“My game plan is simple,” the old man told Di Santo in a voice that defied walls. “Here today, there tomorrow. The courthouse is livelier, but the seats in the library are more comfortable. These benches in here would bend an elephant’s ass.”
Eva sat down at the table she shared with Di Santo. Cully smiled at her but waited for her to speak first.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Where do they take you for lunch?”
“Back to the jail. We have our big meal at noon. The food’s okay. There are rumors they put something in it to kind of calm everybody down, but if you’re hungry enough, you don’t care.”
“It wouldn’t be legal for them to do that.”
“Do you think that would stop them?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Cully shrugged and turned away.
“I have to believe in our judicial system,” Eva said. “I’m part of it.”
“So am I, right now.”
“I keep forgetting. I guess that sounds pretty crazy, but it’s true. When we’re sitting here talking like this, I keep forgetting we’re not two ordinary people having an ordinary relationship.”
“Two people like us could never have an ordinary relationship whichever way the trial turns out. Even if the jury finds me innocent, you’ll never be sure.”
“Yes, I will. I told you, I believe in the system.”
He made a funny sound through his teeth that could have been interpreted as almost anything, a parent hushing a child, the beginning of a curse or a simple exhalation of air.
Eva took the paperback out of her purse and began to read:
The Caribbean Sea is dotted with many islands. One hundred of varying sizes are designated as the Virgin Islands, east of Puerto Rico. Of volcanic origin overlaid with limestone, these islands have a tropical climate. The only source of water is rainfall, which is collected in cisterns. The islands belonged to Denmark and were purchased from the Danes in 1917 by the United States as a strategic move to help protect the Panama Canal.
All-year population is sparse, but the islands, especially the three largest, St. Thomas, St. John and St. Croix, are a haven for tourists, especially in the winter months. The main harbor at St. Thomas is a favorite port of call for oceangoing yachts.
It was Columbus who discovered the islands in 1493 and named them in honor of St. Ursula, whose 11,000 virgins died in defense of their chastity. A hundred years later Sir Francis Drake renamed them in honor of Elizabeth I.
“I could have told you anything you wanted to know about my islands,” Cully said. “You didn’t have to buy a book about them.”
“I just happened to see it lying on the counter and picked it up. I’m still trying to decide where to go on my vacation.”
“Books like that don’t always give you the whole truth. They tell about the blue sea but not the lack of fresh water. They describe big, beautiful beaches without mentioning the big, beautiful bugs.”
“How... how big?”
“Size isn’t so important. It’s the real little ones that bite the worst. A woman like you would be better off going to a city like New York to see the shows and the museums and stuff like that.”
“How do you know what a woman like me would like?”
“For one thing you have a very fair skin, which means you don’t spend much time outdoors.”
“My job keeps me inside. I like a lot of things besides art galleries and museums. Boats, for instance. I love boats, and I never get seasick. I’d like to go someplace on a boat someday.”
As soon as the sentence left her mouth, she regretted it. It seemed to fall between them like a wall, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “Why did you say that?”
“Say what?”
“About wanting to go on a boat. Did you mean an ordinary boat or a yacht like the Bewitched?”
“I didn’t mean anything special. I was just remarking that I’ve always wanted to go someplace on a boat or ship, whatever’s going.”
“The last woman I took someplace on a boat didn’t get there. If she had, none of us would be in this courtroom. But here we are. Take a train.” His lips stretched in a caricature of a smile. “You’ll be safer on a train, especially if you don’t pick up strangers in the bar.”
Court resumed at 2:11.
Dr. Woodbridge, back in the witness box, appeared refreshed after the long lunch break. He even managed to give his cross-examiner a friendly nod as Donnelly went to the lectern with his sheaf of papers.
The bailiff, who’d already announced the opening of the afternoon session and returned to his seat, now rose again and quickly approached the bench.
He spoke in a whisper. “One of the jurors is missing.”
“You might have stopped me when I was saying, ‘Let the record show.’ ”
“I didn’t notice. She sits in the back row, number eight, and she’s real little.”
“Name?”
“Mrs. Latham.”
“Well, all we can do is wait.” The judge raised his voice and addressed the audience. “One of our jurors has apparently lost her way to the courthouse. Rather than declare a recess I will simply ask you to wait a few minutes for her arrival. Until that time you are free to converse among yourselves.”
Nine minutes passed before an elderly gray-haired woman came bustling into the room. Her hair was uncombed, and the neat, prim front she’d presented the preceding sessions of the trial had disappeared. She wore a grease-stained nylon jacket with “Olympics ’84” across the back of it and a pair of soiled denim slacks with the right leg folded up to mid-calf.
The judge frowned at her over his glasses. “You’re late, Mrs. Latham.”
“Yes, sir. My grandson’s bicycle had a flat tire.”
“And how did that affect you, Mrs. Latham?”
“I was on it.”
The judge consulted his bailiff in a whisper, then spoke to the elderly woman again. “You live at One fourteen Gaviota Avenue?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you rode a bicycle all the way down here?”
“Had to. My car was stolen from the jury parking lot this morning. When I went out to drive home for lunch, there it was, just an empty space where I’d left my car. It’s un-American to have your car stolen right next to the courthouse with the police station a block away. The place must have been crawling with cops and deputies and judges and bailiffs, and right in front of all their noses someone breaks into my car and hot-wires it and drives off.”
The district attorney’s objection was loud and immediate. “Your Honor, I protest any further remarks on the part of this juror in open court, and I request a consultation at the side bar.”
Both counsel and the court reporter gathered on the right side of the judge, who swiveled his chair around to face them.
The district attorney explained his objection. “Her remarks indicate a possible bias against law officers and may constitute grounds for her dismissal.”
“Nonsense,” the judge said. “She’s mad. You’d be mad, too, if you had to ride a bicycle all the way from Gaviota Avenue.”
“I feel that the least you can do, Your Honor, is to question her in chambers and ascertain whether she will be able to render a fair and impartial verdict.”
“If that’s the least I can do, I’ll do it. I always do the least I can. Have you any further instructions for the bench, Mr. Owen?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Go and sit down.” He tapped the gavel lightly. “Court is recessed for five minutes. Jurors may retire to the jury room except for Mrs. Latham. Mrs. Latham, I will see you in chambers.”