The green he loved best was the velvety
color of that drink he had. Where was it anyway—
China? Australia? Fiji? —the one with
the name he couldn’t pronounce. “The green one,
you know, “ he’d say to the bartender.
Not like any drink he had with his brother in Butte,
to wash away the copper dust from the those Montana mines.

But now in Hawaii it was not time for a binge
not for John Kelley, prosecutor, not now.
Now was the time for butt-off work.

After all, he has a face off with Darrow,
that expert of the sleight of hand,
with 30 years experience over him.
He knew he was up against the magician,
who would probably call in alienists to argue the
“alarm clock insanity“—it’s only temporary— as a defense.
Or he’ll pull the empathy cord—What would you do
in their place? You’d have to defend her honor.

Kelley knows that any trial is over when jury selection is complete.
Could a white jury convict? he wonders .

Then he thinks of the “powder room“ with lounge and separate entry
they built for Mrs. Fortescue because, of course, she couldn’t use the same
toilet as the hoi polloi.

This makes him thirst. He'll need a flood of drink after the trial,
one that would flush it all away.

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