I read that you have not decided if you want to run for Mister Scanlons job. I hope you do. That is why I am writing to you. I want to tell you that I will vote for you, that I hope you do not let me and my granddaughter down.
During the investigation the grandmother had repeatedly asked him about the death penalty, and he kept putting her off, trying to tell her that it was up to Earl and that Earl was not inclined to seek it on that type of case. He finally convinced her that the execution of her son-in-law would only add to her granddaughter's trauma, and that the girl might someday want to confront her father about his crime.
You are a good man and we need a good man to take over for Mister Scanlon. Please do it, Mister Hilliard. Don't let us down.
The letter was signed Sinserely, Mrs. Betty Waters, and it was the only part of the letter that was written in cursive script. He reread the letter several times and then set it on his desk. He picked up the envelope to check again for the return address. There wasn't one. He'd have to get the file from downstairs to find it.
Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and tried to picture Jamie's face through the viewfinder. Tried to picture Claire's face if he pointed the camera at her. What would she think if she read this letter? Would she be proud of him? Would she agree he'd made a difference? He makes a difference now. The noise was back. But just think of what he could do as head of that office. He could already hear Jenny: See, even this lady thinks you're a fool if you don't do it. He opened his eyes, but the noise was still there. He knows he's the darling of this office. The noise wouldn't go away. He's the darling of the office, Frank, because he's an excellent lawyer.
He wanted it. Why was he so afraid to go for it? To get into a position to make any difference, you sometimes have to compromise. He tried again to imagine the camera in his hands, his finger lightly on the button, ready to shoot, but he couldn't focus it. Claire stood right in front of him, but he couldn't focus. You still think he's a good man. Why couldn't he focus it, dammit? Doesn't that just prove the arbitrariness of it all? Then he imagined photographing Jenny; he'd never had occasion to take a picture of her. I think he'd be a great boss. When he adjusted the lens, just slightly, the blur faded, vaporized like this morning's mist, leaving in its wake a view of Jenny, her dark skin and dark hair in sharp contrast to the white sky behind her. Stop making it so hard. He could see her perfectly. She had on her green suit, the minty one. What more do they have to do for you? Her eyes stared down the camera. But first you have to get here. She never opened those eyes to him, not really. I first have to get there. But he held the camera now; he held an x-ray machine. Don't deny yourself what you really want. He could see clearly now. He could see behind the eyes. It's so close. He could see right into them; everything else disappeared. All you have to do is say the word, and it's yours. Where had all his so-called principles gotten him, anyway? Look what had happened at Newman. He'd already lost a job over his goddamn principles. All you have to do is say the word, and it's yours. No one else seemed to care.
He reached for the phone and dialed Earl's extension. "You got a minute?"
After a moment of quiet, Earl said, "Yeah, I've got a minute. My door's open."
But Jack didn't want to wait the thirty seconds it would take to get to Earl's office.
"I'm coming down. We'll call Dunne together."
"And what are we telling him?" But Earl knew. Jack knew that he knew.
"We're telling him I want your job." And then he laughed, it sounded so funny. He laughed because he felt the relief he'd expected to feel earlier. He laughed because he felt light, and a little weak. He laughed because he liked the way it sounded; he liked the way he sounded when he admitted it to Earl. I want your job. He sounded like an honest man.
They called Gregory Dunne together. After the initial congratulations and banter, they scheduled a meeting, and then Dunne asked Jack's permission to contact the media. Jack, who should have known better, who'd had plenty of experience with the speed with which news could travel, made the mistake of giving Dunne the go-ahead.
When they finished with Dunne, and after another round of congratulations with the rest of the office, Jack was finally left alone to get back to work. His efforts were fruitless, though, because within the hour his phone began ringing. The news had traveled faster than he'd expected. It started with a reporter or two calling to confirm the rumor, but then he began receiving calls from other attorneys, defense attorneys he'd tried cases against, attorneys he knew from law school, and attorneys he'd worked with at Newman. He received calls from a few judges and from some judges' law clerks. He even received a call from Steve Mendelsohn, who politely congratulated Jack and informed him that Newman would support him in his run, which Jack took to mean they'd contribute financially to his campaign. Except for Mendelsohn, he wasn't surprised by any of the callers, but the continuous outpouring throughout the day stunned him nevertheless. As soon as he realized how the word had traveled so fast—not through reporters but from one attorney in his office to another outside it—he began to answer the calls in anticipation of hearing Jenny's voice. Especially after he'd heard from Newman attorneys. She had to know.
The call he didn't anticipate came mid-afternoon, several hours after he'd first picked up the phone and called three offices down to Earl. He was being congratulated by an investigator when he saw the red light of the other line flash next to the steady green. He quickly concluded the conversation, not wanting to miss the incoming call in case it was Jenny.
He instantly recognized the female voice.
"Well, I guess I'm supposed to say congratulations, but it would have been nice to have heard it from you first."
Jack took a deep breath and let it out. "Claire." God, he was an idiot.
"Thanks, Jack. Thanks a lot."
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I've been on the phone nonstop since telling Earl. I—"
"You knew when I left this morning and you didn't mention it to me?"
"No, I hadn't made—"
"Thanks, Jack. How do you think it felt when one of my students, one of my own students, says to me, 'Oh, I heard your husband's decided to run for DA.' How do you think that felt?"
"I'm sorry."
"And I think it's just more of the same talk, you know, until he says he saw it online. He saw it on the fucking Internet!"
"What?" He didn't know what surprised him more, her cursing or her mention of seeing the news online. Claire just didn't curse.
"So I run down to my office and pull it up, and there it is, on the Post-Dispatch site, that my husband has announced he's going to run for District Attorney. God, isn't that nice?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"Fuck you."
"Claire, it wasn't like that. It all happened so quickly. I didn't have time to call you."
"Shut up. Just shut up."
So he did. But she didn't say anything either, and as the silence lengthened, he started to worry that maybe he was supposed to be saying something even though she'd told him not to.
"Claire, just listen to me a minute, okay?"
"What'd you tell the Post-Dispatch about the death penalty, Jack?"
"That didn't come up."
"Yet."
He sighed. "I'll deal with it, okay?"
"Yeah, I bet you will."
"Listen to me. I didn't decide until I got in this morning, after dropping Jamie off. I told Earl, and then, before I knew it, it got crazy in here. I didn't have time to call you. People kept coming in, and the phone kept ringing. It was crazy. I was going to call you."
"When?"
"When I had a minute."
"You were going to fit me in, huh?"
"Claire, it wasn't—"
"God damn you, Jack. I should have been the first person you told, even before Earl."
"I know; I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. What do you want me to say?"
"You got to work, and poof! You just decided you were going to run?"
/> "No, not poof!" He mocked her use of the word. "I think you know it's been on my mind." His own anger was starting to build.
"Oh, I know. Trust me, I know. How could I not know? Our life for the past month has revolved around you and your fucking decision."
"Well, excuse me. Remind me next time and I won't involve you."
"Fuck you!" She yelled it this time and started to cry. He felt bad all over again.
"I think you're making too much out of this," he said softly, trying to let her know he wasn't mad, despite his earlier tone. "It was an innocent mistake. I just let the time get away from me. I had it in my mind to call you the whole time." He could hear her trying to stifle her sobs. The other line started flashing again. "Claire? Don't be mad, okay? I really am sorry."
"I feel like you keep everything from me lately."
Whoa. Where did that statement come from?
"I feel like you walk around with your head in a cloud, you're inside yourself all the time, and you don't let me in with you."
"Claire, listen—"
"I have to get home before the bus comes."
"Don't hang up yet."
"I'm not in the mood to play beat-the-bus."
"He's old enough to let himself into the house. If you're a few minutes late, it won't kill him."
"It might. He might burn the house down making a snack."
"You're trying to change the subject."
"I'm leaving now, Jack. I'll see you when you get home, whenever that may be."
"Claire, come on."
"Bye. I love you." She always said 'I love you,' even when she was angry at him. It was one of her unwritten rules for making a marriage work: Make your spouse feel extra guilty by telling him you love him even when you're mad because he's been a jerk.
"Don't—"
But it was too late. He heard the click of the receiver, followed by silence and then a dial tone. As he hung up the phone, he caught sight of the letter from Betty Waters. He picked it up and read it again. Then he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it, in a grand, sweeping arc, into the toy basketball hoop that hung from the back of his door.
At five fifteen Jack was sitting in his office, wondering if Claire would still be angry at him when he got home. The high he'd felt before she called had all but disappeared, and he hadn't felt like talking to anyone since. He left the door closed, using the excuse that he had to catch up—he could hardly remember the last time he'd done any real work—and told Beverly he wasn't taking calls.
There was a knock at the door, and then: "Jack?" Beverly poked her head in. When the door opened, he watched it push the crumpled letter across the floor. "Jennifer Dodson's on the phone. Said to tell you it's her."
"Thanks, Beverly, go ahead and send it in." He reached for the phone in the middle of the first ring. "Hey!"
"Hey, you! What's this I hear, you're going to be the next District Attorney?" He laughed, and she let out a scream, high-pitched and contained. "Jack, I'm so excited for you! I knew you'd do it, I just knew it. When did you make up your mind?"
"Just today."
"I can't believe it. I just got back from the bankruptcy court. I was there all day for a confirmation hearing, and I get back, and everyone's saying to me, 'Oh, did you hear about Hilliard?' and I'm like, 'What about Hilliard?' I couldn't believe it. This is so exciting, isn't it? You're a shoo-in. You're going to be the DA, you know that?"
The smile was back, and the laugh. "Well, I wouldn't—"
"You are. You know it. I can't believe it."
"Thanks, Jen."
"Tell me about it. Tell me what made you decide. How did you decide?"
"Truthfully?"
"Of course."
"You'll think I'm crazy."
"No, I won't. Tell me."
"You promise?"
"I promise. Tell me."
"I got a letter this morning in the mail."
"And what did this letter have to do with you deciding to run?"
"Well, that's the part I really can't explain. It was from this lady, the mother of a woman who'd been murdered by her husband a couple years ago. I told you about it then, I think. The granddaughter of the lady who wrote the letter saw her dad shoot her mother."
"Oh God."
"Yeah, it was a bad case. Anyway, the little girl's grandmother wrote me this really nice letter."
When Jenny was quiet on the other end, he said, "I told you that you'd think I was crazy."
"You're not crazy. Just sweet. Incredibly sweet and vulnerable."
He didn't respond; the comment felt too intimate and made him a little nervous. As if she realized it, she added, "Little old ladies have an effect on you."
"Yeah," he mumbled, trying to find something to say.
"Let's celebrate," Jenny said suddenly. "I'm taking you to lunch tomorrow. My treat. Some good food, too. Where should we go?"
"I'll go wherever you take me."
In the split second of dead air, he recognized that the words he'd spoken might be true, in a much deeper sense than she understood. Just as quickly he dismissed it; it was a fantasy that lately he'd been indulging in a little too often, a little too much for his own good. But he wanted to see her. She'd brought him back up and he didn't want to wait until tomorrow.
"Jenny, come on over and let's go get a drink. Celebrate now."
"When?"
"Now. Or in an hour. Whenever you can get away."
"I don't know, Jack. I haven't even opened my mail from this morning. I just got back."
"Come on. I want to celebrate now."
"Shouldn't you be heading home? Claire's probably fixed your favorite meal."
She was serious. She wasn't making fun of Claire. She was trying to keep him in line.
"I doubt it." He paused, and Jenny remained quiet. "She's a little pissed at me right now."
"She thinks you're going to compromise yourself, doesn't she? The death penalty thing."
"Yeah, probably. But on the surface, no. She found out from a student about me running."
"Ouch."
"Once I told Earl, I just got caught up, you know? I never thought she'd hear about it before I had a chance to call her."
"You should go home. Talk to her. She'll be happy for you, once she realizes you weren't trying to exclude her."
"I know."
"We'll celebrate tomorrow."
"Just one, Jen. Come on."
"What about your office? Go with someone from your office and then head home. It'll be too late by the time I can get over there."
"Everyone's on their way home. Come now, just for one, and then go back. I'll meet you halfway."
She didn't respond then, and he suspected he'd almost worn her down.
Finally, she exhaled a long sigh, and said, "Jack."
"Come on. Just one." He thought he could almost hear her shaking her head, one of those 'what am I going to do with you' type of head shakes. "Jen."
"Just one."
"Just one."
"I'll meet you at Shanahan's in twenty minutes."
"Okay. Shanahan's. Twenty minutes."
"Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Congratulations."
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONCE HE ARRIVED at the restaurant, Jack realized he would rather have met Jenny somewhere else, perhaps outside the downtown area, where there was less of a chance of seeing someone they knew. There were things he wanted to talk to her about, things not having to do with his run for DA. Like whether his brother had asked her out.
They sat in a booth across from each other. Despite his protests that he just wanted a beer, she insisted they order champagne to toast his decision. He surprised himself by finishing his quickly, and then the things he wanted to say came more easily.
"Did Mark ever call you?" he asked after the waiter walked away.
She studied the bubbly liquid in her fluted glass. "Yes, as a matter of fact, he did."
"How come you didn't mention it to me?"
She slowly raised her eyelids and stared at him. "Why would I?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"You think I report to you about every date I go on?"
"Well, this was probably the first time the date was a close relative of mine."
She took a sip of champagne and then set the glass down, picked up a piece of bread from a basket on the table, and broke off a smaller piece.
"Earl thinks there's something going on between us." The sentence was in his head but he hadn't thought he would actually have the nerve to say it.
"Really?" She tried to look unfazed by this, but after nine years he knew her poker face by the involuntarily widened nostrils and the way one eyebrow rose just slightly.
"He suggested as much to me the morning after he announced his resignation."
"And what'd you tell him?"
"The truth, what else? That we're just friends, that we've always been just friends."
"Right."
The waiter approached with Jenny's food and a beer for Jack. She smiled and thanked him, lightly touching her hair to move it away from her face as she talked. When he left, she picked up her knife and fork, but stopped just as she was about to cut.
"Jack," she said, "I thought we agreed to forget about what happened that night."
That night. That's what it had become to them in thought and conversation. That night.
"We did," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "And I have."
"Okay." She nodded slowly. "Good. So have I."
She ate in the awkward silence that followed. She asked him if he wanted to try her food—she'd ordered the special, grilled tuna—but he declined because he was almost afraid she'd tease him by feeding him from her fork.
"So where'd he take you?"
"Huh?" And then she laughed, realizing that he was referring to Mark. "Are we still on this?"
"I'm just curious. Just want to make sure he's not embarrassing me."
"He's not embarrassing you. He was a perfect gentleman. We rode our bikes up to Augusta and spent the day at the winery."
Of course. That was just like Mark. His idea of a date always involved something physical—tennis, biking, rock climbing, swimming the English Channel. He'd once explained to Jack that he learned so much more about a woman when they were engaged in an athletic activity. Fitness, competitiveness, sense of fairness, vanity. Jack had decided that Mark just liked his women sweaty.
Tell No Lies Page 12