An hour passed. Discussion continued. Several of the more clamorous (male) jurors, wanting to go home, suggested that a ballot be taken; but Terence, fearing that a majority of the jurors would vote for acquittal, forestalled the ballot. “We must not act prematurely,” he said. “This is a grave responsibility entrusted to us.”
As at meetings at the Feinemann Foundation, where it was Terence Greene’s responsibility to preside over panels of contentious judges, each an expert in his field, he knew to use his understated, seemingly neutral authority to advantage.
Terence led his fellow jurors through a discussion like that of a university seminar, analyzing the trial testimonies in sequence: that of Ava-Rose Renfrew, that of Holly Mae Loomis, that of Charlton Heston Renfrew, that of Mrs. Reuben, that of T. W. Binder. This required a considerable amount of time—nearly two hours. Like the skillful teacher he had been for much of his life, Terence was careful to draw out the more reserved jurors, one of whom was an elderly black man retired from the post office, another of whom was a very young, diminutive woman with delicate Asian features; and was pleased to discover that both seemed to side with the prosecution. The young woman said hesitantly, “I think, well, she’s the victim, here. This Binder, he was threatening her—”
“She says!” The aggressive young man, who had taken such a pronounced dislike to Ava-Rose Renfrew, let his fist fall on the table.
Terence, as foreman, said sharply, “Don’t interrupt, please.”
The young woman continued, breathless, “It happens all the time, it happened to my sister-in-law: Some guy thinks he owns a woman, beats her up, sometimes kills her. And people blame her. I think it was aggravated assault. I think he meant to kill her.”
Terence said, quietly, “Yes. I think so, too.”
It was the first clear statement Terence had made indicating his own opinion; he sensed how the others took it in. It pleased him too that the aggressive young man so immediately acquiesced to his authority. I am the expert, I am the judge. Listen to me.
After another half-hour, Terence called for a vote. He did not think that a clear majority would vote guilty, judging from the tenor of the debate; yet he could not forestall a vote much longer. He printed GUILTY in block letters on his ballot and sat watching, with some apprehension, as the others voted. It was a curious paradox: The more belligerent, mostly male, claimed to distrust the prosecution’s argument, but were really siding with T. W. Binder against the Renfrews; the more tractable and reasonable jurors believed the prosecution’s argument, and sided with the Renfrews against Binder. Where was Justice to be found? Was there Justice, in such a petty, brutal case?
Terence himself counted the ballots, openly. What! There were seven votes of not guilty, and only five of guilty.
A flame of pure murderous rage ran over his brain.
Yet he kept his voice under control. In his profession, diplomacy was cultivated to the level of instinct. He even managed a good-natured smile, in the face of his frowning, disgruntled companions. “Well! It looks like we may be together in this room a long time.”
A mere statement of fact, and hardly a threat. But his adversaries would know he meant business.
Outside the jury room’s single grimy window the warm June day began to slant into afternoon. And then late afternoon. A sheriff’s deputy brought them coffee, soda pop. Terence, outwardly calm, gentlemanly as always, felt like a man in a cage. Your quick temper. Impatience. In the company of people not like yourself.
Terence led the discussion, which was circular, repetitive, and weary. He tried to keep an air of incredulity out of his voice as he asked questions of those jurors he knew to be his adversaries. How can you justify, do you truly think, why would the prosecution, what of the four witnesses, what of the defendant’s claim of “blacking out”? He perceived that Ava-Rose Renfrew was being assaulted yet another time, in the jury room; it was an astonishing example of the stereotyped response to violent crime—“blame the victim.” Yet he dared not accuse his adversaries of such primitive thinking, or he would alienate them entirely.
One of the irresolute jurors, who clearly no longer cared what the verdict was, so long as he could go home, suggested, at 5:45 P.M., that they take a straw vote on the reduced charge of simple assault—“I bet we’d be unanimous, on that”—but Terence was reluctant to do so. Obviously, the jurors who believed Binder guilty of the greater charge also believed him guilty of the lesser; the other jurors, distrustful as they were, or claimed to be, of the prosecution’s case, nonetheless believed that an assault of some kind had occurred. Terence said, “I’m afraid, as the judge instructed us, we are to proceed with the charge of ‘aggravated assault’ first. And then—”
“But we’re deadlocked!”
“—and then, if it seems we are really at an impasse, we can proceed to the other charge.”
The man who resembled Matt Montgomery snorted through his nose, but his voice was pleading. “‘Impasse’—what the hell’s that?”
“A deadlock. A ‘hung’ jury.”
“But we are deadlocked—aren’t we?”
Terence smiled. “Not yet.”
It was Terence’s perception that his adversaries, having no deep moral conviction in the case, but only a sort of spiteful emotional identification with T. W. Binder, would not hold out much longer. (Nor would his allies, probably. But he would hold out—forever.) As at the Feinemann Foundation, Terence Greene invited those whom he hoped to eventually defeat to speak at length, so as foreman of the jury he graciously invited his adversaries to speak, for as long as they wished, explaining why they “rejected” the State’s case. It was Terence’s shrewd conviction that, for many people, especially the more volatile and the less intelligent, the mere act of speaking constituted action; sometimes it was as satisfying. The loud young man, the man who resembled Matt Montgomery, another man of slack-bellied middle age whose bald head shone as if polished: These jurors took turns airing their grievances, in monologues that revealed an intense dislike and distrust of women. All three men claimed to have known women like Ava-Rose Renfrew—“She’d say any damned thing, and just her saying it,” the bald man said excitedly, “made you believe it was so. Like if she said, ‘It’s raining out,’ on a day like today, you’d believe, hey, it’s raining out! Yeah!” Everyone, even the women jurors, laughed.
Terence said, “But she didn’t put anything over on you.”
More laughter. The bald man’s chunky teeth gleamed. “Hell, I’m still paying alimony, nine years later.”
So it went. The sheriff’s deputy brought them supper, carried across the street from the Mill Hill Tavern, and the jury’s mood was more convivial. Terence at last argued his own position, explaining that he had “an unshakable moral conviction” that the defendant Binder was guilty as charged; and that it would be a violation of Justice if the jury settled for anything less. Terence chose his words with care; yet he felt buoyant, inspired. Hettie’s boy. Poor child. Yet listen!
After he finished his appeal, there was a silence. His fellow jurors contemplated him wonderingly. Then the loud young man, who had been restless and sullen for some time, shrugged, and laughed, and reached for a ballot—“Okay, man, you convinced me! Let’s just get out of here.”
This time, when Terence counted the ballots, he was happy to see that the vote was unanimous: Guilty.
And what pride he took, rising in the jury box, in the courtroom, when the judge requested him to stand and deliver the verdict.
“Guilty, Your Honor”—in his even, neutral-sounding voice.
The prosecutor checked a smile; the defense counsel dropped a pencil on his tabletop, in a small gesture of disgust. But the defendant T. W. Binder sat impassive, with downcast eyes, and did not look up.
Terence’s only regret was that she was not in the courtroom, to hear the verdict.
“Daddy Looked Right Through Me”
Cindy Greene would remember: It was only a few days after poor Tuffi died t
hat Daddy began to change.
This was in early September. Before Labor Day, when it was still warm and humid as summer. Cindy, who believed secretly that she was her daddy’s favorite child, yes there was some secret understanding between them that excluded Mommy too, hadn’t any word for it, at first; just a sense, a visceral sensation of hurt, unease, resentment—“Daddy, aren’t you listening? You never listen to me!”
And Daddy would say, quickly, his gaze shifting from its gray-gauzy look to its sharper, in-focus look, fixed upon Cindy, “Why of course I’m listening, honeybun. You were telling me about—” repeating Cindy’s words the way a machine or a parrot might, just the words and not the meaning beneath.
“Oh Daddy! Really! You don’t have to humor me.”
Cindy might laugh mirthlessly, to show she didn’t give a damn, really. Or she might storm out of the room, heavy on her heels, knowing Daddy was staring after her, apologetic and pained.
(Cindy weighed more than ever. She’d abandoned her diet in self-disgust, during the family’s two-week visit, in August, to Grandmother Winston’s summer home in Nantucket; it gave her a hateful sort of pleasure, knowing how plain and chunky she was, how she was growing, breasts and hips especially, and would continue to grow, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.)
The first strange thing about Daddy, that occurred soon after Tuffi’s death, was, in a way, the strangest. When Cindy thought of it, afterward, during the terrible months to come, she would hug herself, the plumpness and solidity of herself, and shudder. What had it meant!
It was in fact the first of those numerous Saturdays Daddy had to be away for professional reasons—a conference in New Haven, Connecticut. He’d left before breakfast, and so was cheated of the usual household chores he so loved. Poor Daddy! How quiet the house was, how empty, and ordinary, without his hammering, sawing, whistling, banging about, talking to himself!
Phyllis observed, with a shivery little laugh, “With both of them gone, it’s too peaceful, somehow, and too sad.”
“Mommy!”—Cindy and Kim both giggled, shocked.
(For Mommy was referring to Tuffi, as well as Daddy.)
Daddy had said to expect him home on Sunday afternoon, but, to Cindy’s surprise, he came home early, on Saturday night. It happened that Cindy was alone: Aaron had left for Dartmouth, Kim was at a party, Phyllis was having dinner at the Bawdens’ on Cherrylane Road. Cindy, who scorned the company of the few girls in her class who might have befriended her, was watching a video and eating lukewarm pizza when she heard a car turn up the driveway—judging, by the sound of the motor, that it was Daddy’s car, and not Mommy’s.
Daddy?—home early? And only Cindy to greet him?
Cindy hurried into the utility room, hearing her father drive his car into the garage; hearing the motor running—and running, and running. What was wrong? Why didn’t he turn off the ignition? Cindy opened the garage door, poked her head out—saw a sight she would not soon forget: Daddy in his car, behind the wheel, stiff and unmoving and unaware of her, hiding his face in his hands.
“Oh Daddy!”—a whisper, not a cry.
After a long moment, Daddy lowered his hands. Was he crying? The overhead light in the garage was on, but its light was indistinct, shadowed. Daddy had no awareness of Cindy, so hypnotized-seeming was he. Could he be sick? drunk? Cindy frowned, watching him. How strange he looked: shadows beneath his eyes deep as grooves, nostrils smudged and black as holes. He did not look handsome as Cindy knew him but disfigured somehow—ugly. Even his necktie was askew, as if someone had flung it mockingly back over his shoulder.
And why did he sit there, still as death?—like some robot or zombie in a movie? Why didn’t he turn off the ignition? The garage was filling with poisonous smoke.
Cindy, who was frightened, decided to make a joke of it. She shouted, “Daddy, hey! Carbon monoxide!”—waving and making a pug face, so Daddy saw her at last, waking from his trance. At once, he switched off the ignition.
Cindy ran to the car, to open the door and to be kissed. “Hey! Hiya! How come you’re back home early? You trying to gas yourself, or—” But how peculiar, Daddy had hardly moved from behind the wheel; held back, as if not wanting to be touched, or to show himself in the light. Cindy cried, “Daddy, what’s wrong? How come you’re—” seeing then the still-moist clots of blood in his nostrils and the bruise beneath his left eye; his swollen upper lip. She screamed, “Oh Daddy, what happened?”
Daddy had a wad of tissue in hand, a bloodstained wad, and was hurriedly dabbing at his nose. He said, quickly, in an effort to sound normal, even cheerful, “Honeybun, I had a little accident on the way home, and banged my silly nose.”
“Oh Daddy! An accident!”
“But it’s nothing, really. Nothing.” Daddy’s voice rose, uncertainly. “Your mother’s not home?”—seeing that Phyllis’s car was gone.
“M-Mommy’s at the Bawdens’, and she’ll be—back soon.”
“Good! Good. I’d hate to upset her, too.”
Cindy saw that the front right fender of her father’s handsome BMW had buckled in, and part of the grill was dented. The right front headlight was cracked.
“Some damned driver on the Turnpike changed lanes right in front of me, and I couldn’t brake in time—” Daddy’s voice trailed off in impatience and regret, as if he were about to cry. “Of course, I suppose it was my fault, too, for daydreaming.”
Cindy, suddenly a very young child, sucked at her fingers watching her beloved father climb out of his car, stretching his long legs and standing on them tentatively, as if fearing the knees might buckle. Except for his bruised eye and bloodied nostrils, Daddy’s face was a sickly-clammy gray, like damp newsprint. His necktie was not only crooked, but speckled with blood; his shirt front was speckled with blood; one of his coat sleeves was torn at the cuff, and both lapels were torn. (This was a modestly stylish beige sports coat, a cotton and linen fabric. The necktie was a plain brown silk.) It would not occur to Cindy to wonder how such injuries to her father’s clothes might have been caused by a minor accident on the Turnpike.
Daddy switched on one of the garage lights, and examined the front of the car, where the fender and grill were dented. There was a smear of oil, or something, on the fender, which Daddy hurriedly wiped off with a kerosene-soaked rag; Cindy could hear his audible, agitated breath. Poor Daddy!
Cindy asked, incensed, “Did you get his license plate number? Did anybody see?”
Daddy said, shuddering, “No. Nobody saw. The other driver—drove away. And I was left behind.” He passed a trembling hand over his eyes. Cindy had never seen her father so—disturbed; so unlike himself. He murmured, another time, “I suppose it was my fault.”
“But, Daddy, what if you’d been killed! Don’t say that!” Cindy was wide-eyed, indignant. Reluctant too to surrender the delicious fear, the secret rapport between Daddy and herself, the very strangeness of this encounter. Tears sprang into her eyes as she rushed to hug Daddy, who, stooping to hug her, gave a faint groan, as if his knees did hurt. The sinister odor of automobile exhaust hung in the air, for it was a warm, humid September evening, with no wind. Though Cindy was tearful, and agitated, she could not resist a bright schoolgirl’s observation—“Carbon monoxide, the poison, actually doesn’t smell. It’s just the exhaust, the smoke, that smells. Did you know that, Daddy?”
Daddy gave a hoarse little sob, hiding his face in his daughter’s hair.
Phyllis too noted the change in Terence: Though, being more observant than Cindy, and perhaps inclined to be more critical of Terence than Cindy, she would have dated its onset earlier than Tuffi’s death: Certainly, it began with that damned trial, back in June.
Terence’s distracted, fumbling manner, his dreamy not-thereness—these were qualities in her husband some found endearing, but Phyllis found increasingly annoying. During the five days of the trial, there had been some excuse, at least; but, then, after the trial, for weeks; even while they wer
e visiting Phyllis’s mother on Nantucket Island, staying as guests in the Winstons’ beautiful oceanside house—why, in such a setting, spend so much time brooding, off in a world of his own?
One brightly sunny morning on the island, Phyllis said, as she and Terence were dressing, “I wish you wouldn’t be so absentminded, around Mother. After all, this is her house. We’re guests here, and the children are guests here. And it is beautiful.”
Terence turned to Phyllis, with his vague querying smile.
“Has your mother complained of me? I’m sorry.”
“Her arthritis is so painful, she may have to use that awful wheelchair all the time,” Phyllis said passionately. “She has a right to expect gratitude from us, and sympathy; and she has a right to expect—well, gallantry—from you, her son-in-law. Remember how Father used to pamper her? She’s never really recovered from his death.”
Terence said, concerned, “Why, Phyllis—I thought I was being gallant. Last night, at the yacht club—”
“Yes, but Mother didn’t need to be helped with her lobster, not as you were doing it,” Phyllis said, “—and that business with her chair, and the edge of the carpet, that just embarrassed her, I think. She’s such a sweet, brave woman—we must be more thoughtful with her. I realize, she sometimes chatters, but—”
“Phyllis, I’m very fond of your mother,” Terence said, “—as I was of your father. They did so much for us—of course, I’m infinitely grateful.”
Phyllis detected a faint air of mockery, or irony, here: Her husband was a literary-minded man, a man who chose his words, when he wished to, with care. “You don’t need to be ‘infinitely’ grateful, Terry, just ‘adequately’ grateful. The children take their cues from you, especially Aaron. Keep that in mind.”
Terence pulled at his nose, as if deep in thought. He stood some yards from Phyllis, in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that fitted his narrow, rather flat torso loosely; he was barefoot, and his bony white toes kneaded the carpet.
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