"Damn," Lucky Seven said softly, and even Mrs. Wahlbaum looked like she was thinking twice.
Ralph Merry looked from face to face and worry crept over him. The jurors could go south on him. Christopher might be able to reach them in that down-home way he had. Christopher might be able to talk them into changing their votes, even though they were so close to acquitting. He might hold out and force a hung jury. He could wear them down.
Ralph considered his options and chose the one that made the most sense. He had to nip this sucker in the bud, before the worm started to turn. The jurors had gotten up expecting to go home and thought they were just an hour or two from a unanimous vote to acquit. Even Kenny Manning had acted less cocky than usual at breakfast. The brothers were breaking ranks. Ralph had the Big Mo, like George Bush used to say.
Ralph checked his watch. 11:10.
He'd have this sucker over with by lunch-time. The jurors wanted to acquit and he had to clinch the verdict. He'd blitz this battle like General Schwarzkopf. Get in, kick ass, and get out. This was his own personal Desert Storm. After all, he had a deal to live up to. With a killer. "Anybody else need a bathroom break?" Ralph asked, trying to sound casual.
52
Marta stood on the sunny shoulder of Route 72 in front of a sooty, pitted mound of snow. Purse on shoulder, she was thumbing a ride. She wanted to suppress the déjà vu but it was inescapable: Marta was back beside a highway, surrounded by snowy woods. Waving, hoping, begging a ride. Familiarity and fear flooded her, undeniable. She was terrified to do this again.
Please, sir! Please stop!
An oil truck with a long silver tank headed down the highway. Marta held up her hand but couldn't bring herself to flag down the truck. It was as if she were paralyzed. Her muscles refused to respond. Her heart pounded in her chest. She felt dizzy and broke into a sweat.
Please, sir! Please!
The oil tanker rumbled closer. Its tank glistened like a bullet in the sun. Marta had to catch it. She tried to wave but her arm still wouldn't move.
Please, sir. Please stop!
Please stop. Please don't. The oil tanker roared closer. The driver with the glasses was almost upon her. She could feel his hand on her knee. Sliding up her thigh. Fear rippled through her limbs. Her knees buckled. She wanted to panic and run. She was trapped in the station wagon. Open the door. Run out. Run away. Run away.
Then she blinked. The driver with the glasses had vanished, replaced by a trucker with a beefy face. He wore a white uniform, not a tie and jacket. He wasn't the man in the station wagon. Marta swallowed her anxiety and waved. Hard, then harder. Pumping away wildly.
"Please stop!" she heard herself shout. The voice was hers, not her mother's. The gesture was her own, too. Marta wasn't a liar or a drunk. Her car really had broken down. She really did need a ride. She jumped up and down, almost slipping in the slush. Yelling at the top of her lungs. She didn't care. She had to get him to stop. And she felt free, absolutely free.
"Please STOP!" she cried, but her shout was swallowed up in the Doppler effect of the huge rig as it roared past her. Marta jumped to avoid the fan of gray slush it sprayed in its wake. She stopped trembling as the truck rolled down the empty highway, shrank into a silver speck, and finally disappeared into thin, cold air.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Marta was in a blue Dodge Omni inching down Route 72. An older woman was at the wheel, going to Philly to visit her divorced daughter. The ride should have been a lucky break, but less than a mile down the highway Marta regretted ever accepting it. It was 11:30, and she could have walked to Philly faster. "Are you sure I can't put the radio on?" Marta asked, trying again. She had to know what was going on. Was the jury still out? Were the cops after her?
"No radio," the woman replied flatly. She was about sixty-five years old, with a cap of straight gray hair yellowing in the front. She could barely see over the wheel, which she squeezed with arthritic knuckles. A skinny brown cigarette dangled from her lips, dusting her thin cloth coat with ashes.
"Not even for a minute or two?"
"No radio."
"Why not?"
"It's my car and I don't like radio. I don't like music."
"I didn't want to listen to music, either. I want to hear the news. I have to hear the news."
"No radio." The woman shook her head, her chin tilted up as the car crept along. "I don't like news. I never listen to news. If news comes on TV, I change the channel. At lunchtime I watch my stories. You know why? All the news is bad."
"Don't you want to hear the weather report? It's a snowstorm."
"I look out the window, that's my weather report." The woman sucked on the cigarette and her hollow cheeks got even hollower. "If it's raining I get my umbrella. If it's snowing I get my Totes. What's so hard?"
"But there's a blizzard in Philly," Marta said, about to explode. "You need a traffic report. Don't you want to know what routes to take to see your daughter?"
"I know how to get to my own daughter's."
"What if you can't get through because of the snow?"
"I'll get through. If my daughter needs me, I'll get through." The woman blew out a puff of smoke that rolled onto the dashboard like a wave. Acrid smoke filled the compact car, and Marta rolled down her window a crack. "Don't do that!" the woman snapped. "It's freezing out."
"Sorry." Marta rolled the window up. Her nose stung. Her eyes watered. She sweated inside her coat and snowpants. At this speed, they'd never get to Philly. If not for her motion sickness, Marta wouldn't know they were in motion.
"Keep that window shut! I'm older than you, not as strong." She flicked some ash into an ashtray crowded with crushed butts and looked over. Her brown eyes were reproachful behind her pink-framed bifocals. "I'll catch my death."
"It's so smoky in here."
"Oh, one of those, are you? Smokers have rights, too, you know. It's discrimination! In the Pancake House, the smokers have to sit by themselves. On the nonsmokers' side, they could have anybody there. They could have drug addicts there, or tuberculosis people. They don't have a sign saying NO DRUG ADDICTS, do they?"
Marta smiled, almost persuaded. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke, depriving her brain of oxygen. She peered out the window through the carbon monoxide. The trees dripped melting snow, and their car was so poky Marta had time to identify each tree. It took her until Pennsauken to persuade the woman to turn on the goddamn radio, and a few minutes into the news, Marta picked up a report on the triaclass="underline"
"This is Howard Rattner reporting from the Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia. The jury is expected to return this morning from deliberations in the murder trial of real estate developer Elliot Steere. The jury has been out only a matter of hours, and court observers expect it to return soon with a verdict of acquittal. Legal experts say the jury should know nothing of the murders last night of two security guards in the offices of Rosato and Associates, the all-woman law firm defending Mr. Steere."
Marta tried to stay calm. Good, the jury was still out. Christopher had delayed them successfully. Maybe he could persuade them to convict. She couldn't give up hope.
"In a related story," continued the reporter, "no developments in the status of two of the lawyers formerly defending this murder case. Elliot Steere's former lead counsel, Marta Richter, is still missing and her whereabouts are unknown. Another defense lawyer, Mary DiNunzio, remains in intensive care, fighting for her life. As we reported, Miss DiNunzio was shot in the early morning hours by an unknown assailant and spent the night in surgery."
Marta sat stricken, reeling as they went though a tollbooth.
"Told you, it's always bad news," said the old woman. "Murder. Killing. That's all they put on. That's all that matters to them." The woman moved to turn the radio off, but Marta grabbed her hand.