The Laws of Gravity by Liz Rosenberg

Author:Liz Rosenberg [Rosenberg, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), General Fiction
ISBN: 9781611099546
Google: dH6YkwEACAAJ
Amazon: B00A7GK4TE
Goodreads: 17171906
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2013-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Flannery was less subtle. “Why? Why? You deserve this attention and approbation,” Flannery said. “We all do. We labor in silence. Anonymously. All the briefs, the ratio decidendi, judicial opinions carefully worked out and written—no one reads them. Not a word. Stones down a well. Unless the media brings the world’s attention to bear upon the case. Of course a trial with a jury would create more attention, but even so—”

“I am not,” the judge said icily, “looking for attention.”

“That’s right,” Myra said. “You know what it would be like around here, the press swarming up our asses day in and day out? Pardon my French,” she added.

“It would be invigorating!” Flannery said. “Lively.” He appealed to Myra. “Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see your face on TV?”

“Flannery,” Myra said, “I don’t even like to see my face in the mirror.”

Being barred from the courtroom did not keep the media’s attention entirely away from the case. The local papers kept up a running commentary on Judge Richter’s advanced age: he was, they said, scheduled to have retired that December and had barred the press from this important case to hide his disabilities as an adjudicator. They played up the human interest aspect, milking it for all it was worth. Nicole’s photos showed her as a young beauty, or as someone so thin and haggard it was amazing she hadn’t yet expired. They ran the same photo of Ari Wiesenthal each time, a picture in which he seemed to be snarling. There were plenty of glamour shots of Katrina Turock and one or two thumbnail photos of Sol himself, looking ancient and palsied. Sarah assured her husband, “You don’t look like that. Not even first thing in the morning.”

“The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on,” Sol said. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, he reminded himself. His one commitment had been to uphold the law, to be the most informed and unbiased judge possible. This case was his last, and his worst. He dreamed about it, brooded about it, felt helpless in the face of it. Logic, philosophical inclination, precedent, led him in one direction, and one direction alone. He knew that; his clerk Flannery knew it; he sometimes suspected that everyone involved knew. But still, he felt himself pulled elsewhere. The impulse to rescue. It was unfathomable at his age. A mystery. It did not help, this uncanny resemblance between the plaintiff and his own red-haired daughter. Even her last name, Greene, reminded him of his own long-lost grandfather, the one-armed tailor, Nathan Greenplotz.

“Is there anything that might allow us to consider the merits of her case?” he asked his attorney, Ned, in private. Ned was young, but bright and diligent. Flannery appeared at just that moment, of course, carrying a large pile of briefs that he dropped onto the table with a thunk.

Before Ned could answer, Flannery piped up. “You know there isn’t. That’s the beauty of the case! It’s airtight.”

“How about the duty to rescue? Ned—what about the letter?”

Again Flannery jumped in.

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