“Oh, there’s blood, all right,” I tell him.
“Not yours,” he says.
I do keep things short with the media today, knowing that once the trial has started, I’ll be out here, before and after court, spinning like I’m one of those pixie figure skaters in the Olympics.
“Jane,” says a reporter I recognize from CNN, “don’t you ever get tired of defending this guy?”
“Don’t you ever get tired ofwatchingme defend this guy?” I shoot back.
“Yes!”she shouts.
“If you’re going to cover this thing,” I say, “do what I do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Fake it till you make it.”
It gets a decent laugh. But I’m not wasting my A material on opening day.
“Jane,” Lisa Rubin of MSNBC says, “all joking aside, you have to admit that the evidence against your client seems pretty overwhelming.”
“Wait a second, Rubin,” I say. “Are you and the district attorney thinking about opening a bar together?”
“Is that an answer?”
“Here’s my answer: The evidence against Rob Jacobson this time around is actuallyunderwhelming. The facts of this case, the ones that will bring Rob another acquittal, are more stubborn than I am.”
Then I say, “Okay, gotta go to work.”
They’re still shouting questions as I head inside. I’m aware that Rob Jacobson is waiting for me in a conference room. So are Thomas McGoey and Norma Banks, who’s going to be with me every day of this trial, closely studying the jury when I’m not.
But before I head for the conference room, I make a pit stop in the nearest ladies’ room, one I discover is blessedly empty. I go to a stall, close the door, sit down, grab the can of Red Bull in my bag, and drink it down as if I won’t make it across the desert unless I do.
I know that Red Bull is probably about as good for my perpetually sensitive stomach as battery acid. But I need a boost from the sugar, and an even bigger boost from what is essentially a caffeine bomb.
When I come out of the stall I toss the can in the garbage, then splash just enough cold water on my cheeks to refresh me without ruining my makeup.
Then I do what I always do right before the main event is about to begin.
I lightly slap both cheeks and say, “Showtime.”
But today I hesitate, staring at the woman staring back at me. It’s as if I’m looking into the eyes of my mother.
FIFTY-FOUR
NORMA BANKS AND I make a bet as to how long Katherine Welsh will go with her own opening statement. Welsh, of course, is going first, the way prosecutors always do, since it is the state’s burden to prove that my guy did the deed of which he’s been charged.
I’ve established thirty minutes as our over-under number, like this is one of the dumb, prop bets popular in Jimmy’s bar, where people guess the total number of combined points they think will be scored in a pro football game, among other things.
Norma bets the under.
“Wait and see, she won’t even come close to half an hour,” Norma whispers to me as Katherine Welsh confers one final time with her own team on the other side of the aisle. “She’s already kicked our ass just by showing up.”
I have Norma with me at my table. I would never mention this to her, but I see it as a way of making me look younger.
She’s to my left. McGoey is to my right and Rob Jacobson is to his right. They’ve both just asked why they aren’t in on the bet.
“Because men don’t have equal rights at this table,” I explain. “That’s why.”
