'We aren't permitted to consider that,' Mrs. Wahlbaum said. 'Mr. Steere had a right not to take the stand. We're not supposed to hold it against him.'
'I know, but I can't help wondering,' Christopher said. 'Think about it, Mrs. Wahlbaum. We took an oath. We have to find the truth. It's our responsibility to wonder why somebody has something to hide.'
'We're supposed to deliberate using what the judge told us,' she insisted. 'We have to look at the law and the evidence.'
'But at the end of the day, it's our conscience,' Christopher said as firmly as possible. He pointed to his chest beneath his flannel shirt and it made him feel even more emphatic. 'We have to make the decision and we have to live with it.'
'Thas' right,' Lucky Seven said. 'Everybody else, they go right on. The judge and lawyers go to the nex' case. We the ones, we got to live with it.'
Christopher nodded. 'Why did Steere shoot him? Why didn't he just hit him— clock him— and drive away? Or if he had to shoot him, why didn't he shoot him in the shoulder or someplace else that wouldn't kill the poor guy? Instead, he shot to kill.'
'Coulda done a million things,' said Lucky Seven, and Christopher nodded again.
The jurors' heads wheeled back and forth.
'Right,' Christopher said. 'Exactly. I know how you all feel and I felt the same way yesterday. But here's something all of us are forgetting. A homeless man is dead today because of Elliot Steere. A man is dead. Nobody can bring him back.'
The room fell silent suddenly. Megan glanced at Mrs. Wahlbaum, who pursed her lips. Nick took a shaky sip of water. Wanthida looked down.
Only Gussella looked at her fellow jurors with undisguised scorn. She wasn't about to miss another week with her grandson. When babies were that young, they grew so fast, and Gussella wanted to hold that little boy in her arms. She could feel his softness against her skin, a warm bundle. Chubby arms to snuggle around her neck. Little fingers to coo over. A crinkly Pampers on that little butt. She couldn't wait a minute longer. 'Are you all crazy? That man done wrong! He was tryin' to rob Steere's car! He held a knife to Steere's throat! We all saw how his lawyer showed it. He cut Steere right in his face!'
'Under his eye,' Mrs. Wahlbaum added. 'Mr. Steere could have lost his sight.'
Mr. Fogel said, 'Thank you, Dr. Wahlbaum. She's an eye doctor now.'
Christopher faced them all. 'Yes, that's all true. Everything you say is true about what that man did. But the question we have to answer is, did he deserve to
'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 deja 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.
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.
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 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.
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
