed papers into my Coach briefcase, hugged Roland for the second time, and watched as he ran off into the arms of his ecstatic wife. David, meantime, was flashing our despondent opposing counsel a gloating smile.
As we headed out of the courtroom, a gang of reporters rushed toward us, nearly knocking us back inside.
“Vernetta Henderson,” somebody shouted, “the jury’s five million dollar verdict is a pretty hefty award in a single-plaintiff race discrimination case. How do you feel?” I looked to my left and saw that the question came from the skinny blonde with the bad split ends from Channel 7.
Before I could answer, another reporter hurled a question my way. “Ms. Henderson, why do you think the jury went so heavy on the punitives?”
Because my client worked for a bunch of racist yahoos , I wanted to say.
Instead, I squeezed through the crowd, chin forward, shoulders erect, ignoring them. Just like they did on Law and Order . I looked over at David. His thin lips were pursed into a taut, straight line. No one had bothered to stick a microphone in his face and he was pissed.
When we reached the elevators, we found the down button blocked by a fortress of reporters. The hot, gleaming lights from a small TV camera nearly blinded me and somebody’s microphone kept nudging me in the back of the head.
“Ms. Henderson, were you surprised at the verdict?” yelled a voice from the rear.
I brushed passed the inquisitive mob, determined to ignore them. “No questions for now,” I said finally, as David and I escaped toward the stairwell. “We’ll talk to the media later this afternoon.”
