6 Juror

by Parnell Hall

  “Wait a minute. You saying you were lying before?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is a formal interrogation. You’re taking down my answers. I have to be very accurate about what I say.”

  “Come on. Isn’t the truth the truth?”

  “Not at all. You ask me informally if I work for Rosenberg and Stone, I’ll say sure. You ask me in a formal hearing, I have to say, no, I do not work for Rosenberg and Stone, I am self-employed. But my company does business for Rosenberg and Stone.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Big difference.”

  “To whom?”

  “The IRS for one. The Juror Selection System for another.”

  Thurman frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I just went through a big hassle with the Juror Selection System over whether or not I’m self-employed. I’m not going to make any formal statement that contradicts that position.”

  “Now, see here. That’s not what this is all about.”

  “I understand. I think I’ve answered your question and I think I’ve made my position clear.”

  Sergeant Thurman took a breath. “All right. You and Sherry Fontaine were on a jury together?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did you first meet her?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “This past Tuesday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “I got selected as an alternate on the jury. Tuesday afternoon I met the other jurors.”

  “And she was one of them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you drove her home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you drive her home?”

  “We both live on the upper West Side.”

  “You drove to court every morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why’d you do that? Parking down there is impossible.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  “I was working my other job, and I needed my car.”

  “Your job as a detective?”

  “That’s right. I was doing cases in Harlem. I’d drive up to Harlem, do a case, and drive down in time for court.”

  “And pick her up on the way?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you take the subway?”

  Jesus Christ. There probably are not two people in the world as unlike each other as Sergeant Thurman and Alice, and yet, here he was, putting me through the same interrogation she had, in practically the same words.

  It was hard to take, under the circumstances. I mean, Jesus Christ, Sherry Fontaine was dead. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. A beautiful, vibrant woman was dead. And for no apparent reason. Unless she’d been raped—which I didn’t know, and which Sergeant Thurman sure wasn’t letting on—it was an utterly pointless crime. The sort of brutal, mindless crime you grow accustomed to living in New York City, after years of hearing one described every night on the evening news. That’s all it was. A name. At most a face, a photograph of a person, depersonalized by the event. The victim. An element in a sad, but inevitable news story.

  But Sherry Fontaine was real. A real person. A real woman.

  Someone I knew.

  I told that to Alice, later that afternoon, when they finally dismissed me, after they’d taken my statement and let me go. I told Alice, and Alice understood. I knew she would. Alice is wonderful that way. She knew I’d been involved in other murders before, found other bodies, knew the horror of it. But she understood why this one was different.

  “I knew her,” I said. “I knew her.”

  “I know,” Alice said.

  And she held me while I cried.

  21.

  “YOU GOTTA DO SOMETHING.”

  That’s the thing with Alice. Predictably, with Sherry Fontaine’s death, Alice had come a hundred and eighty degrees. Alive, Sherry Fontaine was “that woman,” an obnoxious, scheming coquette. Dead, Sherry Fontaine, whom Alice had never met, was Alice’s best friend, a poor, harmed woman who had to be avenged.

  I quite understood. I felt that way too. I just didn’t see what I could do about it.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” I told her.

  Alice stared at me. “Don’t you care?” she demanded.

  “Of course, I care. But there’s nothing I can do.”

  Alice smiled. “You always say that. You always run yourself down. But you’re so resourceful. You can do more than you think you can.”

  I sighed. “Come on.”

  “You helped Pamela Berringer out, didn’t you? And that police sergeant’s daughter?”

  That police sergeant was Sergeant MacAullif. Helping his daughter out was a favor I wouldn’t soon forget.

  Pamela Berringer was a young housewife who’d been a member of our car pool. Alice knew I’d helped her out, but didn’t know all the details that had entailed. Little ones, like me almost getting killed.

  “That was different,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the woman’s dead. She’s dead, and it’s murder, and the cops are investigating. It’s out of my hands.”

  “But this cop—you said he’s not too sharp.”

  “He’s big and he’s ugly and he looks like a prize fighter who stuck around for too many bouts. Plus his manner is rather crude. That doesn’t mean he’s no good.”

  “That doesn’t mean he is.”

  I took a breath. “Look, Alice. Let me try to explain something. It’s not just so simple as, the woman’s dead, let’s try to find out who killed her. I’m the one who found the body, and I happen to know her. The police have interrogated me and let me go. At the moment, I’m not a suspect, just a witness. No one in the case, this sergeant included, seriously thinks I did it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But if I go nosing around in the case—which I got no business doing—and the cops find out about it—which, of course, they will—then I am a suspect. ’Cause the way they’ll see it is, if I’m not involved, what the hell am I doing messing around?”

  I was right, of course, and what I just said was true. But that still didn’t help me from feeling bad for saying it. ’Cause Alice was right too.

  I realized I’d just flunked Private Detective 101. No self-respecting private eye would just sit back and say, “It’s not my job,” when a friend of his got killed. A TV detective would feel it was a matter of honor to see the slime that did it brought to justice. And just seeing the creep go down wouldn’t be enough—if the cops got the guy, the private eye would feel he’d failed for not nailing him first.

  Now, while I wouldn’t go as far as all that, it did bother me some, the way I felt.

  “That’s silly,” Alice said. “You’re not involved. You had nothing to do with it. You barely knew the woman. You’re a casual acquaintance, at best. The cops won’t be able to come up with any connection. What motive could you possibly have?”

  “Sex.”

  “What?”

  “She’s a beautiful woman and she was found naked. The cops may put it down as a sexual assault. Which means, as far as they’re concerned, I could have done it.”

  “But that’s absurd.”

  “Thanks for your support. The point is, a sexual assault doesn’t require any complicated motive or longstanding relationship. A sex killer can be a total stranger.”

  “You’re not a sex killer.”

  “Tell it to the judge. Alice, I know it’s absurd, and you know it’s absurd. The cops don’t. If they get the wrong idea, I could be in serious trouble here.”

  “You’re just being paranoid.”

  I looked at her. “I just found a dead body, Alice.”

  She held up her hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I apologize. It’s just, you’re really not a suspect, and there should
be something you could do.”

  I took a breath and shook my head. “Believe me, I wish there were.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Alice and I looked at each other.

  I don’t know about where you live, but in New York City, that simply doesn’t happen. The doorbell doesn’t ring. Not when you don’t expect it. In New York, no one comes to see you without calling first. It just isn’t done. An unexpected doorbell is a rare and remarkable event.

  Alice and I gave each other a look that said, “Were you expecting someone?” which also automatically conveyed the response, “No.”

  I frowned and went to the front door.

  Another thing no one does in New York is open the front door without looking through the peephole. Even in our building with manned elevators, no one does that. So I slid the metal disk away from the peephole and looked out.

  I blinked. It couldn’t be.

  I slid the cover back over the peephole and opened the door.

  Sure enough, the man standing in the doorway was Sergeant MacAullif.

  22.

  GOOD LORD.

  This was an occurrence far beyond the scope of just an unexpected ringing doorbell. I knew MacAullif, sure, from various homicide investigations. I’d done a favor for him once, and he’d done a favor for me. And I liked MacAullif, in a sort of strange, adversarial way, and I had a feeling he felt the same. But it was at best a business relationship. A relationship of convenience. Or necessity, if you will. I mean, we’d never go to the ballgame together. Or have an outdoor barbecue. I’d never been to his house, and he’d never been to mine. And I couldn’t imagine that ever happening, somehow.

  And yet, here he was.

  There was a pause while I stood there gaping at him.

  “Well,” he said. “You gonna invite me in, or should I just stand here like a schmuck?”

  I exhaled. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing, but I must have, because a lot of air came out. “Sorry,” I said. “Yeah. Come in.”

  I stepped aside and MacAullif came into the foyer. He turned and saw Alice standing there.

  I’m poor at social situations, and particularly with introductions.

  When I suddenly realize two people I know don’t know each other, the ball is in my court. When that happens, I have a tendency to immediately panic and blank out on either name, even though both of them are people I know well.

  That didn’t happen in this case. I knew the name Alice and I knew the name MacAullif. I even knew his first name, William, although I’d never used it. But even so, I felt totally awkward and embarrassed and on the verge of total panic. I mean, Jesus Christ, introductions. What the fuck was it? In proper etiquette you introduce the person you want to honor to the other person, who I guess is the person you don’t want to honor. Or was it the other way around? Anyway, in this case, who did you honor—your wife or your arresting officer?

  “Oh,” I said. “Excuse me. Alice, this is Sergeant MacAullif. Sergeant MacAullif, this is my wife.”

  Alice has no problem with social graces. She smiled charmingly, held out her hand and said, “Sergeant MacAullif. How nice to meet you.”

  MacAullif took her hand and mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.” He seemed as awkward and embarrassed as I was. He took a breath, said, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I really need to talk to your husband.”

  Alice said, “Sure. Why don’t you two go in the living room.”

  MacAullif hesitated, looked at me. “I think we should talk outside.”

  “There’s a coffee shop up the block.”

  “That would be fine.”

  A few more awkward pleased-to-meet-yous and MacAullif and I were out the door. We waited in silence for the elevator, rode it in silence to the lobby.

  Jerry, our young elevator man, gave us a funny look. MacAullif is big and beefy, and even in plainclothes he looks like a cop. Jerry had to be wondering what was going on.

  We walked up Broadway to Au Petit Beurre, a coffee shop on the corner of 105th. We chose a table off in the comer and ordered coffee. MacAullif said nothing until it came. He dumped in cream and sugar, stirred and took a sip. He nodded. “Not bad coffee.”

  “Yeah. I like it. So what’s up?”

  MacAullif sighed. “You know what’s up. The Sherry Fontaine case.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  MacAullif took another sip. “The case crossed my desk this afternoon. Nothing to do with me, but a case comes in, it gets passed around. A homicide, I mean. ’Cause in a homicide they’re always looking for any connection, any similarity to anything that’s gone before. So even if it’s not your case, the word gets around.”

  “So?”

  “So your name popped up as a witness. More than a witness. Guy who found the body. Guy who phoned it in. Guy who knew the dead woman.”

  “Witness or suspect?”

  MacAullif shrugged. “Same thing. With no known perpetrator, witness or suspect means the same thing.”

  “But I’m not officially listed as a suspect?”

  MacAullif grimaced. “Jesus Christ. You’re such a fucking amateur. All your ideas come out of storybooks—suspect with a capital ‘S’. You’re either a ‘suspect’ or you’re not.” MacAullif shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. If you’re involved and there’s no perpetrator, you’re in trouble. Your only chance of getting out of trouble is if a perpetrator appears.”

  “Shit, MacAullif. You came up here to tell me I’m in trouble?”

  MacAullif exhaled. “Not entirely.”

  “Well, what then?”

  MacAullif took another sip of coffee. He held the cup in both hands, seemed to be studying it. “The cop in charge of the investigation is Sergeant Thurman, is that right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “He interrogated you at the scene, took you downtown, took your statement, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So what do you think of him?”

  I took a breath. “He’s crude, obnoxious, overbearing, looks like he couldn’t find his couch in the living room. Setting that aside, I suppose he’s good at what he does and knows his job.”

  MacAullif exhaled and shook his head. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I don’t know what it is with you. You’re fucking amazing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Unbelievable. Uncanny. If I had the time, what I ought to do is take you to the track, ask you what you thought, and then bet the other way.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying your judgment of character’s so bad I could make book on it. Jesus Christ, I never seen anything like it. I ask you what you think of Sergeant Thurman, in spite of everything you’ve seen of him you say underneath he’s probably a good cop.”

  “Wait a minute, MacAullif. Are you telling me he isn’t?”

  “No,” MacAullif said. “I’m a cop, and I don’t badmouth other cops.” He took a sip of coffee, added, “As a rule.”

  He took another sip, set the coffee down, studied it for a moment, then looked me right in the eye.

  “Just between you and me,” he said, “Sergeant Thurman is the pits.”

  23.

  I STARED AT MACAULLIF. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’re sayin’ Thurman is a bad cop?”

  MacAullif winced. “Again with the capital letters? Bad Cop, like on TV? Everything black and white? No, he’s not a Bad Cop, not like you’re thinkin’. Not like bein’ on the take, or shooting some unarmed kid and then laying a gun on him. No, he’s just a bad cop in that he isn’t good.”

  “You’re saying he’s honest?”

  “With a capital ‘H’?” MacAullif shook his head. “It’s hard getting through your TV mentality, so let me spell it out for you. Thurman’s the type of cop, he thinks he’s on the side of the angels. Us against them. The good guys and the bad guys�
��there, something you can relate to. Thurman’s the type of cop, he thinks someone’s guilty, he’s not above cuttin’ a few corners to put him away. That don’t make him a bad cop in his eyes, see? He’s still on the side of the angels. See what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I see. Seems to me you said something like that yourself a while back.”

  MacAullif frowned and held up his hand. “Let’s not go off on a tangent. I said something like a lot of recent court decisions are bullshit, and there’s assholes walking the street ’cause their rights were violated, and I don’t give a shit if they were, they’re scum and I want ’em put away.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is I wouldn’t manufacture evidence, frame a guy and give false testimony in court.”

  “You sayin’ Thurman would?”

  “No, I’m not sayin’ that, but you can draw you own conclusions. All I’m sayin’ is, if Thurman thinks a guy’s guilty, then that guy’d better look out.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  MacAullif sighed, ran his hand over his head. “Yeah, why? Well, because I know and you don’t. And I hate like hell to tell you. But if I didn’t tell you, and you took a fall in this case, then I’d feel responsible.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. I’m not involved.”

  “Yeah, but Thurman doesn’t know that. And Thurman doesn’t have a perpetrator. And if Thurman can’t find a perpetrator, then all he’s got is you. And that could just elevate you to bein’ the suspect with a capital ‘S’ you were talkin’ about.”

  “Yeah, but someone killed her. So Thurman ought to be able to come up with something.”

  MacAullif frowned. “Yeah, well that’s the other thing. You really ought to trust your first impressions more. You say Thurman doesn’t seem very bright, but underneath it all he must be pretty sharp. Wrong. Thurman isn’t very bright. He seems stupid ’cause he is stupid. Now, I know that’s too simple a concept for you to handle, but it happens to be the case.”

  I rubbed my head. “Why are you telling me this? You wanna warn me, okay, I’m warned. Now I know Thurman may be out to get me. Fine, but what the hell can I do about it?”

  MacAullif looked at me. “Are you really that dense? Thurman will pick you if he can’t figure out who did it. And he’s not bright enough to figure out who did it. So you gotta protect yourself.”