24
Bria Gaines
UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
Unbelievable.
Friday morning, 11:55. Bria stepped into the reception area of her office after another slow morning, keys in hand. She was ready to lock up and go home.
There he stood, inside her office. Bold as brass, wearing another expensive suit. That arrogant lawyer, Benjamin Meyers.
He flashed that big smile at her. “Surprised to see me again?”
Was she? Maybe not. He’d been calling nonstop for the past few days.
But she hadn’t expected to see her lawyer—Chuck Rich, the defense attorney she’d formally retained—standing directly beside him.
Bria addressed Chuck, because it was clear that Benjamin Meyers wouldn’t listen to her. “Chuck, would you please tell this manto leave? And to quit calling. I told him on Monday, I already hired a lawyer.”
Chuck just stood there, while Benjamin said, “Just give me five minutes.”
Bria took care to sound firm, decided. “Nope. Sorry. I don’t have five minutes.”
Meyers put his hand over his heart. “You can’t spare me five minutes? Really? What are you afraid of?”
Bria wouldn’t confess it. But when he came to her home on Monday, Benjamin Meyers’s words scared her. Especially the part about trusting her lawyer with her life.
Still, she had no cause to place any trust in him. He’d done nothing to earn her regard. The man was from out of town, a total stranger. Plus, he was white. Not an automatic disqualifier. After all, Chuck was a white man. But it wasn’t a trait that inspired immediate confidence.
“You have to go.” Making sure she didn’t convey any doubt, she appealed to her lawyer a second time. “Chuck, please tell this guy y’all are leaving. Now.”
Chuck lifted his shoulders in an apologetic shrug. “I think we ought to hear him out. He’s come all this way, Bria, from his office in Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?” Bria almost sputtered when she spoke. “You never told me you were from Atlanta!”
Meyers said, “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you much of anything.”
“Oh, great—that’s all I need. Some out-of-state lawyer who lives three hours away from here. Are you even licensed to practice in Alabama?”
“Would I be standing here if I wasn’t licensed to practice in Alabama courts?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.” It was beyond belief that some white stranger would feel compelled to come across the state line to save her. She turned to Chuck again, willing him to step up. “Chuck, we don’t know this guy.”
Chuck said, “I want you to listen to him, Bria.”
Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t keep on fighting; it was wearing her out. “Okay,” she said, walking over to the waiting room chairs that lined the wall. She dropped into one of the seats, slumped down in it. “You can have five minutes.”
An old-fashioned wall clock hung behind the reception desk. She took note of the time as Chuck sat next to her. It was 12:03. At 12:08, she would toss him out.
Meyers walked to the middle of the room. “I’m going to make an opening statement. For your criminal trial. It’s a rough version of what I’d say in the courtroom.”
Bria shrugged. “Okay. Go ahead.”
He didn’t launch into the speech immediately. He took some time, maybe thirty seconds. In that span of half a minute, she watched him undergo a transformation. Physical changes in his posture, demeanor, expression. Bria was glued to the spectacle, couldn’t look away.
He made eye contact. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’d like to thank you for your service in this trial. You know, Abraham Lincoln said, ‘The greatest service of citizenship is jury duty.’”
Brief pause. In a wry tone, he added, “You notice, President Lincoln didn’t say anything about jury duty being convenient. Or easy. Or lucrative.”
