-Mr. Hopkins, how do you know Bud Jack?
-We was tight back in school.
-High school?
-Elementary, junior high, all the way up.
Scooter Hopkins had on blue jeans, white t-shirt, gold hoop earring, and with his goatee he looked like a pirate, the first witness not wearing his Sunday best. Why didn’t Lawson at least get him into a decent shirt?
-Are you a member of the Eastside Rollin’ gang?
-Not no more.
-When did you join?
-Probably I was sixteen.
-Did Bud Jack join too?
-This crew tried to jump him in. He ran away.
-Was Bud Jack ever in a gang?
-No. Mostly he stuck to hisself.
I got it! Lawson didn’t get Scooter Hopkins a new shirt because he wanted him to appear fresh off the street. Rex Ruffman calls himself a gang expert but, hey, this guy Scooter looks like he’s been there. Still, I had a feeling Scooter the pirate might be on Richard Wilhite’s payroll. Why else would a gang-banger agree to testify in court, especially knowing one side would want to discredit him? Sloan was ruthless on cross examination, forcing Freebooter Scooter to admit to three years in prison for stealing a car and possession of an unlicensed handgun.
-I got out early. Only got parole now.
And then Sloan nailed Scooter to the wall.
-On parole, but still doing drugs, right?
Lawson jumped to his feet and objected. Sloan claimed to be trying to establish the reliability of the witness. Silverson told him to proceed, but keep your tone civil in my courtroom.
-Ever smoke pot, Mr. Hopkins?
-Once or twice.
-Once or twice?
-Back then, yeah.
-Ever smoke crack cocaine?
Scooter Hopkins hesitated, and the hesitation shouted yes.
-Let me warn you, Mr. Hopkins, that lying under oath is a criminal offense. Have you ever smoked crack?
-Once.
If Mrs. Wilkes was the truth, Scooter was a walking lie.
-Only once?
-That stuff will mess you up.
-Ever sell it?
-No.
His eyes darted nervously. For his sake, I hope Scooter never tries poker.
-Mr. Hopkins, how often have you spoken with Mr. Jack since high school?
-Not too much.
-When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Jack?
-Been a long time.
-So how can you be sure he was never in a gang?
-I would know.
-How would you know?
-On the street that’s how it is.
That was it from Scooter the pirate. If Richard Wilhite had paid him five gold doubloons to testify for the defense, it was five too many. Oath or not, no one trusts a criminal.
I took comfort in that thought—no one trusts a criminal—because if Sigrid had recognized me as her backyard intruder, she wouldn’t trust me, and if she didn’t trust me, she wouldn’t have offered her hot tub to my friend, right? My stomach calmed a little. Sigrid seemed in no hurry to get us out of her house, and she hadn’t slipped off to a back room to dial 911. She looked rather content, actually, happily complaining to Marissa about the gardeners.
-The Vietnamese guy sits out front in the truck, he just sits there, smoking and listening to the radio, while the two Mexican guys do all the work. It’s just wrong.
-No kidding.
Finally, my chance for a careful look. Dark roots exposed her blonde hair as a dye job, the skin around her eyes was unnaturally taut, her teeth blindingly white. Biologique she was not. Was she forty? Fifty? Sixty? Had she retained any original parts? Once you got past the gift rack, she was just another skinny Laguna matron trying to cheat time. She looked up and I went back to the murky painting.
-Fletcher, that one’s called Venus. A beautiful work, isn’t it? Janice James. You’ve probably seen her work downtown. Janice is always revisiting the female figure.
Lucky her. The way things are going, my sort of girlfriend will be sort of passed out before I get her home, and I’ll be revisiting baseball highlights on the sports channel. Marissa wobbled over for a closer look.
-Do you like it, Fletcher?
-Sure.
A big-busted mermaid in mysterious water, what’s not to like?
-It does look familiar. The palette, right? Blues and greens. I love how it like flows.
Marissa was trying to sound artsy. Sigrid stood and joined us.
-Richard gave me that painting for my birthday last year.
Marissa cooed approvingly.
-Could you tell Richard my birthday is coming up?
Okay, time for an exit strategy.
-I’m gonna check on Pete, then we should probably get going.
The waterfall was gushing, the hot tub motor was humming, and Pete, splashing around like a kid in a sudsy bath, didn’t notice me right away. When he finally looked up, he too started gushing.
-This is unbelievable. Jets for your back, jets for your calves, tiny bubbles from holes beneath your feet, and, dude, if you sit like this they tickle your crack.
-You’re naked?
His clothes were in a pile on the deck.
-Yeah. What are you waiting for?
-We need to go. I’ve got to wake up early.
-Okay, but get in first.
-And Marissa’s drunk.
-Two minutes. Just on principle. You’ll regret it later if you don’t.
He was right, I would regret it, because, knowing Pete, whenever he relived this triumphant moment, he would say something like yeah, and then we ended up buck naked in her hot tub or at least I did, you sissied out. It would get old fast. Better by far just to take the plunge. I shed my shirt and looked back inside through the glass door—the women were still chatting away. I dropped my shorts and tested the water.
-Damn.
-Hot, huh? You get used to it.
I lowered myself inch by burning inch. Once I was up to my shoulders, though, it was marvelous. Pete was right about the bubbles.
-Dude, we need to sneak in here whenever they’re on vacation.
-I swear she was looking at me funny.
-She has the hots for you.
-No, seriously, you think she recognized me?
-She was giving you the eye, I saw it. She wants a piece of you. You know she’s bored with her husband.
-She’s old.
-Not all of her.
After five minutes, I told myself I should dry off, get dressed, collect Marissa, thank Sigrid, and call it a night, but the whirling, bubbling water was immobilizing, and like the metaphorical frog in the cooking pot, there was no hopping out.
-I bet this feels great on your shoulder.
-One word, baby: optimal healing. I need one of these at my place.
-Maybe you should marry a rich guy.
-I’d be out here every night.
-So would he.
-It’d be worth it.
At the ten-minute mark, I told myself five more minutes. For Pete’s sake.
-I could be rotting in a box right now, a slab of cold meat. That Hummer had my name on it.
-Must have been surreal.
-Instead, I’m soaking in luxury. Wonder what the footprint is.
-What?
-The carbon footprint. Someone’s burning coal to generate the power to heat this water. Probably up on the Navajo reservation. Polluting their air.
-You wanna get out?
-No, the damage is done, the water’s been heated, someone ought to enjoy it. Out of respect for the Navajos.
At fifteen minutes, sweat was pouring down my face.
-This is friggin’ hot.
-Hey, what’s up with the Mexican chick? On the jury.
-She’s Persian.
-Does she like you?
Does she like me? She offered me a ride (across the parking lot), she ate lunch with me (and two other women), she let me buy her a drink (of bo
ttled water).
-I guess so.
And today after court was adjourned, after Scooter the pirate had walked the plank, I caught up with her in the hallway and she stood real close and spoke quietly.
-I know we’re not supposed to discuss it, but that gang guy, didn’t it seem like he was lying?
I put my hand on her shoulder, taking care to be appear casual, friendly, not flirtatious, and nodded.
-Yeah, I got that too.
I could smell her wonderful perfume.
-You gonna ask her out?
-I think she has a boyfriend.
Because right then, right after she’d practically whispered in my ear, her phone rang, and something about her voice and smile when she answered made me think it was a guy.
-Yeah, they always have a boyfriend.
And then she gave me a little wave and turned away. I’d been hoping to walk her to her car, but I couldn’t stand there waiting for her to hang up, not without looking pathetic.
-You know what, life isn’t fair.
-Dude, you’re telling me. You’re the first person I’ve been naked with in over a year.
-I mean that woman in court, the guy’s grandmother. She lives in Long Beach surrounded by gangs and drug dealers, and Sigrid marries a rich guy and lives like this.
-We should steal something while we’re here. Like Robin Hood.
That reminded me of something.
-You remember that old movie, Treasure Island?
-Is it porn?
-No, I saw it in must have been third grade. My whole elementary school watched it, sitting in the gym, and I was walking around in the dark trying to find a teacher to give me permission to go outside because I got scared when the one-legged guy, Long John Silver—
-You said it wasn’t porn.
-So this was how many years ago—over twenty?—and today in court it all came back to me, like it happened yesterday. Probably ‘cause this witness looked like a pirate.
-You got scared again?
-No, but I felt sorry for that little kid in the gym. No one comforted him.
-Come here.
He stood up on the hot tub steps and spread his arms, offering me a steamy, glistening, naked hug.
-Now I’m scared.
At twenty minutes, without warning, and without a stitch of clothing, Pete crawled out of the hot tub and jumped into the swimming pool.
-Whoo!
-Is it cold?
-Oh, dude. You feel tingly all over. You feel alive.
He ducked under, swam to the far end, and disappeared behind the waterfall. I stood up on the deck. It was approximately six steps from tub to pool, which means I was halfway there when I heard a man’s voice.
-What the fuck? Don’t move, asshole, or you’re a dead man.
I recognized the voice. And the fluffy hair.
-Richard, it’s me.
I grabbed my shorts off the deck.
-I’m calling the cops, you fucking pervert.
He had his phone out.
-Richard, it’s me—Fletcher—remember? I was just…I’m not the…we were in the hot tub. Sigrid said it was okay.
-Never heard of a swimsuit? I walk in, I see a guy naked in my backyard.
-I’m sorry. We didn’t think—she said you had a meeting.
-She did? Where is she? Are you fucking around with my wife?
-What? No. She’s inside. With Marissa.
-I’ll fucking kill you myself.
-Look in the window. See? They’re in there.
Richard walked over to the glass door, but didn’t go in. He appeared to be studying the scene. He was short, maybe five-seven, I hadn’t noticed that at the theater, the hair added a couple inches. When he turned back to me, his tone had changed, the outrage was gone.
-Last week we had this weirdo back here.
-Sigrid told us.
He watched me pull on my shirt.
-We meet in funny places, Fletcher. First the bathroom—
-Now the bath.
He allowed himself a smile.
-Nice. I understand you’re on a jury.
-Yeah.
-Who’s he? What the fuck? I didn’t need to see that.
Pete was back in the shallow end, waist deep in the well-lit water, which would have been alright if he hadn’t been in a handstand, and if he hadn’t held it so long.
-I have no idea.
I kept a straight face. Richard went for his phone.
-Wait. Richard, I’m kidding. He came with me.
Pete’s head finally surfaced.
-Pete, this is Richard. Sigrid’s husband.
-Hey. Great pool. You guys coming in?
King Richard looked confused. A man’s home is his castle—why were two jesters splashing around in his moat?
-Pete, nice form on the handstand.
-Was I straight?
-No, flaccid.
Richard fled indoors. I watched through the glass. Sigrid didn’t stand up to greet him, and he didn’t go to her. Stepping out of the pool, Pete was watching too.
-Told you. She’s bored with him. She wants you.
He lowered himself by increments back into the hot tub and sighed with exaggerated pleasure.
-I’d like to say this is better than sex, but I can’t remember.
When Pete and I, fully clothed, rejoined the party in the sitting room, I had a new explanation: criminals return to the scene of the crime to appear innocent. Reverse psychology. When Richard discovered me and then Pete in his backyard, bare-assed in the oasis, he thought he’d caught the Peeping Tom, but since we turned out to be invited guests, we were now beyond suspicion—it would be too great a coincidence. And now that we were all friends, what difference did it make if we’d been back there uninvited last week? We were legitimate. Nothing left to feel guilty about, I confidently met Sigrid’s gaze when she greeted our return with a smile.
-Caught with your pants down, I hear. Serves Richard right not calling to say he was on his way.
Did she just accuse Richard of trying to sneak up on her? Richard had a quick reply.
-I was on the phone talking shop the whole drive home.
-A new reality show?
He ignored my question.
-Besides, Sigrid, you had company.
-You’re lucky they didn’t think you were the prowler.
There was definitely some tension.
-Hey, Richard, here’s a concept: plant a nude guy on someone’s patio.
He gave me another puzzled look.
-Why?
He wasn’t much fun.
-See what happens. Hijinks ensue. Candid Camera meets—
-No, thanks. People call the cops on that. We did, when Sigrid caught that creep.
Richard wandered off. Marissa turned to Sigrid.
-What did they look like?
-There was only one. He—
-I mean the cops. Any hotties?
Richard returned with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
-Fletcher, can I offer you a glass?
-Thanks, but we should get going.
-You sure I can’t tempt you? This is the good stuff. A major Merlot.
He turned to Pete, who started to accept. I cut them off.
-Really, guys, I’ve got an early morning.
Marissa waved her hand.
-I’d like one.
I tried to signal Richard—she’s way past her limit. He put the corkscrew down.
-Maybe we’ll wait on this.
-I mean a hottie. I’d like a hottie. I don’t drink red.
Marissa was cracking herself up. And embarrassing the rest of us.
-Marissa, you’ve got one.
Did Sigrid just call me a hottie? She smiled at me. Marissa smiled at Richard.
-What do you think, Richard? Were you here?
-Sorry?
-She means the other night, dear. The cops.
-Oh. Yes, I was here.
Richard was here, it was him
in the doorway. Of course, it was. Occam’s Razor. I got Marissa to her feet and her feet pointed toward the front door. Richard followed right behind.
-Court starts early, does it?
-Yeah.
-How’s that trial coming?
Does he know I know?
-I can’t really discuss it.
Does he know Sigrid told Marissa they were paying for Bud Jack’s lawyer, and Marissa let it slip to me? Probably not.
-How are the other jurors? A pretty friendly bunch?
Well, Gramma Jamma is, so is Giraffe and a Half, and Chatty Chad, The Elephant is annoyingly friendly, The Mouse always nods, and then there’s Roya.
-I haven’t really met them.
-They say you should be affable—if you want to be elected foreman. Wouldn’t that be a kick? That’s what I would try for.
-Yeah?
-Hey, buddy, next time let’s grill some steaks.
He looked at me funny when I laughed out loud, but I couldn’t help it. What a night: Marissa unleashes her inner alcoholic and solves the mystery, Sigrid calls me a hottie, and Richard wants to be buds. And Pete is miraculously healed. Earlier in the evening, when we picked him up at The Cave, Pete had flinched at my hug and guarded his shoulder, but now he eagerly threw his arms around Sigrid and thanked her for the soak.
-I feel rejuvenated. I feel alive.
He held on until it almost became awkward. Sigrid didn’t seem to mind, seemed pleased actually. I was next—warm hug from Sigrid, firm handshake from my new best friend.
-Good to see you again, Fletcher.
-Likewise, Richard. Thanks for everything, Sigrid.
-Our pleasure. Drive carefully.
-Always.
-Keep your pants on, Fletch.
Good one, Dick. Pete and I folded Marissa into the backseat, where she promptly fell asleep. The Wilhites went back indoors with one final wave from Sigrid.
-Dude, I felt her nipples.
Back onto PCH, where the evening had begun. Traffic was moving freely. In the passenger seat, Pete was mythologizing the epic hug.
Grisham's Juror Page 19
