by Jay Brandon
“I’ve seen a great many children pass through my courtroom, though,” Judge Waverly continued. He was watching Ashley intently now, with a more kindly air and a note of longing in his voice. The child found the judge less interesting than the rocking horse. “In person or on paper. And I see what happens too many times afterward, the father just abandons them. I’ve never understood how a man could rest at night, knowing his child was growing up somewhere in the world without him.”
Jordan had to swallow his sudden anger. “That would be hard,” he said tightly.
“Well.” The judge nodded politely, reached as if to touch Ashley, then turned away. Jordan wondered, seeing him retreat, if he would have guessed the tall silver-haired man in short sleeves and wrinkled pants was a judge, and thought he would. There had been an added dash of humanity in the judge’s Saturdayness, though. Even through his sudden anger, Jordan had felt that the man might be on the verge of opening up to him. Instead, he’d offered advice.
Jordan was eating with Ashley in the diner—she’d reluctantly agreed to try the fried chicken and french fries, and Jordan’s hamburger had grown cold as he pulled the chicken into boneless bites—when Laura came in. She stood at the counter in profile to him and asked the cook by name for an iced tea. Jordan hadn’t phoned to tell her he was coming. He’d hoped to run into her just like this, catch her unawares in her native habitat, but now he had another reason for talking to her. “Ms. Stefone,” he called softly.
She turned, not surprised to hear her name called, but surprised and pleased to see Jordan, then frowned slightly and shot a glance across the booth to see, he thought— wondered, hoped—if he was with another woman.
“Well, this must be Ashley.”
“No, this is Ashley’s evil twin, Hepzibah.”
“No, I’m not,” Ashley said. “Hi.” Laura was the first person in Green Hills she’d spoken to.
“Hello,” Laura said pleasantly, her voice not changing from its usual timbre. “How’s the chicken today?”
“It’s okay. Want some?”
Laura didn’t glance at Jordan until there was a natural pause in her conversation with the child, then she raised her eyes. “Hello, Mr. Marshall.”
“Hello, Ms. Stefone. I brought Ashley to see your town.”
“I hope she approves. Well, I’ll get my tea.”
“I’ll be right back, darling.” Jordan followed Laura to the counter, where he said in a suddenly harsh voice, “I really don’t appreciate you talking to the judge about my personal life.”
“What?” Laura looked utterly baffled.
“I saw him just now. He seemed to know I was divorced and that I might not be as close to Ashley as I want. I didn’t tell you that so you could pass it on to him.”
Laura shook her head. She didn’t get mad in return, but there was a sudden reserve about her. “I haven’t said a word to the judge about your marriage or your child.”
“Then how did he know? You’re the only one I’ve told.”
“Are you sure?”
Jordan had to wonder. Had he mentioned to Mrs. Johnson that he was divorced? Had Mrs. McElroy gotten it out of him without his noticing, or Helen Evers?
“Maybe he just figured it out,” Laura added. “You don’t wear a ring.”
“Some married men don’t. And he wasn’t studying my hand.” But Jordan was no longer angry. He was curious.
Laura said firmly, “I don’t talk to people about you, Jordan. I let them talk.” He shrugged an apology. Laura softened. “Beautiful little girl, Jordan.”
“She’s smarter than she is pretty.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult her.”
Jordan looked sheepish. He still had some undirected anger to work off. “I don’t know if pretty is even any good for a girl,” he said.
Laura smiled. “But smart is?” She reached for him but stopped. “So I guess you’re driving back to San Antonio soon?”
“Yes. I have Ashley until tomorrow.” He waited. “But I could come back after that.”
“That would be nice.”
“If you asked me,” Jordan concluded, suddenly wanting more from her than smiling acquiescence.
Laura’s eyes were suddenly moist and so warm and lonely and honest that he thought she’d reached out and held him. “Didn’t you hear me ask?” she said.
It was the first night Laura opened her windows. She got up and stood beside one of the bedroom windows, looking out into her back yard and the fields beyond. “They said we’re going to get an early cool front,” she said. She laughed. “I think I feel it.”
She was dressed perfectly to appreciate any stray breeze, in nothing. Jordan rose on his elbow and watched her. Moonlight turned her into a classical statue, illuminating her face and chest and long, strong legs and leaving dark hollows beneath her breasts and below her navel. When she rested her hands on the windowsill and lifted her head to cool her neck, he appreciated the play of muscles in her back and the confident curve of her buttocks. He muttered an appreciative blasphemy.
Laura might not have heard him. Jordan joined her at the window, moving so swiftly she didn’t have time to turn. His hands insisted on enfolding those curves. He kissed the junction of her shoulders and neck. She leaned her head back against him, and when she turned, he felt moisture on his temple.
“My God, what’s wrong?”
Her cheeks were streaked with tears. She smiled at him, her smile looking very bright with the wetness of her eyes. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”
“Is it—?” He didn’t feel quite intimate enough with her to ask about the time of the month. “Are you — ?”
“It’s nothing,” Laura insisted, laughing. “I’m just happy, Jordan.”
“I can tell.”
“I’m too happy. I hate being happy, then you have nowhere to go but down.”
“God, that’s a wonderful philosophy.”
She sat on the windowsill, legs spread, and pulled him close. “Are you happy?” she asked teasingly.
He thought about it. “I am. I’m ecstatic. This is terrible. You know we might both be at the peak of our lives right this minute, and any second we’ll start sliding down.”
“That’s right.” She was still smiling. “So let’s prolong the moment,” she said with a strange emphasis that made him laugh nervously. “Can you waltz?”
“The question is whether I can move.”
She slid off the sill, against him. Jordan held her tightly as they circled the room, Laura humming. The ceiling fan hummed along. They could feel the currents it stirred. They felt the length of each other’s bodies. Jordan lifted Laura to kiss her, then held her there, hands under her thighs, her arms and legs around him. He felt her nipples tighten against his chest. Laura kissed him, hard, reaching. She was no longer crying.
Later, as he lay in bed beside Laura, their hands entangling or falling softly on each other’s legs, the thin curtains puffed inward with the first breath of fall that had traveled so far to reach south Texas. Jordan felt the brave little breeze on his chest.
“There it is,” Laura said, “the cool front. My goodness, isn’t it refreshing?”
Jordan could picture the front of Laura’s house, with the narrow porch behind its railing and the dark green shutters. He could picture the street, the town, the countryside, as if he belonged there, as if he’d spent his whole life among them. It felt right to be there.
But tomorrow they would all be arrayed against him again, because tomorrow the trial started. And he still didn’t know anything he needed to know.
“I guess you were one of the first people to hear about Jenny’s death,” he said, an intrusive observation in the soft dimness. But Laura answered easily.
“No, I wasn’t even here. We closed the court early that day, a case that had been supposed to go to trial settled at the last minute, and I went to Corpus Christi to take a deposition.”
“They don’t have court re
porters in Corpus?”
“It was for a local lawyer, Don Myers, and he wanted to show up with his own court reporter, make himself look important. You know the type.”
Jordan smiled and knew she was smiling with him. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to suspect Laura—the killing had been too physical—but somehow he was comforted to know she hadn’t even been part of the scene the day of the murders.
“Jordan,” Laura said, rising on her elbow, “what are you going to do?”
For answer he pulled her across him. There was a spot on her neck he hadn’t yet kissed. A tender, delicious spot. “I thought we might get something to eat,” he said, mouth so close to hers she must have felt his voice, “keep our strength up, maybe have a shower together, then end up right back here.”
“I meant tomorrow,” Laura said indulgently. Her legs moved across his.
“Tomorrow, too, if you want,” he said.
9
Yeah, nuke ’em, that’s right, Emilio. They’re not all in Iraq or Iran, you know.”
“What’s he saying?” Cindy Garcia asked, coming in from her office.
Jordan filled her in. “The political scientist here thinks we should just nuke the Mideast out of existence.”
“Just take care of all of ’em at once,” the bailiff emphasized.
“But you can’t, that’s what I’m saying. They’re all over the world, Emilio. Some of ’em are right here, and what do you think they’d do? Like to see the Mercantile Building go up in smoke?” Jordan was naming the tallest building in Green Hills.
“Aw, they wouldn’t come here,” the bailiff said. “Maybe blow up a few New Yorkers, but how bad is that?”
“Emilio!” Cindy exclaimed “That’s racist.”
“That’s not racist,” Emilio defended himself. “Hating Mexicans is racist, ’cause I have to be a Mexican. Nobody has to live in New York.”
Laura was there, too, but she wasn’t joining in. Jordan thought she was looking at him the way a mother looks at her child on the first day of school. He wished he had some way to reassure her that he knew what he was doing.
He needed to reassure Wayne, too. He could feel the uneasiness of his client beside him as he listened to Jordan bantering with the court staff, including the prosecutor a few minutes ago. Wayne surely didn’t understand that making friends with one’s adversary was sometimes part of the job.
Jordan leaned over and whispered to him, “You know your part?” Wayne nodded, but Jordan explained again. “We won’t get to you today, you just have to listen. And if you hear something that doesn’t sound right to you, write me a note. And for God’s sake, don’t get mad. Getting mad is what got you here today.”
“Okay,” Wayne said tightly. It probably hadn’t been real to him until today, the idea that he was going to be judged. He was very stiff in his white shirt and tie. His eyes stared even when there was nothing to see.
Jordan didn’t stiffen until the jury panel was brought into the room. That’s when the case becomes real for the lawyers. One second the lawyers could be joking with each other and with the judge, but when the civilians came trooping in, the lawyers were on duty. Their chairs were turned to face the potential jurors, who came into the audience section of the courtroom expectantly or nervously or irritably.
Judge Waverly’s voice came over Jordan’s shoulder, welcoming the potential jurors and immediately beginning to instruct them. Jordan had heard judges who fawned over jury panels, which after all were composed of registered voters. There was none of that in Judge Waverly’s voice. They were in his courtroom now and they would all do as he said, everyone within the sound of his voice, which fell with particular heaviness on Jordan’s ear.
But the jury panel was not what he would have expected three months ago when he first thought of their threat. They were not the unitary, unfamiliar entity Jordan had pictured. Among the thirty-two prospective jurors, he knew one or two, he had met them while investigating. One stood out vividly; Jordan winced at the sight of her. Other faces were vaguely familiar. Jordan wasn’t one of them, but he was no longer the total stranger in town either. A few of them studied him frankly. Behind them, Evers of the Register gave Jordan a welcoming smile.
When the individual questioning began, however, it soon became clear that this trial would hark back to the early days of trials, when the only people who could serve on a jury were those already familiar with the case.
“Sure,” was the most common answer when each prospective juror was asked whether he or she had heard of the murder of Kevin Wainwright. When asked the follow-up question, whether they had formed an opinion as to who had committed the murder, the consensus was summed up by one rail-thin man with his shirtsleeves rolled up who appeared surprised by the question but waved a long finger at Wayne and said, “Well, it was him, wasn’t it? Isn’t that why he’s here?”
It began to look as if Mike Arriendez might not be able to get a jury, but he managed to “rehabilitate” most of these prospective jurors by explaining the presumption of innocence and getting them to agree, sometimes reluctantly and with their sincerity in doubt, that they could put aside whatever they’d heard and render a fair verdict.
Jordan questioned them further on the subject, but that only got their backs up and made them declare even more adamantly that they wouldn’t pay any attention to the stories they’d heard. Sure they could be fair. The written record that Laura was compiling behind him would show no reason why these panelists shouldn’t serve on the jury, but some of them had gleams in their eyes. They’d put one over on the big-city lawyer.
Finally Jordan came to the centerpiece of the jury panel. She smiled confidently at him, serenely awaiting his questions with her hands in her lap.
Jordan didn’t ask any of the standard questions. He began abruptly with a question that killed her smile. “Can I trust you, Mrs. McElroy?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m not singling you out, I’m using you as an example. You’ve heard stories about this case, haven’t you? All of you have. Do you understand that those stories count for nothing now? That before you can be a juror in this case, you have to understand that you don’t know anything yet? Because those stories aren’t evidence. They only become evidence when someone gets up here on this witness stand and swears to God to tell the
truth and then tells you what he or she saw. Not heard, saw. And even then it’s not evidence unless you believe the person. Unless you believe that he was able to see what he says, that his opinion hasn’t been distorted by what he heard later or what he thought he should be seeing.”
Jordan paced in front of them, making individual eye contact. They were very quiet, perhaps with the first realization that before they got to judge anyone they were going to be under the microscope themselves.
“Because we know what stories are worth, don’t we? They get passed from person to person and the story changes a little bit every time it changes hands, sometimes just accidentally and sometimes because one of the people passing on the story wants to put a little different spin on it, because of the way he or she feels about somebody in the story, because of something that happened years ago. Or maybe just because people want a story to be good.”
That was something they understood well. The certainty in their eyes changed subjects.
“So all that is garbage,” Jordan said fiercely. “What you have to understand and be able to say is that everything starts anew in this room. Nothing has happened yet. We don’t know anything. Because before you can be a juror, you have to take an oath, too. You have to swear to God that you won’t consider anything except what you hear people say from this witness stand and any physical evidence we bring you. Can you do that, Mrs. McElroy? Can I trust you to do that?”
“You certainly can,” the old lady said righteously. “If I was on this jury, I’d want to know the truth, not just what people say.”
Jordan smiled at her. To his surprise, it had beg
un to happen—something that hadn’t happened to him since he was a prosecutor. Jordan felt the power descend on him. The power expressed itself physically—in the deepening of his breath, in the way his suit seemed to fit tighter, and his peripheral vision was improved—but that wasn’t its source. The wellspring of the power was his sudden certainty that he was right. That he had justice on his side. The sense of moral clarity both energized and calmed him.
Jordan spoke carefully, aware that this sense of power had played him false in the past He was his own best audience: He always convinced himself if no one else. Behind the jury panel, across from Helen Evers, he saw Wayne’s parents. Mrs. Orkney watched him shrewdly. She knew perfectly well that the out-of-town lawyer had no particular interest in her son. She could only hope that something about the case would inspire him in spite of his disinterest.
“Let me ask you something else, Mrs. McElroy. Have you heard anything about the murder of Jenny Fecklewhite?”
“Objection. Irrelevant.”
Both lawyers turned toward the judge. “The two cases are inextricably entwined, Your Honor.”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Marshall.” Judge Waverly spoke without emphasis, apparently unconcerned.
“In the public mind they are, Your Honor.”
“The objection is sustained.”
Jordan resumed his seat. Mrs. McElroy had an eager-to-help expression if he could only get to her.
“Have you heard about another murder,” Jordan asked, “that took place here in Green Hills the same day as Kevin Wainwright’s?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
Jordan drummed his fingers. “Let me put it this way, Mrs. McElroy. From what you’ve heard and read, do you believe that the same person killed both Kevin Wainwright and Jenny Fecklewhite?”
“Objection. It’s not relevant.”