"I gather. Won't Pressman be there?"
"She only goes to some. She's probably in her office." Emil reached the door with a gold number painted next to it. "Let me do the talking. The secretary is a friend of mine. You stay behind me."
"Emil, I'm a foot taller than you. You can't hide a sequoia with an olive tree."
"Then we cover your face." Emil tugged Bennie's hat down. "To the left of the door is a waiting room. Sit there until I get past the secretary. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Don't be such a joker. Men don't like that."
"Then I'll stop. Right away."
"Hmph." Emil straightened his tie and opened the door onto a sparsely furnished secretary's area with high ceilings. It was empty except for a secretary who was fast asleep, propped up by her elbow on a desk that faced the door. Emil flashed Bennie a thumbs-up sign and pointed to the waiting area, which held a couch and two chairs around a small coffee table. Bennie marched obediently to the couch and sat down. To the left was a water cooler and a shelf of slots for mail. Down the hall must have been Pressman's private office.
"Flossie," Emil whispered. "Flossie?" He touched the secretary's arm and she woke up with a start.
"Oh. My. What?" The secretary's sleepiness vanished when she recognized Emil. "Emil, my goodness! I must have been snoozing on the job. How embarrassing!" She laughed nervously and patted a gold chain around her neck.
"That's all right. I sometimes doze off myself now that I'm on the night shift."
"Now I know how you feel. I was here all last night." She straightened her navy sweater and finger-combed her short brown hair. She looked middle-aged, with soft jowls around the laugh lines in her face. Snapshots of lithe Bengal cats covered her desk. "I don't know how you do it."
"Not very well. Sometimes I feel like a mole. How did your stuffed grape leaves turn out, by the way?"
"They were wonderful! I've been meaning to thank you. My daughter-in-law ate three and you know how picky she is. She reminds me of you-know-who. Her nibs." The secretary jerked a resentful thumb toward Pressman's office.
"I'm so pleased the grape leaves turned out well. You didn't fry the leaves too long, I hope. That is the secret."
"No," the secretary said, "I followed the recipe exactly. It was so much easier than I thought."
"Now, tell me, why have you been here all night, Flossie?" Emil's voice was honeyed as baklava. Back on the couch, Bennie rolled her eyes, wondering when he was going to get to the point.
"The snowstorm, of course. The snowplows. What a mess. The cats must be so upset. Smoochie can't sleep without me, poor thing."
"I understand completely. On night shift, I hardly see my wife or the girls. It's hard to get used to."
"I'm so mad about what they did to you, Emil. I never buy the News anymore."
"Flossie, my fight is not yours. Anyway, I don't mean to keep you, I wanted to see Jennifer. Is she in?"
"No." The secretary's lip curled. "She left a while ago. Just cut out and left. I have to stay because I'm a 'subordinate.' "
"What?"
"Don't get me started."
"Where did she go? I would like to see her."
"Home, supposedly, but we can't reach her there. I don't know." The secretary shook her head. "She'll probably be in soon, and you're welcome to sit and wait."
"If we must, we must. Thank you," Emil said graciously, but back at the couch, Bennie just growled.
51
The jurors sat at the conference table in the hotel in the same positions as they had in the deliberations room at the courthouse. The hotel conference room was large, modern, and windowed, like the one at the Criminal Justice Center, the legal pads sat stacked in the middle of the table, and the ice water tasted the same. In fact, the only difference between yesterday and today was that Christopher Graham had, to the astonishment of all, changed his vote. And shaved off his beard.
"You changed your vote?" asked Ralph Merry, his soft jowls draped around a mouth open in surprise. "You think we should convict Steere?"
"Absolutely," Christopher answered, with as much certainty as he could muster. "I vote guilty as charged."
Megan was amazed at the change in Christopher, and she wasn't thinking about his vote. Without his beard, Christopher's chin was strong, with a rugged cleft in it. His lips were full and nicely formed. He looked ten years younger, and thinner. Megan edged forward in her chair. "You shaved your beard?" she asked.
Ralph ignored her. "But, Christopher, yesterday you said we should acquit Steere. You've said he was innocent from the beginning. Why did you change your mind?"
Megan couldn't get over it, over him. The difference in Christopher was so awesome. He looked way hunky. "I think you look better without your beard."
Christopher smiled and shrugged happily. He felt better without his beard, like a new man with a fresh start. Lainie didn't want him and neither did Marta. Well, he was starting over, but he couldn't tell Megan that. "I don't know why I shaved, but I know why I changed my mind. I couldn't sleep all night. My conscience got to me."
"Your conscience?" Ralph asked in disbelief.
Gussella Williams looked crestfallen. "Christopher? You're changin' your vote? You're not puttin' us on?" Her large features collapsed into a frown that broke Christopher's heart, He paused, uncertain, and scanned the jurors one by one. The pain on Gussella's face was reflected on almost every juror around the table. They were even wearing their Sunday best, dressed up to go home today. Christopher felt terrible keeping them from their families, especially Mrs. Wahlbaum, who looked at him last, her eyes hooded in disappointment.
"Do you mean this, Christopher?" she asked, uncomprehending. She couldn't have felt worse if her best student flunked a midterm. "Please explain this to me."
Christopher reminded himself of his purpose and bore down. He would tell the truth, in a way. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wahlbaum. I'm sorry, all of you, but I think Steere belongs in jail. He's a dangerous man. A murderer."
Smack! Kenny Manning slapped a loud high five with Lucky Seven, but theirs was the only joyous reaction. The other jurors remained puzzled.
"For real?" Nick asked. He was surprised. He woke up this morning all calm. Now he was getting all nervous again. Last night he knew just how to vote. Antoinetta visited him and told him what to do. He should vote not guilty. It would be over sooner if he did and go better for him in the neighborhood. Now Nick was all confused.
"But why?" Mrs. Wahlbaum asked. "You have to have some sort of rationale. Please explain."
Christopher cleared his throat. He'd spent all night rehearsing. "I don't agree with what Steere did. I don't understand why he just didn't drive away. If a man came up to me and I was in my truck, I'd drive away."
"Damn right," Lucky Seven said.
Mrs. Wahlbaum frowned. "Mr. Steere was frightened. In fear of his life, as you said. I thought you showed a real understanding of the situation yesterday."
"I hadn't thought it out yesterday. I needed to sleep on it."
"But you were so perceptive. So sensitive."
Christopher looked as uncomfortable as he felt. "I guess my conscience got to me. Steere shouldn't have just shot the poor man in cold blood."
Mrs. Wahlbaum's penciled eyebrows drooped. "Mr. Steere panicked. He didn't know what to do. It was a biological reaction, for self-preservation."
Martin Fogel folded his skinny arms. "She's a biologist now," he said, but Christopher ignored him and stood up at the head of the conference table, in front of a large window. The snowstorm was still going strong. Snowflakes fell from the gray sky on an already whitened city. The room was quiet and the snow muffled what little noise there was outside.
"It doesn't make sense that Steere was that afraid," Christopher said, as he stood behind his chair. "Why was he so afraid? The poor man was obviously homeless. Drunk to boot."
Megan couldn't take her eyes from Christopher. His shoulders looked so broad in front of the
hotel window. She had on her best Urban Decay makeup, thinking she'd get back on-line today. But when she looked at the new Christopher, Megan suddenly stopped missing her computer.
"I wonder if Steere was afraid of the knife," Ralph Merry answered dryly. "My guess is that the knife had something to do with it. Besides, the man was a carjacker, not a hobo or something."
"But the man was drunk," Christopher countered. "He couldn't have used a knife."
Ralph shook his head. "Christopher, the defense proved the carjacker wasn't that drunk. Remember that expert? The carjacker's blood alcohol showed he wasn't dead drunk. He could still have done some damage with a knife like that."
"I disagree," Christopher said. "It was an empty threat, and Steere killed him for it."
Lucky Seven grinned, and Kenny Manning crossed his arms. "Man's goin' down," Kenny said, nodding.
Christopher's head bobbed in unison with his new allies. "Also, why didn't Steere take the stand? Why didn't he just get up there and testify? Tell his side of the story?"
"We aren't permitted to consider that," Mrs. Wahlbaum said. "Mr. Steere had a right not to take the stand. We're not supposed to hold it against him."
"I know, but I can't help wondering," Christopher said. "Think about it, Mrs. Wahlbaum. We took an oath. We have to find the truth. It's our responsibility to wonder why somebody has something to hide."
"We're supposed to deliberate using what the judge told us," she insisted. "We have to look at the law and the evidence."
"But at the end of the day, it's our conscience," Christopher said as firmly as possible. He pointed to his chest beneath his flannel shirt and it made him feel even more emphatic. "We have to make the decision and we have to live with it."
"Thas' right," Lucky Seven said. "Everybody else, they go right on. The judge and lawyers go to the nex' case. We the ones, we got to live with it."
Christopher nodded. "Why did Steere shoot him? Why didn't he just hit him— clock him— and drive away? Or if he had to shoot him, why didn't he shoot him in the shoulder or someplace else that wouldn't kill the poor guy? Instead, he shot to kill."
"Coulda done a million things," said Lucky Seven, and Christopher nodded again.
The jurors' heads wheeled back and forth.
"Right," Christopher said. "Exactly. I know how you all feel and I felt the same way yesterday. But here's something all of us are forgetting. A homeless man is dead today because of Elliot Steere. A man is dead. Nobody can bring him back."
The room fell silent suddenly. Megan glanced at Mrs. Wahlbaum, who pursed her lips. Nick took a shaky sip of water. Wanthida looked down.
Only Gussella looked at her fellow jurors with undisguised scorn. She wasn't about to miss another week with her grandson. When babies were that young, they grew so fast, and Gussella wanted to hold that little boy in her arms. She could feel his softness against her skin, a warm bundle. Chubby arms to snuggle around her neck. Little fingers to coo over. A crinkly Pampers on that little butt. She couldn't wait a minute longer. "Are you all crazy? That man done wrong! He was tryin' to rob Steere's car! He held a knife to Steere's throat! We all saw how his lawyer showed it. He cut Steere right in his face!"
"Under his eye," Mrs. Wahlbaum added. "Mr. Steere could have lost his sight."
Mr. Fogel said, "Thank you, Dr. Wahlbaum. She's an eye doctor now."
Christopher faced them all. "Yes, that's all true. Everything you say is true about what that man did. But the question we have to answer is, did he deserve to die for it? Would you have killed him for it?"
"Damn," Lucky Seven said softly, and even Mrs. Wahlbaum looked like she was thinking twice.
Ralph Merry looked from face to face and worry crept over him. The jurors could go south on him. Christopher might be able to reach them in that down-home way he had. Christopher might be able to talk them into changing their votes, even though they were so close to acquitting. He might hold out and force a hung jury. He could wear them down.
Ralph considered his options and chose the one that made the most sense. He had to nip this sucker in the bud, before the worm started to turn. The jurors had gotten up expecting to go home and thought they were just an hour or two from a unanimous vote to acquit. Even Kenny Manning had acted less cocky than usual at breakfast. The brothers were breaking ranks. Ralph had the Big Mo, like George Bush used to say.
Ralph checked his watch. 11:10.
He'd have this sucker over with by lunch-time. The jurors wanted to acquit and he had to clinch the verdict. He'd blitz this battle like General Schwarzkopf. Get in, kick ass, and get out. This was his own personal Desert Storm. After all, he had a deal to live up to. With a killer. "Anybody else need a bathroom break?" Ralph asked, trying to sound casual.
52
Marta stood on the sunny shoulder of Route 72 in front of a sooty, pitted mound of snow. Purse on shoulder, she was thumbing a ride. She wanted to suppress the déjà vu but it was inescapable: Marta was back beside a highway, surrounded by snowy woods. Waving, hoping, begging a ride. Familiarity and fear flooded her, undeniable. She was terrified to do this again.
Please, sir! Please stop!
An oil truck with a long silver tank headed down the highway. Marta held up her hand but couldn't bring herself to flag down the truck. It was as if she were paralyzed. Her muscles refused to respond. Her heart pounded in her chest. She felt dizzy and broke into a sweat.
Please, sir! Please!
The oil tanker rumbled closer. Its tank glistened like a bullet in the sun. Marta had to catch it. She tried to wave but her arm still wouldn't move.
Please, sir. Please stop!
Please stop. Please don't. The oil tanker roared closer. The driver with the glasses was almost upon her. She could feel his hand on her knee. Sliding up her thigh. Fear rippled through her limbs. Her knees buckled. She wanted to panic and run. She was trapped in the station wagon. Open the door. Run out. Run away. Run away.
Then she blinked. The driver with the glasses had vanished, replaced by a trucker with a beefy face. He wore a white uniform, not a tie and jacket. He wasn't the man in the station wagon. Marta swallowed her anxiety and waved. Hard, then harder. Pumping away wildly.
"Please stop!" she heard herself shout. The voice was hers, not her mother's. The gesture was her own, too. Marta wasn't a liar or a drunk. Her car really had broken down. She really did need a ride. She jumped up and down, almost slipping in the slush. Yelling at the top of her lungs. She didn't care. She had to get him to stop. And she felt free, absolutely free.
"Please STOP!" she cried, but her shout was swallowed up in the Doppler effect of the huge rig as it roared past her. Marta jumped to avoid the fan of gray slush it sprayed in its wake. She stopped trembling as the truck rolled down the empty highway, shrank into a silver speck, and finally disappeared into thin, cold air.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Marta was in a blue Dodge Omni inching down Route 72. An older woman was at the wheel, going to Philly to visit her divorced daughter. The ride should have been a lucky break, but less than a mile down the highway Marta regretted ever accepting it. It was 11:30, and she could have walked to Philly faster. "Are you sure I can't put the radio on?" Marta asked, trying again. She had to know what was going on. Was the jury still out? Were the cops after her?
"No radio," the woman replied flatly. She was about sixty-five years old, with a cap of straight gray hair yellowing in the front. She could barely see over the wheel, which she squeezed with arthritic knuckles. A skinny brown cigarette dangled from her lips, dusting her thin cloth coat with ashes.
"Not even for a minute or two?"
"No radio."
"Why not?"
"It's my car and I don't like radio. I don't like music."
"I didn't want to listen to music, either. I want to hear the news. I have to hear the news."
"No radio." The woman shook her head, her chin tilted up as the car crept along. "I don't like news. I never listen to news. If
news comes on TV, I change the channel. At lunchtime I watch my stories. You know why? All the news is bad."
"Don't you want to hear the weather report? It's a snowstorm."
"I look out the window, that's my weather report." The woman sucked on the cigarette and her hollow cheeks got even hollower. "If it's raining I get my umbrella. If it's snowing I get my Totes. What's so hard?"
"But there's a blizzard in Philly," Marta said, about to explode. "You need a traffic report. Don't you want to know what routes to take to see your daughter?"
"I know how to get to my own daughter's."
"What if you can't get through because of the snow?"
"I'll get through. If my daughter needs me, I'll get through." The woman blew out a puff of smoke that rolled onto the dashboard like a wave. Acrid smoke filled the compact car, and Marta rolled down her window a crack. "Don't do that!" the woman snapped. "It's freezing out."
"Sorry." Marta rolled the window up. Her nose stung. Her eyes watered. She sweated inside her coat and snowpants. At this speed, they'd never get to Philly. If not for her motion sickness, Marta wouldn't know they were in motion.
"Keep that window shut! I'm older than you, not as strong." She flicked some ash into an ashtray crowded with crushed butts and looked over. Her brown eyes were reproachful behind her pink-framed bifocals. "I'll catch my death."
"It's so smoky in here."
"Oh, one of those, are you? Smokers have rights, too, you know. It's discrimination! In the Pancake House, the smokers have to sit by themselves. On the nonsmokers' side, they could have anybody there. They could have drug addicts there, or tuberculosis people. They don't have a sign saying NO DRUG ADDICTS, do they?"
Marta smiled, almost persuaded. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke, depriving her brain of oxygen. She peered out the window through the carbon monoxide. The trees dripped melting snow, and their car was so poky Marta had time to identify each tree. It took her until Pennsauken to persuade the woman to turn on the goddamn radio, and a few minutes into the news, Marta picked up a report on the trial:
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