close on impassive eyes. they are asian. we have seen them before. pull back to see.
pan the back of the courtroom. twenty-four citizens of japanese ancestry fill the last row, dressed in their most formal clothes. shades of atticus finch. as one, the japanese-americans watch.
hooks now stands with his polished shoe up on the witness podium. like chatting with the sheriff across the back fence.
close on hooks, nodding. as if, slowly, digesting something in his mind.
moran fidgets on the stand.
hatsue watching her husband disappear through a door. rack focus to see across the way. a man stares at her.
close on ishmael, once more in the row of reporters. absently kneading the stump of his amputated arm. the way some men drum their fingers.
hooks pacing, slow and calm. this part needs to be clear.
hooks settles back. his butt on the edge of the prosecutor's table. the soul of patience and clarity.
hooks standing at the jury box now. looking at them, as he asks.
ole jurgensen wobbles slightly in the witness box, hands resting on the cane planted unsteadily between his frail legs. his eyes leak water, his beard is wispy and unkempt.
sheriff moran sits in the witness box, blade-thin and fidgeting ever so slightly. uncomfortable in the limelight. in his hands are four pieces of rope.
moran still on the stand. the ropes are gone now. his hands interlock across his narrow thighs.
dr. sterling whitman sits in his expensive suit, a giant of a man whose towering frame ill fits the witness box. his eyes are small and blue, and carry the weight of superiority with practiced ease.
hooks in pin-stripe serge today. pommaded hair, glossy wing-tips. he is crisp.
maples smiling easily. like a guy telling the story in a bar.
hooks sits against the prosecution table. his demeanor gentle, respectful. his voice soft.
susan marie's cornflower eyes are set. wary.
hatsue miyamoto in the witness box. graceful, erect, her porcelain beauty accessible, eager to cooperate. humble.
josiah gillanders folds his blunt, thick hands across his belly. nearly 50, sporting a walrus moustache and the watery, dull eyes of an alcoholic, he is a man ready to make the most of his fifteen minutes of fame.
close on eyes. they are asian. unblinking.
the jury once more in the jury box. pan their faces. the faces we saw last night.
the hush of a hundred silences. we can feel the air crackle in the stillness. judge fielding is leafing through papers. no one coughs, no one blinks.