Free Black River by G. M. Ford

gentlemen of the jury, the state will show that Fairmont Hospital, which sat less than ten miles from the San Andreas Fault, was in fact constructed without the slightest regard for either seismic activity or human safety.”
    Elkins was on his feet now. “Your Honor, please….”
    Klein raised his voice. “In one of the most seismically volatile areas in the world, this man”—he aimed the pointer at the defense table—“this man, Nicholas Balagula, in order to line his own pockets, falsified both construction and inspection records, putting the lives of nearly four hundred people at constant risk—”
    The judge banged the gavel. “Mr. Klein.”
    “—and eventually leading to the untimely deaths of sixty-three people, forty-one of whom were children.” Klein stood stiff and still, the pointer aimed at the defense table, allowing the gravity of his words to sink into the invisible jurors.
    Satisfied that he’d made his point, Klein reached toward the easel.
    Elkins looked wounded. “If the court please.”
    “Yes, Mr. Elkins,” the judge said.
    “I wish to renew my objection to any further inflammatory images. As you know, I have—”
    The judge cut him off. “As you know, Mr. Elkins, I have already ruled on the matter of the photographs.”
    “Yes, Your Honor, but I’m afraid I must take exception to—”
    “Your exception is noted, Mr. Elkins.” The judge turned his attention to Klein. “Proceed.”
    Once again, Klein addressed the jury directly. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, before I proceed, I feel an obligation to prepare you for what is to follow. The images you are about to see are, to say the least”—he pretended to search for a word—“harrowing,” he said finally. “I apologize for their graphic nature and for any undue discomfort which they may cause you.” He was pacing now, working his way from one end of the jury box to the other. “But I can assure you that any pain or discomfort you may experience will pale in comparison to the suffering of the loved ones of those who perished and is virtually insignificant when compared with the final moments of the sixty-three unfortunate souls who died in the collapse of Fairmont Hospital.”
    He walked over to the prosecution table and handed the pointer to Raymond Butler. As he made his way back toward the easel, the room crackled with tension. He gestured toward the idyllic rendering of the hospital. “This is what the good people of Alameda County, California, were promised.” In a single motion he pulled the picture from the easel and leaned it, face in, against the jury box. “This is what they got,” he said, in a loud voice.
    A ground-angle shot, three feet by four feet, in living color, the crumbled rear wall of the hospital slightly out of focus in the background. A sea of broken concrete, ribbons of twisted electrical wire, and a single strip of filthy gauze all pulled the eye toward the bottom of the picture, where—poking up from beneath the rubble—was a leg and tiny foot, soft and pink and fat, the ankle encircled by a blue-and-white beaded anklet that read MICHAEL .
    From inside the jury box came a hiccup, quickly followed by a sob. Someone moaned. Rogers and Butler looked away. The judge’s face was ashen. The bailiff at the far end leaned into the jury box and then walked over and whispered in Judge Howell’s ear.
    The judge’s lips were pressed tight as he banged the gavel. “The jury has requested a recess. Court will reconvene at two-thirty this afternoon.”
    Warren Klein beamed as he sauntered over to the prosecution table.
    “For Christ’s sake, Warren, cover that picture up,” Renee Rogers whispered.
    His smile was replaced by astonishment. “Why would I want to do that?” he asked. “I want them to—”
    “You’ve made your point, Warren. Leaving it uncovered is overkill.”
    “She’s right,” Butler added. “There’s a thin line between getting the jury’s attention and offending