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Back The Hallows Save as PDF
Chapters (89)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“Equal justice for all . . . Mr. Pritcher may tell you that those words apply only to defendants, but what about Patty? Does she get justice? Does anyone cry for her? Anderson Ficco, as you all know, comes from a wealthy family with a high-priced lawyer and a huge future ahead of him.” I held the photo up higher to make sure all the jurors were looking at her. “Patty Winchester lived in a run-down mobile home. She was one of the voiceless in this country. She had no money, no power, no connections. Equal justice for all . . . does it apply to her? Does she get a voice?

“I think so,” I said, putting the photo down and placing my hands on the banister. “I think you are her voice. No one else is going to speak for her. No one else gives a damn about her. But you can. You can do it by sending a message to people like Anderson Ficco that the powerless are not things. That having money and power does not mean you can use people and then discard them like trash when you’re done with them. You can be that voice. You can send the message that people like Patty do matter.” I looked each juror in the eyes. “Equal justice for all.”

61

61

When I had sat back down, the judge said, “Mr. Pritcher.”

Pritcher rose and buttoned the top button on his suit coat. He swaggered over to the jury and then folded his hands in front of his body, as though he were doing penance in front of them.

“When I was in law school, all I wanted to be was a prosecutor. My father was a lawyer, and he took me to court occasionally. One time, when I was eight years old, we were in the back of a courtroom not unlike this one, waiting for my father’s case to be called. At the moment, a criminal case was being handled. The prosecutor rose and asked the judge that the defendant be taken into custody as he was a danger to the community. The defendant grabbed a pen off the defense table and lunged at the prosecutor.

“But the prosecutor didn’t budge. He stared that man, a man easily twice his size, right in the face and didn’t budge.” Pritcher stopped and casually put his hands in his pockets. “Luckily the bailiffs tackled him before he could do any damage, but the impression on me had been made. I thought being a prosecutor would be the most noble profession I could dedicate my life to.”

He took his hands out and began using them to help emphasize his words. I realized then that his body language control was better than mine. Being top dog sometimes meant you got sloppy because you weren’t as hungry as those on the way up.