The Juror (26 page)

Her breasts are an uplifting sight to behold. Her pubic hair has been shaved into a narrow strip, like a teardrop, like the
top part of an exclamation point. She puts her hands on her hips to hold the robe open, and even from here you can see what
great pleasure she takes in offering up this vision of herself to E.R.

And as for Slavko?

You mean the loser? Oh, he’s nothing. He’s but a chunk of gloom out here. He’s the sicko pervert she was afraid might be tom-peeping
this performance. The very deviant himself.

But he’s not getting anything out of it. Her beauty only hurts him. He looks away. He hears E.R. say, “You know I’m on a leash.
You know I can’t go very far or for very long. I love you.”

Slavko hears him get into his car. He hears the satiny engine come to life. Slavko watches as E.R. backs onto the street and
drives up the hill away from him. Sari, shivering, bundles the robe tight about her and watches after him.

Slavko takes out his little log book, and he writes:

2:40 E.R. leaves SK home, w Arning Road. P.

The P is for pursuit. He slips the notebook into his jacket pocket again.

Sari’s still lingering. Watching the place where E.R. vanished.

Go on to bed, Sari. Get warm.

Let me go after this guy.

At last she does go in—and at the moment she shuts her door, Slavko starts up the Buzzard. He leaves the headlights dark and
ascends the hill as quietly as he can in this old bomb. But as soon as he has topped the crest, he drives the pedal into the
floor. The Buzzard pants. Trying to catch E.R.’s distant red glimmer.

Driving without lights is taking a big chance. Cops see me, I’m fried. No lights, DUI, reckless driving, lapsed insurance,
invalid inspection sticker, resisting arrest, assault on a police officer, murder and dismemberment of same, etc.

But it’s only me and E.R. on this road. And if E.R. sees headlights in his mirror, he’ll be gone like a rabbit. So Slavko
has to drive blind. He squints to see the center line, and leans into his meager luck.

At Eastgate Road, E.R. takes a left toward the river. Passes the seminary, passes the big stone church—and then he turns into
the drive of the Caruso Hotel.

Old dowager elephant. Used to be a whipped-cream palace of luxury, but now the paint’s flaking off, the grillwork on the balconies
is rusting. Place has become a draw for second-rate conventions and cheesy weddings. And sometimes when one of these affairs
needs extra security, the management calls Slavko.

E.R. parks and walks briskly toward the lobby. Slavko stays out on the main road until E.R. has gone in, then he pulls into
the drive. He parks off to the side of the hotel’s vast lot. He pauses to make a note in the black logbook. Then he follows
E.R. in.

As he approaches the hotel desk, Jerome gives him a glance. “Aren’t you a little late, Slavko?” he says. He turns his eyes
back to his work. He’s keying something into the computer. “You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

A funny round head Jerome has, and a funny nasal drawl.

“Late?” Slavko says. “For what?”

Still not looking up, Jerome whines, “The Dairy Farm Equipment Manufacturers Association?” Putting a question mark after every
word, as though bells and whistles should be clanging inside Slavko’s head.

Dimly, Slavko does remember agreeing to come in and work security for these crazies. But that was in another era. Week and
a half ago. When such commitment was still within the realm of
possibility
, for Christ sake.

“Jerome,” Slavko says. He’s trying to lean over the registration counter, trying to see down to the computer screen. But the
counter is too high, or Slavko’s too short.

He tells Jerome, “Look at me.”

Jerome looks up and gasps.”Oh my God,” he says.

“Happy Hallowe’en,” says Slavko.

“What happened to you?”

Slavko shrugs. “Well, you know, I should have realized, Jerome. The walls were made of shit. First big storm…”

“What? What walls?”

“You said it, buddy. You said a mouthful.
What
walls?”

While he jabbers he puts his palms on the counter, jumps up and flops his chest onto the Formica, with his feet up in the
air. Now he can see down to the computer screen. He sees the registration that Jerome was just keying in. But it’s hard to
read it—because for Slavko it’s upside down.

“What the hell are you doing?” says Jerome.

Keep jabbering. “You ask, what walls? Ah Christ. I thought it was a mansion? I thought it was a castle? It’s shit soup. And
now yours truly is swimming in it.”

“Slavko,” says Jerome, “you shouldn’t be looking at that.” He gives Slavko’s head a gentle shove.

Slavko gets his brain adjusted to the topsy-turvy view, and reads: Roger Boyle. STKB (standard room with a king-size bed).
Address: St. Paul, Minnesota. Room 318.

Jerome hits the
Escape
key, the screen dissolves. Slavko’s feet find the floor.

He asks Jerome, “This is the guy just came in?”

“Slavko, what do you want?” Starting to sound like a teakettle.

Says Slavko, “You see the car he was driving? Hoo Daddy. And was that an Armani jacket?”

“Not quite,” says Jerome. “Brioni. Two thousand dollars, minimum.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?”

“Room 318, that’s on this side, right?”

“For someone who doesn’t show up for work, you seem awfully nosy—”

“Was there a woman waiting for him?”

“At two-thirty in the morning?”

Slavko grins. “I’m sure she’ll be along. She’ll be expensive, too, I bet. Two thousand dollars, minimum.”

“This is not my business.”

“Nor mine. Just idle curiosity. The rich. They drive you crazy, no?”

“No,” says Jerome. “Not really.”

“Check you later, Jerome. Give the boss my regards. Give the oaf a big wet kiss for me.”

He ambles out. He can feel Jerome’s eyes following him. In the parking lot he walks past the dark lounge and the dark dining
room and the dark racquetball court. He walks around back. There’s a door beside the kitchen that the night staff uses, that
they usually leave unlocked. Slavko glides through and heads for the back stairs.

Up two flights to the third floor.

Past the Coke machine.

Down the broad corridor, his steps dead quiet in the thick pile carpet. Coming up to 318. He’s not planning an intrusion.
No scenes, no fireworks. He doesn’t know really
what
he has in mind. Maybe just pause by the door and give a listen.

But then he sees that even that’s not going to work. There’s a cop in the corridor.

A sheriff’s deputy. Sitting on a little folding chair, his head nodding, a few steps down from 318. He opens one eye. Slavko
focuses on the carpet and plows past him. Comes to the end of the corridor and takes the stairs down.

What was the deal with
that
guy?

E.R. has a deputy sheriff for a bodyguard?

Maybe E.R.’s a county commissioner or something. And he gets, he gets a round-the-clock—

No.

OK, then maybe it’s a coincidence? Maybe the deputy’s here for something else? For example, maybe the Dairy Farm Equipment
Manufacturers Association has been receiving bomb threats from disgruntled moo-cows?

Slavko walks back to his car and sits and thinks.

What do deputy sheriffs guard?

Prisoners, right?

OK then, how about this? E.R. has a girlfriend who’s also a convict. They brought her to the Caruso for an overnight conjugal
visit—

While Slavko is whipping these moonbeams into a froth, he idly stares through his windshield up at the broad ornate face of
the big hotel. He can see into some of the rooms. But this is not a hotel for horny young lovers and at this hour there’s
nothing much to look at. One or two rooms still have their TVs on. There seems to be the dregs of a party in a big suite near
the office. There seems—

Then it occurs to him: Room 318, that’s on this side of the hotel, right? Couldn’t he see room 318 from here if he looked
for it?

He pops open the glove compartment, gets out his binoculars.

Quickly calculating: 318 ought to be on the third floor, nine balconies from the central elevator shaft. He leans forward,
and with his chin over the steering wheel and his nose close to the windshield, he starts counting balconies….

T
HE TEACHER
dials room 316. Then he sets the disk of his stethoscope against the wall. He waits.

The phone rings on the other side of the wall. Through the stethoscope he hears a sleepy and startled, “Oh, hell.” Not from
Annie—from her roommate.

But it’s Annie who picks up the phone.

“Yes?”

Says the Teacher, “Is this room 106?”

“Oh. No.”

“When your roommate falls asleep again, come out onto the balcony. Slide the door shut behind you.”

He hangs up.

In the stethoscope he hears Annie’s roommate ask, “What was it?”

“Wrong number.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Then one of them uses the bathroom.

Then bed-rustling. Then they settle down.

From the two breathing-rhythms, the Teacher imagines he can pick out Annie’s. Coming a little short, ratchety. He can feel
her fear. He shuts his eyes to listen.

The other woman’s breathing starts to stretch, to roll smoothly.

He pulls the stethoscope away from the wall. He tucks it into his little black bag.

He steps out to his balcony.

Lovely evening. A bit cool and drizzly—but full of autumn fragrance. Even up here he’s getting deep, late leaf-smells and
earth-smells. He stands next to the partition between his balcony and hers. He waits.

At last he hears her step out onto her balcony.

He whispers, “Annie.”

She comes to stand next to him, with only the partition between them. Standing in her nightgown, with a sweater pulled over
it. Both of them lean out over the wrought-iron rail. He passes her a pack of cigarettes and a pack of matches. He tells her,
“Light one. Pretend to be smoking.”

She obeys.

He looks at her. She’s backlit by one of the hotel’s facade-lights and she’s beautiful.

But she won’t meet his gaze.

“It’s risky to talk,” he says. “But I wanted you to know you’re never out of my thoughts.”

“Thank you.” She doesn’t mean it, of course. But he notices there’s no sardonic sting in her tone either. There’s no emotion
at all.

“Will we win?” he asks her.

“No,” she says.

“Why not?”

“He’s guilty. The others, they all know it.”

“Did you fight for us today?”

“Mm.”

“What did you say to them?”

“I said he didn’t do it. I said the Teacher did it.”

“Annie. That won’t work.”

“What.”

“Lying to me.”

“I didn’t, I mean—”

“
Three
jurors voted not guilty. And when they asked you your reasons you didn’t say a word. You were useless.”

He knows what she’s wondering. How does he know? A bug in the jury room? Or a rat, one of the other jurors? He finds himself
listening, again, to her breathing. That slight raspiness, the dryness of her breath—this he loves. He wants to hold her,
to comfort her. But he has to be firm now.

“Annie, if the jury hangs because you’re lazy or timid or weak, how can that be forgiven? The people I work with, they’d punish
you just to punish me.”

“I thought—I thought it would be all right if—”

“No. We need an
acquittal
. You can win this for us. That’s why I chose you. Out of all the jurors, I chose you to carry our case because I know who
you are when you wake up. When your passion boils up, when you pour yourself into something, my Lord, Annie, how can you be
stopped?”

She hisses, “I can’t turn black into white.”

“But you can set free an innocent man. Look at me.”

He sees her temples pulsing. A muscle moving in her jaw.

“Look at me, Annie.”

Reluctantly she turns toward him.

He says, “Louie Boffano could not have done this thing. He could have let it happen, yes, but he could not have compelled
it. He has neither the courage nor the brains. Nor the will.
You
could have done this if you’d wanted to. I mean you have the mental wherewithal, the spine. You and I, we’re very much alike.
But Louie Boffano? You know him, Annie, you’ve watched him. You know it’s not possible—”

She raises her voice. “What does it matter what I know?
They
don’t know!”

He puts a finger to his lips. “Your voice carries.”

“God, what do you want me to do?” she whispers. “You want me to threaten them?”

“I want you only to get into your own passion. Just climb inside of it, and you won’t have to do anything—things will flow
of their own accord. Lao Tsu’s Soft and Weak will overcome Hard and Strong. That jury will be jelly for you. They’ll be begging
your mercy.”

“I can’t,” she says.

“You can. You have to, so you will. I think it’s likely we’ll never speak again. If I ever do need you, I’ll call Inez and
buy another piece of artwork. For twelve thousand. If I pay more, forget it, it’s just because I love your work, but if I
offer twelve exactly, you call Maretti’s Restaurant in Larchmont, talk to Maretti. He’ll have a message for you. OK? Though
I’m sure I won’t need to. You’ll do what’s necessary on your own. OK?”

“Yes.”

“On your own. Still, you should know, you should never forget that I will be with you, Annie, every step of the way.”

S
LAVKO
, watching through the binoculars from his car, sees the woman at the balcony railing turn away from the man. Then one of
the hotel’s facade-lights picks up her face. For the first time he sees more than her silhouette.

He sees her big eyes, her simple figure, her long straight hair. And he’s certain that she’s the woman from the reservoir.

He’s certain of something else, too—that she’s scared.