He glanced upward toward the heavens, but spotted only a bare lightbulb, protected by a wire cage. Oh, Lord, God of Rockland Light and Power, he began silently, grant me an acquittal in just this one case and I'll never ask you for anything again. I'll eat regularly. I'll quit the business and take up writing full-time. I'll clean my apartment. I'll go to the dentist. I'll have that colonoscopy I keep putting off, and that PSA test. I'll even stop seeing Amanda, if you want me to. Just don't let me lose, not this one.
It was pretty much the same prayer he always offered up around this time, to whatever deity might be listening in and have a spare moment for a humble nonbeliever with a shoddy history of following up on his pledges once his wish had been granted. But old habits died hard. He continued to put his left shoe on before his right because, at least since his wife's illness and death, things had more or less worked out for him so far. He threw a little salt over his shoulder if he'd happened to spill some. He folded his towels as they came out of the dryer, even though a moment later he'd unfold them so he could hang them on the hooks in his bathroom. And he always remembered to say thank-you after each acquittal. Always.
He was an atheist, but he was a superstitious atheist. Just in case.
Back in the courtroom, the jury had already sent out a note. Jaywalker felt the sudden surge of adrenaline, the pounding of his heartbeat at his temples. Notes were clues, valuable indications of what the jurors were focusing on and which way they were leaning.
But not this one.
They wanted to know how long the judge would make them deliberate tomorrow if they couldn't arrive at a verdict today. Tomorrow was Friday, and for many of them the Sabbath would begin at sundown.
With no objection from Firestone or Jaywalker, Justice Hinkley sent them back a note assuring them that under no circumstances would they be required to deliberate on the Sabbath. What she didn't tell them was that under no circumstances could she permit them to return to their homes, either. This was a murder case, and the law required that they be kept together, even when they weren't deliberating.
But even with their innocuous request, Jaywalker wondered, had the jurors been telegraphing that they were in for a long ordeal? Why else would they be thinking ahead to tomorrow? And what did 'lengthy deliberations' mean in this case? Surely there was reasonable doubt as to who'd been driving the Audi, and if there was, the case should end right there. The fact that the jurors didn't seem to be seeing it that way couldn't be good.
After he'd gotten his clothes and toiletries from Amanda in the morning, Jaywalker had sent her packing, even before the jurors had begun arriving. He didn't want them seeing her anymore, especially in his company. He'd expected Firestone to make the collusion argument in his summation, and he hadn't been disappointed. So even though it might have been nice for the jurors to see a devoted wife each time they filed in and out of the courtroom, Amanda's presence, coupled with the fact that she might well have been the one who'd killed the nine victims, could have proved troublesome for the jurors, to say the least. And while they couldn't take their anger out on her, they could take it out on her husband.
But Amanda's absence left Jaywalker with basically no one to pass the time with. Even when he wasn't complaining or snoring, Firestone was hardly the best of company. Kaminsky was bookishly smart, but awfully nerdy. And to paraphrase an old saying, Napolitano was cute but young. And the media, as always, was off-limits to Jaywalker. That left the gawkers and the courtroom staff, good for five minutes' banter now and then, but not much more. So he sat in the courtroom by himself, going over what he'd said in his summation and how he might have said it just a little bit better.
Vintage Jaywalker.
The second note didn't come out until three-thirty.
The jurors wanted to know if they could find the defendant guilty on counts eighty-six and eighty-seven on the theory that he'd committed them earlier in the day, when he'd driven from New York City to Nyack, and then again from Frank Gilson's office to the End Zone.
Jaywalker knew the indictment by heart, all ninetythree counts of it. Counts eighty-six and eighty-seven charged Drake with driving without a valid driver's license and without insurance. Both were violations of the Vehicle and Traffic Law that paled in comparison with the more serious charges. In fact, even if Drake were to be convicted of both of them, he'd already spent enough time in jail that his sentence would have to be the equivalent of time served, or perhaps a fine.
But far more important than the jurors' interest in those charges was what their question meant: that they'd decided, or were on the verge of deciding, that Amanda had been driving the Audi at the fateful moment, or at least that there was reasonable doubt as to whether Carter had been. What they were asking now was whether they could nonetheless convict Drake of something. And they'd seized upon the two counts they were asking about knowing that when Drake had driven up to Nyack that morning, and later to the End Zone that afternoon, he hadn't been licensed or insured.
This was good. This was very good.
Justice Hinkley asked the lawyers for their reactions.
'Sure they can,' said Jaywalker. He'd be giving up virtually nothing. And by tossing the jury a bone, the payback would be enormous, an acquittal on the remaining charges. The ones that counted.
'Mr. Firestone?' the judge asked.
'I don't give a rat's ass,' said Abe. He might not have been the sharpest tack in the toolbox, but he, too, could see where this was going.
Justice Hinkley pulled out her copy of the indictment, thumbed to the two counts in question, and studied them. 'Both of these counts specify a time,' she said, ''at or about nine o'clock in the evening.' It's clear to me that the grand jury had in mind the time of the accident. For me to tell the jury yes, they can nevertheless convict the defendant on those counts based upon his driving earlier in the day, would constitute both an amendment and an enlargement of the indictment, something I have no power to do. Accordingly, I'm going to tell them no, they cannot do that.'
Jaywalker protested, offering to waive any appeal on the issue, but the judge refused to change her mind. And she was right. Having voted the indictment in the first place, only the grand jurors had the power to amend it. And they'd been discharged months ago.
'Bring in the jury,' said the judge.
Just as he could read a lot more into a note than the words it contained, so too could Jaywalker read the faces of jurors in the midst of deliberations as they entered the courtroom. Any trial lawyer learns to do that. At least any good one.
It's a good sign if they're willing to look at the defendant and his lawyer, a bad sign if they're not. A smile is to be treasured, as is any sort of laughing, joking or looking relaxed. Even the way they make their way to the jury box is telling. Jurors who are leaning toward acquittal will think nothing of walking close to the defense table; those in the conviction camp will steer clear, favoring the prosecution table.
This jury was angry.
They didn't smile, they didn't joke, they didn't relax. They avoided both the defense and the prosecution tables. And the only eye contact they made was with the judge.
Hearing that they could convict the defendant of driving without a license or insurance only if they were convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that he'd done so at or about nine o'clock on the evening in question seemed to make them angrier. Their faces grim, they filed out and returned to their deliberations.
The buzzer sounded twice at 4:46.
A single buzz meant the jurors had a note.
A double buzz meant a verdict.
The courtroom filled up almost immediately. Carter Drake was brought in through a side door. Jaywalker said a final prayer to a God he didn't believe in and took his seat next to Drake.
'What do you think?' Carter asked him.
'I have no idea.'
He had all sorts of ideas, of course, and they were all banging around furiously in what was left of his brain. But they were drowned out by the pounding in his chest and at his temples, and by the rushing noise in his ears. And even were he to admit his hunch to himself, that they were about to hear the words Not guilty, he would never say so out loud. Not in a million years.
When the jurors filed in for the last time, they seemed as angry as they had been before, and as unwilling to
