Flesh Tones

New York City Criminal Court Building, Room 1317 Friday, December 4, 1992, 9:30 a.m. Worried the jury will misinterpret my seeming calm for contempt or worse, my lawyer, Benjamin Marks, tries to make me understand that I need to show grief or exhibit sadness. If I can't, if I don't, he's not sure he can put me on the stand when the time comes. And if the jury doesn't hear me testify, Benjamin is not certain they will acquit me. He says it exactly that waynot certain they will acquitinstead of just saying they might find me guilty. But the female members of the jury will understand why I am numb. They will recognize me as just another woman who has loved a man too much. There are so many of usnot proud that we put a man first, of the sacrifices we made or of the prices we paidbut we know that if we had to do it over we would not do it any differently. Of course I should have known better, but I got lost in the man named Slade Gabriel. And, although I might appear calm now, I'm not. I'm paralyzed. Since Gabriel died, I've lost all feeling. Only take shallow breaths. I can't concentrate. And I can't cry. Although aware of Judge Bailey welcoming the jury in his orator's voice, the bailiff, an elderly black man with a limp standing at attention and the clerk typist's fingers silently lifting and landingI'm unable to link any of this ordered activity to me or my life. Why aren't Gabriel's paintings hanging in this musty courtroom shedding their luminous light instead of the dirty tarp stretched across the wall hiding the mural of justice that Judge Bailey has just explained to the jury was damaged by a leak? Gabriel's paintings would explain everything. "It is not the law in need of reparation in this roomsimply the painted representation of her holding her scales," the judge says to the jurythe blur of faces that I cannot focus on. Not now. Not yet. Instead I study the stretch of fabric. Edges unraveling, gaping like a badly hung drapery, the canvas, which smells of mildew, casts a dull pall, unrelieved by the weak winter light coming through the windows. Outside, the wind blows and bare branches tap, tap, tap against the panes, rattling the glass. Judge Bailey finishes his introductory remarks, takes off his gold rimmed spectacles, wipes them with a clean white handkerchief, replaces them on the bridge of his beaklike nose and nods to the assistant district attorney. "Miss Zavidow," he says slowly, savoring the ceremony. "Would you care to make your opening statement?" From the moment the assistant district attorney rises, she focuses all her attention on the jury: "Ladies and gentlemen, Slade Gabriel is unable to come forward and speak to you of the circumstances surrounding his death, unable to point his finger at his lover, Genny Haviland, and say she did it, she murdered me. And so on his behalf, I point my finger at Genny Haviland and say she did it; she committed this gross and unholy crime." Linda Zavidow partially turns away from the jury boxeach man and woman following her movements with their eyes. Lifting her arm, she energetically points across the courtroom toward the defendant's table, at me. Rubbing the palms of my hands up and down the sleeve of my black cashmere sweater, I try to relieve the itching that has started up again and, at the same time, try not to open any fresh scabs. What a clever choice the D.A.'s office made when they assigned Linda Zavidow to prosecute my case. A man up there might seem like a bully; a less attractive or older woman might appear envious of me. But LindaRose, M. J. is the author of 'Flesh Tones' with ISBN 9780345451057 and ISBN 0345451058.