Kenny folded his arms like a musclebound child, but Christopher nodded, pleased. 'We can deliberate as late as we want,' he said. 'We're supposed to call the judge and let the bailiff know when we want dinner.'
They all wanted to vote again, except for Nick, who thought he was going to catch on fire. He sipped his water but it didn't put out the burning in his stomach. There was like a fireball racing up his throat. Nick couldn't keep it down. He blurted out, 'I think I'm gonna be sick.'
'What?' Christopher said, and around the table, eleven mouths dropped open.
10
Marta didn't reach Steere's Society Hill neighborhood until the Taurus's clock ticked to 7:01, but she was lucky to get there at all. The traffic jam on Locust had lasted forever, and she'd finally escaped it by driving up on the pavement for half a block and slipping down a side street. A frigid night had fallen and the snow blew harder. The windshield wipers pumped and the defroster had finally succeeded.
Marta looked for a parking space on the street near Steere's house. The cars parked at the curb were expensive lumps of snow. Society Hill was the most fashionable residential district in the city but apparently tough to park in. Marta drove around the block looking for a space. Her eyes kept straying to the clock's glowing digits. 7:04, 7:05, 7:06.
Fuck. It was getting late. She didn't have time to screw around with the goddamn car. The space didn't have to be legal, it just had to be open. There. Marta plowed through the snow and pulled up in front of the bus stop. She twisted off the ignition and climbed out of the car.
A cold blast hit her like a shock. Wind tore through her suit and raincoat. Snow chilled her shins and soaked her best pumps. Marta would have worn boots but she hadn't owned any since she was a kid. She spent her adult life going from airport limo to hotel, from cab to courthouse. She hurried down the street in a rut from a car tire.
The street was narrow, lined with costly colonial brick rowhouses, their restored shutters piled high with picturesque snow. Each house bore a historic cast-iron fire sign, but Marta cared little for history. Her own history would have damned her. One therapist had called her 'self-realized' and she'd fired him for it.
Marta pushed those memories away. Why were they surfacing now? Was it the snow? Didn't matter, she had no time for it. When she reached the corner, she squeezed between the parked cars, dumping snow on her legs, and climbed onto the sidewalk. The streets were deserted but lights were ablaze in the rowhouses along the street. Everybody was inside, hunkered down and riding out the storm.
Marta hurried down the sidewalk, passing first-floor windows. Warm yellow lights glowed through the slats of the wooden shutters. One living room had a fire in the fireplace and its flames flickered on the high ceiling. Marta imagined the families, snug and self-satisfied in their homes; prosperous families, with cabinets full of food. Books lining every room and stacked on every coffee table. Mozart playing softly on the CD player. It was sheer fantasy, and it wasn't hers. Not anymore.
Marta shivered and churned ahead. She ducked to avoid the stinging snow and hide her face. Reporters could be waiting at the house, or the cops. She didn't want to be seen or recognized. Front Street, where Steere lived, was just around the corner. Steere's street overlooked the expressway and the Delaware River, and as soon as Marta turned onto Front, she caught a snootful of damp, snowy wind.
She clutched her collar closed and got a bead on Steere's house, sitting squarely in the middle of the street among other million-dollar houses. Marta slowed her step. She didn't see anyone in front of the house. A car traveled down the road slowly, and Marta sunk behind her wool collar and turned her face away. When the car had passed and the snowy street was silent again, she headed to Steere's town house.
It was a restored colonial of faded brick with bubbly mullioned windows; four stories tall and the grandest on the block, too pretentious for Marta's taste. Marta adored houses and owned four if you included one condo; Steere's reminded her of her house in Beacon Hill, which was always cold, dark, and medievally drafty. Steere's town house was illuminated by a working gaslight next to its paneled front door, which sat off the street behind a six-foot brick wall. A skinny pile of snow lined the top of the wall, and in the middle was a locked gate of iron bars.
Marta hurried down Front Street to the house, wondering if the live-in maid was home. How else would she get in? The first- and second-floor lights were on, so Marta was hopeful. She reached the front gate, but it was too tall to scale even if she were desperate enough to try. Marta pressed the buzzer mounted next to an intercom in the brick wall. No response. She pressed the buzzer again, harder.
There was a crackling through the intercom, then the maid's voice. 'Who is there?' she said, distinctly enough to be at Marta's ear.
'This is Ms. Richter, Mr. Steere's lawyer. I have to come in. Open the gate.' There was a pause, then a metallic click at the gate's latch. The gate didn't budge, the mechanism evidently sluggish in the cold. 'Try again,' Marta said and gave the gate a solid push. It opened far enough for her to slip through and she climbed the few steps to the front door, which opened slightly.
The maid stood at the threshold, wrapping a cardigan tightly over her uniform and squinting against the snow. Cold light from the entrance hall silhouetted her thin, short frame. Marta had met her once but had forgotten her name. 'Missa Richter,' the maid said. She was an older woman, and Marta vaguely remembered she was Polish or something.
Marta reached the top step and stamped her feet to defrost her shins. 'And you're—'
'I go home now. My daughter, she need me. Snow day tomorrow from school,' she chattered as she led Marta into the marble-tiled hall and closed and locked the front door. 'I take your coat?'
'No, I'll keep it. I need you to help me. I have to find something for Mr. Steere. He asked me to bring it to him.'
'Okay, okay, whatever you say,' the maid said. Her face was lined with age and wear and her head of fuzzy gray pincurls bobbed. She seemed nervous, but Marta had grown accustomed to making people nervous and used it to good effect.
'Mr. Steere needs some special papers for his case. He said his girlfriend might have them. Do you know her phone number?'
