Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [31]
So I increased their powerbase, as unintentionally, I’ve created a benefit to signing the agreement that didn’t exist before. “So what’s wrong?”
“It limits our leverage in pushing for an acquittal. If they had a strong reason to free you, it would accelerate the trial . . . but I may be able to spin that to our benefit. ‘Heroine jumper so dedicated that she took steps to serve the galaxy, even on her way to trial.’ That’ll make a great sound bite.”
It’s funny how she can take anything and make it sound self-serving. Except it’s not, because for Mary knows how long, I have to listen to strangers vilifying my behavior and my past—that’s going to be painful—but it might be worse to hear Nola Hale trying to sanctify every stupid, thoughtless thing I’ve ever done.
“If you say so.”
“I do. Come on. Let’s go fix your face.”
As I follow her, with the paparazzi howling behind us, I think, Welcome to the cinema of shame.
CHAPTER 9
The hearing room is smaller than I expected, with two smooth alloy tables for defense and prosecution, a jury box, and the judge’s desk. Such an insignificant space wherein to decide my fate. The jury members have computer panels on the arms of their chairs, where they can take notes, confer with one another, and eventually vote on the verdict. I half expected there to be a spectator’s gallery, where people could stare at me and make book on my odds of survival.
Bright lights hurt my eyes after the dim isolation of my cell, but it’s better than the cacophony outside. Before the bot-bailiff activates the soundproofing, I still hear them screaming even after I take my seat. Repeated thumps against the door make the jury shift worriedly in their seats, then the bot raises the field, blocking external stimuli. It’s important that these people focus on what’s going on in here to the exclusion of everything else.
According to Ms. Hale, presentation matters. She gives me a last-minute check to make sure I’m not smudged, then briskly nods her approval.
“Remember,” she says, low. “I expect you to stay focused. No daydreaming, no napping.”
“People actually do that?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Shaking my head, I glance around. It’s a blessing there are no spectators permitted in the courtroom, though interested parties can watch on the bounce. Drone-cams hover near the ceiling, bearing the logos of four different news services. Yeah, I’m big news again, and how I wish I weren’t.
The ONN drone-cam whirs toward me, then zooms for a close-up. So badly, I want to make an obscene gesture, but I restrain myself in compliance with my instructions. I’ve no idea whether I succeed in creating a soulful, sympathetic expression, but I give it my best shot. During the trial, I can’t be scornful, scathing, or sarcastic; in other words, not myself at all. Sober, thoughtful Jax wears a navy suit and keeps her hair in a neat upsweep; she doesn’t look like a mass murderer.
Judge Wentworth is an older gent with iron gray hair and a heavy mustache that wraps around his mouth. He already looks tired, so I suspect he didn’t volunteer for this assignment. While I sat in solitary, they likely debated whether I would be tried in a civilian or military court. Fortunately for me, they decided on the former.
I scan the faces of those who will decide my fate—evenly split, male to female—some young, some old, and the rest in between. After the long days of my incarceration, I thought I was prepared for the worst, but somehow hearing the charges against me read aloud drives a fresh spike through my heart.
“Sirantha Jax, you stand accused of dereliction of duty, desertion, mass murder, and high treason. How do you plead?”
My barrister rises; Nola Hale makes a pretty picture, the epitome of a composed professional. “Not guilty, Your Honor, by virtue of Title 19.”
A rumble goes through the jury; I wonder how many of them know what Title 19 is at this juncture. Before Ms. Hale explained it to me, I didn’t, and I’m still not sure I had executive authority. Tarn’s the