the chairâs high back.
The flickering light from a small television placed on a shelf in front of him danced eerily across his thin features. I noticed that the picture was fuzzy. The volume was set so low it was barely audible.
âHow are you doing, Will?â Mickey asked without realizing just how inappropriate the greeting was in the circumstances. âThis is Mr. Sloan. Heâs going to argue your case in the appeals court.â
âHowdy,â he said and tried to smile, but the attempt failed.
I had seen the photographs and the videotape of him that Mickey had used at the trial, but even with that advance warning I wasnât prepared.
He looked like a skeleton, his cheekbones almost juttingthrough his taut skin. He was thirty-five but he looked ninety. His hair was unkempt, and whoever had shaved him had missed a few spots.
âJesus, Will,â his wife said in a nasty whining voice, âdid you poop your pants again?â She made an exaggerated sniffing gesture.
âI donât know, Milly,â he said quietly, his thin voice echoing through a sea of misery. âI canât feel anything, you know that.â
âAre you going to be long?â she asked Mickey.
âNo, I donât think so.â
âIâll wait to change him then.â She turned and left the trailer.
âIâm sorry,â Will McHugh said. âI have no control over anything. She changes me a couple of times a day. I wear diapers.â He tried to smile and make a joke of it, but once again he failed.
âDonât worry about it, Will,â Mickey said, clearing some clutter off a small padded bench. He sat down and I sat next to him. McHughâs eyes followed us. The bench was a snug fit. The whole trailer was a snug fit. It seemed uncomfortably warm. Then I noticed the gleam of an electric heater directly behind the wheelchair.
âMr. Monk says youâre a specialist in these kinds of appeals,â Will McHugh said to me. It sounded as if he was unaccustomed to speaking aloud.
âI do that kind of work,â I replied.
âWill we win?â
âWe have a very good chance,â I said. As I spoke the words I saw alarm in Mickey Monkâs eyes.
âOnly a chance? My God.â McHughâs eyes seemed suddenly to fill with tears.
âMuch more than that,â I added quickly, as much for my morale as his. âLet me ask a few questions about the accident. Iâve read your testimony at the trial, but Iâd liketo go over a few things.â I didnât really need to, but it seemed the thing to do.
âAll right,â he said softly.
âBefore the accident, did you ever have trouble with your vehicle?â
It was like talking to two disembodied eyes. He couldnât nod or gesture. Only his eyes and voice could communicate.
âI didnât have it long, just a month or so. There was no trouble, no warning. It was working perfectly.â
âWere you the only one who drove it?â
He sighed. âYeah. My wife can drive, but it was too big for her. She was afraid of it.â He paused. âI should have been too.â
âYou had never heard or been told that they were having sudden acceleration problems with that model?â
âHell, no. Nobody said anything.â
âThe sudden acceleration never happened before to you?â
âNever. I was coming from a bar, as you probably know. I had a few beers. I wasnât drunk. They say I was, but I wasnât. The blood work at the hospital showed that.â
âIt did. Go on.â
His eyes seemed to lose their focus as he remembered. âI wasnât going fast, really. Maybe thirty-five, maybe forty. Suddenly it started going much faster without me doing a thing. It was as if someone had jammed the accelerator down to the floor. It was like something in a bad dream, you know? I had no control. I hit the brake, but it didnât do