Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  She scrunches her brow, and he adds,

  "Why do you think—excuse me, you said you know, didn't you?—how do you know Jack didn't commit the crimes he's accused of."

  She lowers her head, then, as if

  studying her hands in her lap. She breathes in and finally looks to the jury box to give her answer.

  "I've known Jack Hilliard for nineteen years. One of his best qualities, and one that made me fall in love with him, is, ironically, the same quality that caused him to commit adultery. It's this same quality that convinces me he didn’t do what Celeste says he did."

  "I don’t understand."

  "Let me finish, Mr. Scanlon." She chastises him kindly, the way a mother might chastise a toddler for a minor offense.

  "I’m sorry, go on."

  "Jack is an idealist, a romantic. He lives his life trying to do what’s right." A few skeptical murmurs rise from the audience.

  Claire sits up straighter and raises her voice as if she’s talking not just to Earl, not just to the jury, but to an entire community. "I imagine that sounds strange to some of you. How can

  someone who strives to do right cheat on his wife? Right? That’s what you're all thinking, isn’t it? I know because that’s what I kept asking myself, too, for a long time. But it’s true. He went to law school because he’s an idealist, he got a job at the prosecutor’s office because he’s an idealist. He devotes long hours to helping the victims of crimes by bringing the perpetrators of those crimes to justice.

  And yet, because he’s an idealist, he also believes most criminals can be

  rehabilitated, and he does what he can to make rehabilitation a reality for those who are willing to work for it. Some of you are probably thinking, but didn't he go to one of the big silk stocking firms after law school? He did. But he did that, too, because he’s an idealist. He graduated from law school with $35,000 in student loans, and back then, that was a lot of money to owe at graduation. The right thing to do when you owe money is to pay it back. The fastest way to pay it back is to work at a high paying job, no matter how much you hate it. And trust me, he did hate it. He won't appreciate me saying this, but he also got fired from that firm for trying to do the right thing. He refused to do something he believed was unethical."

  "Your Honor," Walkers says. Come on, his tone says. "She's giving a narrative, much of it is hearsay, and frankly, I also don't see how any of this is relevant."

  "Would you prefer I lead the witness, Mr. Walker?" Earl's question gets a snicker from a few attorneys in the audience.

  "Well, it is a cross-examination,"

  Walker shoots back.

  "Mr. Walker," Judge Simmons interrupts their bickering, "I'll allow it.

  She's giving a narrative, yes, but some questions call for a narrative. Mr. Scanlon asked her why she believes Mr. Hilliard didn't commit the crimes. She obviously feels she can't answer that question in one sentence. As for your hearsay objection, I've not heard anything in her testimony wherein she repeats statements made by others. Where's the hearsay?"

  "She's testifying as to why he was fired from a job. She's testifying why he hated that job. These are not things of which she had direct knowledge. They're based on what he, or someone, has told her."

  "But the testimony is offered not to prove its truth, but rather to explain her opinion."

  "Exactly, Your Honor. And that leads me to my third ground for the objection.

  Her opinion, as I argued when I originally objected to the question, is not relevant.

  The point of this trial is to decide Mr.

  Hilliard's guilt or innocence. That's the jury's job, not his wife's. Her lay opinion isn't appropriate."

  Jack scribbles on Earl's pad, He's right.

  Earl writes back, Not our problem, the judge would rather err on the side of the defendant.

  Jack knows this is true. By giving a defendant's attorney more leeway at trial, the judge effectively limits the grounds for appeal after conviction.

  "Well, as judge, I have wide discretion in these matters, and I do think her testimony goes to Mr. Hilliard's intent somewhat, so I'm overruling the

  objection. Again." The judge peers down at Claire. "Ma'am, were you finished answering Mr. Scanlon's question?"

  "No, Judge, but this time, I'm afraid, I don't remember where I was." She laughs a little, though everyone sees she doesn't think it's funny. The judge asks the court reporter to read back the last few lines of Claire's testimony. She listens, breathes deep, as if reloading her nerve. "I was about to say, even the decisions he made that night, he made to help Celeste. At the risk to his reputation, I might add.

  Did he show poor judgment? Perhaps, by some standards. Many men, in this day and age, wouldn't dare be alone with a young girl for fear of being falsely accused of something, anything. But Jack doesn't think like that. He simply tries to do what's right. And that night, he thought it was right to drive a drunk girl home. He thought—"

  "Your Honor!" Walker's frustration is palpable. "I apologize, but now she's testifying to Mr. Hilliard's thoughts. I have to object."

  "I will sustain that objection," Judge Simmons says. "Mr. Scanlon, your client may testify about his own thoughts"—a few more laughs from the gallery—"if he decides to take the stand." The judge then smiles down at Claire as if in apology.

  "Mrs. Hilliard, you'll need to limit your testimony to your own thoughts."

  "Yes, Your Honor." She turns back to Earl. "My point is merely that I know Jack couldn't have committed the crimes he's accused of because it's not in him to do something like that. His whole career has been about stopping people who do such things. I've watched him shed tears for the victims in child abuse and sexual abuse cases. It's just not in him."

  Her voice breaks with the last sentence.

  She's clearly frustrated with her inability to express her thoughts without drawing an objection.

  Earl lets the jury absorb her testimony, and then he quietly thanks Claire. As he walks back to the table, his body radiates the same frustration. It's okay, Jack writes.

  They care about emotion, not objections. Earl ignores the note, poised for redirect.

  Walker stands even before the judge motions to him. "Ma'am, I don't quite understand your testimony. You stated that Mr. Hilliard's idealism made you fall in love with him, and yet his idealism also caused him to commit adultery?"

  "Yes."

  "If an idealist is ruled by the principle of always wanting to do right, how can that be? Surely you don't mean to say that Mr. Hilliard thought it right to have sex with a woman who wasn't his wife."

  Claire's nostrils flare. Jack and Earl exchange a look. Walker should have let it lie and then used it in his closing. Now, not only has he angered Claire with his blunt language, he's also given her free rein to fix the inconsistencies he pointed out in her testimony.

  "No, Mr. Walker. I am quite sure he knew it was wrong. What I mean to say is that idealists aren’t perfect, just like the rest of us. And just like the rest of us, they sometimes do things that violate their code. The difference, though, is that while most people accept they made a mistake and move on with their life, an idealist has a hard time forgiving himself.

  No one, I mean no one, beat up Jack Hilliard more for what he'd done than Jack Hilliard. Not even me."

  "Who's to say he didn't violate his code by raping Celeste Del Toro?" He says the word "code" with obvious disdain.

  Claire ignores his sarcasm. "Because raping a child would be more than wrong, it would be evil. There's a difference. An idealist's mind can rationalize doing something wrong. But evil? It's simply not in an idealist's DNA to do anything evil."

  "Adultery's not evil?"

  Jack can't believe Walker continues to pursue this. Anything she says now can only hurt his case. Has it become personal for Walker, too?

  "I suppose that depends on the reason for it. In most cases, I'd say no."

  "Well, then, why do you think Mr.

  H
illiard committed adultery?"

  Claire's mouth opens slightly but no words come out. She blinks several times as if the question has left her

  dumbfounded. She shifts her gaze to Jack again, helplessly, as if searching for the answer in his eyes.

  Claire once told Jack she'd made a promise to herself never to ask him the question Walker just asked. "I told myself that it was the one question I'd never let myself ask, because I knew—no matter what you said—it would never satisfy me, never justify what you'd done."

  She kept the promise to herself. Not once did she ask him why, and he was grateful, because he didn't have an answer. Not one, at least, that either of them was ready to accept. It took more than four years for that to happen.

  "Mrs. Hilliard?" Walker persists.

  "Please answer the question. In your opinion, why did Mr. Hilliard commit adultery?"

  She reluctantly looks away from Jack and sits taller. For courage, Jack thinks.

  "Based upon everything I know about Jack Hilliard, only one thing could have compelled him to do what he did."

  Holding its collective breath, the courtroom waits. Jack stares at the blank lines of his legal pad. He knows what she's about to say, and he can't bear to look at her as she says it.

  "Love."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHEN JACK ARRIVES home around

  four, reporters clog the street in front of his house. This time, they're there for Claire. Inside the house, silence reigns.

  He knows she left the boys with her parents that morning after receiving a commitment from Ruth that she wouldn't let Harley badmouth Jack in front of them. When he doesn't find her in the kitchen or the family room, he wonders if she joined them after leaving the courthouse. Her minivan, though, is in the garage.

  He climbs the stairs to their bedroom.

  Except for the suit she wore to court hanging on the closet door, there's no sign of her up there, either.

  It's not until he enters the office downstairs to get online and check the day's accumulated emails that he finds her. She's curled up asleep in the corner chair, a forgotten book open and turned upside down on the armrest. She let her hair down; except for a few strands on her cheek, the loose curls splay against the cushion behind her head. She exchanged the suit for a fleece sweatshirt and shorts.

  Her pale legs are bent, her bare feet are tucked to the side underneath. He's still drawn to her delicate features, and the knowledge he always will be doesn't make any of this easier.

  He pulls the French doors shut, but through the glass panes he sees her eyes open at the click of the latch. She lifts her head and spots him.

  "Jack."

  He reopens one door slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

  "It's okay."

  They regard each other tentatively.

  "Thanks for today," he says. "I mean, for what you said on the stand."

  After another awkward silence, he says,

  "Well, I guess I'll go find something to eat. Do you want me to shut this?"

  "No, it's okay." As he turns, she calls his name again to stop him. "I wanted you to know, I didn't perjure myself. I meant every word." He waits, unsure what part she thinks he might believe was perjury. "I know you didn't do anything to Celeste."

  He looks at the floor because if he continues to look at her, he'll be tempted to say what's on his mind. Why did you wait so long? Why didn't you tell me that a long time ago? If she had, he thinks they might have had a chance.

  In the kitchen he stands before the open refrigerator but doesn't see the ample contents. Instead, he sees himself a few months into the future, standing before a refrigerator in a small apartment somewhere, maybe in the city closer to the courthouse. The refrigerator will be empty except for the basics—milk, eggs, maybe some lunch meat. Even the loaf of bread will be kept there because it would mold quickly if left on the counter. He wouldn't need more because he can't imagine bothering to cook for one or having the time. He'll become one of those attorneys who always works late into the night because he'll have nothing to come home to.

  And even though Claire would never poison Michael or Jamie against him, he'll still become the interloper, always on the periphery of his sons' lives. He imagines the various milestones—graduations, weddings, the birth of grandchildren—

  where the role of host will default to Claire, and Jack will be just another guest.

  He thinks about holidays, Michael and Jamie crowded around a table with Claire and her parents, her aunts and uncles, and eventually their own kids. Thanksgiving or Christmas with Jack will be nothing more than a pity visit to be endured until they politely move on to their mom's house. Given Mark's affection for Claire, Jack thinks even his own brother might defect.

  He can't imagine moving forward, and yet he knows they can’t go back.

  He shuts the refrigerator, as empty-handed as when he opened it. He can't seem to take a deep breath. His eyes fill again for the second time that day and he tells himself to get a grip.

  He turns for the stairs and startles when he sees Claire at the end of the island, watching him.

  "I guess I’m not very hungry," he says.

  It's a lame attempt to disguise what almost happened, but she saw, and she mistakes its meaning.

  "We could open a bottle of wine," she suggests. "Mom said she'll keep the boys all night if we want. We could talk."

  Earl once told Jack that a marriage can survive infidelity. Jack believed him. After all, Earl's did. Jack thought his and Claire's would, too. He wanted it to. He really wanted it to.

  "I don't think so."

  She moves closer and stands on her tiptoes to reach two wine goblets from the cabinet. He wants to grab them from her hands, fling them so they shatter against the wall, and ask her if she heard him. Instead, he watches her uncork a bottle of red. Her small hand is strong as it twists the corkscrew. He notices her nails are painted, rare for her, and it makes him look down at her toes, too.

  They're painted a blush pink color that always reminds him of the beaches on Cat Island, where they celebrated their tenth anniversary.

  She pours the wine and he accepts it without meeting her eye. He can't think of a time they didn't toast, no matter the occasion or lack thereof. But he knows there will be no toasting tonight. He lifts the glass and swallows more than a sip.

  Hers remains on the counter, untouched.

  She stands in front of him and her hands go for his tie. She gives him a look that asks, May I? When he fails to respond either way, she picks at the knot and loosens it for him. Next she starts on the button at his collar. He calmly but decisively pushes her arm away.

  "Don't."

  "I'm just—"

  "I can unbutton my shirt if I want it unbuttoned."

  She steps away and raises her hands in surrender. "Fine. Sorry."

  "What did you want to talk about?"

  "Seriously?"

  He sighs and places his glass down, starts to leave. She grabs his arm.

  "I want to talk about us." She pauses, perhaps anticipating a protest. "I want us to start fresh. I'd like to put everything behind us and start over. Can we talk about that?"

  "I think we tried that once and failed."

  "We'll try again. We were doing fine until this mess with Celeste."

  Fine. Not quite how he wants to spend the rest of his life. Simply doing fine. He also can't help but notice she doesn't mention Jenny this time.

  "You'll be acquitted and we'll put it behind us."

  "And if I'm convicted?"

  She steps closer again and he feels like a caged animal. "You won't be."

  "I might. You said so yourself. Celeste might give an Oscar-worthy performance tomorrow."

  "Then we'll fight it."

  He shakes his head. How can she not get it? "I have been fighting it, Claire, even if you weren't. Even as you were still deciding whether you thought I was guilty."

  Her cheeks redden. "I never thought
you were guilty."

  "You know what? I think I believe you.

  And that's the problem. Even though you always believed in my innocence, you couldn't bring yourself to tell me. Instead, you withheld it as some sort of

  punishment. You've been punishing me from the moment I was arrested. Christ, Claire, you actually suggested I take the plea." He shakes his head, still unable to believe it. "You did perjure yourself today

  —"

  "What?" she cries. "I didn't—"

  "—when you said you forgave me for what happened with Jenny. You haven't."

  "I have."

  "You haven't. You tried. I know you tried, but you haven't been able to. And if you couldn't forgive me after four years, you never will. I don't blame you. I won't stand here and profess to know how it felt when you found out what I'd done.

  And I don't know whether I would

  forgive you, either, for the same thing. It doesn't matter."

  "Jack, it matters," she says softly. "It matters. We have a family. We have Michael and Jamie." She places her palm on his cheek, and he closes his eyes to ward off the attack. She knows his weak spot and won't be shy about going after it. "If I've been punishing you, I'm sorry.

  But don't make the same mistake. Don't punish me now for not telling you about the PI. Don't punish us."

  He's already been through all this in his head. He's done the mental gymnastics and thought about whether his decision is merely his own way of striking back at her. He doesn't think so. It hurts too much.

  It occurs to him that they're both making their way through the five stages of grief. He just happens to be further along, somewhere between depression and acceptance. She's stalled at

  bargaining.

  She gently touches her lips to his. He doesn't resist. He even tries to

  reciprocate, but he feels nothing but sadness.

  He pulls away and wonders if he just kissed his wife for the last time.

  "Just say you'll try," she whispers. Her cheeks are wet from silent tears. "We'll both try."

  "Claire . . ." The rest— I can't—sticks in his throat.