4th of July

Chapter 90

SAM’S VOICE NO LONGER sounded completely human, but his young face and his small frail body made him seem more fragile and vulnerable than any other person in the room. The people in the gallery murmured in sympathy as the bailiff turned to Judge Achacoso.

“Judge?”

“Administer the oath, bailiff.”

“Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” said Sam Cabot.

Broyles smiled at Sam, giving the jury enough time to really hear, see, and absorb the pitiful state of Sam Cabot’s body and imagine what a hell his life had become.

“Don’t be nervous,” Broyles said to Sam. “Just tell the truth. Tell us what happened that night, Sam.”

Broyles took Sam through a set of warm-up questions, waiting as the boy closed his mouth around the air tube. His answers came in broken sentences, the length of each phrase determined by the amount of air he could hold in his lungs before drawing on the mouthpiece again.

Broyles asked Sam how old he was, where he lived, what school he went to, before he got to the meat of his interrogation.

“Sam, do you remember what happened on the night of May tenth?”

“I’ll never forget it . . . as long as I live,” Sam said, sucking air from the tube, expelling his words in bursts through the voice box. “It’s all I think of . . . and no matter how hard I try . . . I can’t get it out of my mind. . . . That’s the night she killed my sister . . . and ruined my life, too.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Yuki rose and said.

“Young man,” said the judge, “I know this is difficult, but please try to confine your answers to the questions.”

“Sam, let’s back up,” said Mason Broyles kindly. “Can you tell us the events of that night, and please take it step-by-step.”

“A lot of stuff happened,” Sam said. He sucked at the tube and continued. “But I don’t remember . . . all of it. I know we took Dad’s car . . . and we got scared. . . . We heard the sirens coming. . . . Sara didn’t have her license. Then the air bag burst. . . . All I remember . . . is seeing that woman . . . shoot Sara. . . . I don’t know why she did it.”

“That’s okay, Sam. That’s fine.”

“I saw a flash,” the boy continued, his eyes fastened on me. “And then my sister . . . she was dead.”

“Yes. We all know. Now, Sam. Do you remember when Lieutenant Boxer shot you?”

Within the small arc permitted by his restraints, Sam rolled his head from side to side. And then he started to cry. His heart-wrenching sobs were interrupted by the sucking of air and enhanced by the mechanical translation of his wails through the voice box.

It was an unearthly sound, unlike anything I’d ever heard before in my life. Chills shot up my spine and, I was quite certain, everyone else’s.

Mason Broyles quickly advanced across the floor to his client, whipped a hankie out of his breast pocket, and dabbed at Sam’s eyes and nose.

“Do you need a break, Sam?”

“No . . . sir. . . . I’m okay,” he brayed.

“Your witness, Counsel,” said Mason Broyles, shooting us a look that was as good as a dare.