Blow became aware of a sense of disconnectedness as he
followed Gobble from the judge's chambers into the courtroom. It was
similar to the feeling—relief tainted by a vague
disenchantment—that had come over him once in his acting days. He'd
stepped back onstage, outside the curtain, following what he knew had
been one of his finest performances. He was in his street clothes.
The spotlights had been extinguished and the voices of stage hands
working behind the curtain swept away any lingering wisps of illusion
the performance might have left.
What
he faced when he looked out over the rows of emptying seats where
moments before a packed house had risen to its feet and given the
players a sustained ovation with commanding applause, shouts of
bravo!
and the occasional shriek of a tooth whistle, what he faced now was
an indifferent reality, the diminishing sounds of shuffling feet,
private chatter, the mockery of one hand clapping. He had no
presence.
The
tension of pendency takes up residence in a courtroom during a trial.
It hovers as a palpable current at all times, relenting only by
degrees during the inevitable hiatuses—the restroom breaks,
lunchtimes and overnight recesses in trials that last longer than a
day.
Blow had returned one night early in the Bacon trial to retrieve a
file folder the janitors had found on the floor under the defense
table. The bailiff had called him at home. He was eating dinner with
his father and Lila. Embarrassed, he drove to the courthouse and was
let in by a sheriff's deputy who waited for him at the front door.
The janitors had finished up and gone home, leaving the folder on the
table. Blow's relief to find nothing in the folder of any special
importance was dampened by an odd feeling he was being seen, although
the courtroom was deserted and contained no security cameras. He knew
no one was watching him, yet the feeling persisted. It was the
courtroom itself, he concluded. The courtroom was at rest
but remained
poised, as was the trial itself. It wasn't over, and until it was,
until Judge Pendleton banged his gavel for the last time and
delivered the word adjourned,
the benches, the tables, the chairs, ceiling, lighting, portraits on
the wall—everything, the very air in the room--hung
in apprehension,
waiting.
