The Chill

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The people and institutions in this novel are all imaginary, and do not refer to any actual people or institutions.

R. M.

The heavy red-figured drapes over the courtroom windows were incompletely closed against the sun. Yellow daylight leaked in and dimmed the electric bulbs in the high ceiling. It picked out random details in the room: the glass water cooler standing against the paneled wall opposite the jury box, the court reporter’s carmine-tipped fingers playing over her stenotype machine, Mrs. Perrine’s experienced eyes watching me across the defense table.

It was nearly noon on the second and last day of her trial. I was the final witness for the defense. Her attorney had finished questioning me. The deputy D.A. waived cross-examination, and several of the jurors looked at him with puzzled frowns. The judge said I could go.

From my place on the witness stand I’d noticed the young man sitting in the front row of spectators. He wasn’t one of the regular trial-watchers, housewives and pensioners filling an empty morning with other people’s troubles. This one had troubles of his own. His brooding blue gaze stayed on my face, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be willing to share his troubles with me.

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