An hour had gone by, and nothing had happened. No quick verdict, either guilty or not guilty. Bit by bit, the but terflies landed, folded their wings and sat still. But Jay walker knew only too well how lightly they slept. The instant there was the slightest noise from the jury room, even if it turned out to be a single buzzer signifying nothing more than a desire for a fresh pitcher of water or a look at some mundane exhibit, the butterflies would take flight again.
5:45.
With six o'clock approaching, the question on all lips was, what was the judge going to do about dinner? Was he going to break for it soon and bring the jury back afterward for more deliberations? Or would he instead let them work for another couple of hours, with the jurors then taken to a hotel immediately following their dinner? Some judges even gave their deliberating juries the option of choosing. Whenever that happened, the jurors would huddle and answer through their foreperson, and Jaywalker would always try to read their response like tea leaves, searching for the tiniest indication that they were close to a verdict, or digging in for lengthy deliberations.
He read everything there was to read. He looked for tips from the court officers, who liked him not only because he was a former DEA agent, but because he was a civil servant at heart, one of them. They hung out by the door to the jury room and usually had a pretty good idea of what was happening on the other side. Were the jurors arguing, fighting, shouting down a dissenting voice? Were they carefully working their way through the testimony, witness by witness? Or had they stopped talking to each other altogether? Jaywalker needed to know. He needed to know which way they were leaning, how they were split, and whether they were making progress or hopelessly divided. If he knew those things, or at least had a pretty good idea, he would know whether to urge the judge to declare a mistrial, or to argue that the jurors should be given more time. And knowing which position to take could make all the dif ference in the world.
He even read lunch orders, Jaywalker did. He'd get the clerk to give him a peek at the list of sandwiches and bev erages the jurors submitted each morning of their seques tration. In one particular case he'd tried a few years back, Jaywalker had come across an order requesting eleven ham-and-Swiss sandwiches on hard rolls, and one peanut butter-and-bacon on light white toast with the crust cut off. Right then he'd known he had a hung jury, eleven to one.
6:10.
Judge Sobel told the lawyers that he intended to let the jury deliberate for another hour before sending them to dinner and a hotel. Jaywalker voiced no objection. As far as he was concerned, the window for a quick emotional ac quittal had already slammed shut. The danger right now was of a Don't-lock-us-up, we'll-reach-a-verdict-soon con viction. He would sweat out every one of the next sixty minutes, he and his butterflies.
And Samara?
It was hard to tell. About the last thing she struck Jay walker as being was a religious person. Yet looking at her now, as she sat alone toward the very back of the court room, he had to marvel at her composure. Didn't she know what was going on?
From time to time, he would wander over and sit down next to her, though whether the gesture was made to offer her comfort or to receive it from her, he couldn't have answered with certainty. But each time he joined her, it would only be for a few minutes. Soon it would become clear that their metabolisms were totally out of synch, he with his frenzied hordes of butterflies, she with her strange, calm composure.
He was reminded of a young woman he'd once come across in an emergency room. Jaywalker had been there because he'd dislocated a shoulder in a Saturday morning pickup basketball game and was waiting to have it popped back into place. The woman, who wore a gauzy purple shawl over her head and spoke only Spanish, was there on much more serious business. Her three-year-old son had fallen three stories from an unprotected window onto the asphalt pavement below and was clinging to life. Yet she sat there in the waiting area the entire time, her hands clasped together, a beatific smile on her face. From time to time, he could hear her speak the words, 'Si dios quiere.' If it's God's will.
What a blessing, he'd thought back then.
What lunacy, he thought now.
Jaywalker found out a little later that the boy had already been dead when he'd arrived at the hospital. He learned that from the doctor who popped his shoulder back into its socket. The boy had probably died right there on the pavement, the doctor told him, or in the am bulance. They just hadn't gotten around to telling his mother yet.
Samara, too, was already dead. But no one had gotten around to telling her, either. So she sat there now, com forted by her faith or her innocence, or whatever else it was that allowed her to get through this.
6:33.
The buzzer sounded.
The butterflies erupted into flight, and Jaywalker could actually feel his heart begin to fibrillate. He held his breath, waiting for a second buzz. Two buzzes meant a verdict; one signified nothing but a question or request of some sort.
There had only been one.
He allowed himself to exhale and take a new breath. The fibrillation gradually subsided. This was how his heart would give out, Jaywalker felt quite certain. He would die waiting for the second buzzer to sound.
A court officer appeared with a note. He was a friend of Jaywalker's, and as the two of them made eye contact, the officer pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side, almost imperceptibly, but not quite.
Fuck.
Dear Judge Sobel:
We the jury are very close to reaching a unanimous verdict, but first we have a question. Are we allowed to find the de fendant guilty, and recommend mercy at the time of her sentence, because of her past?
Stanley Merkel Foreman
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
So this is how it ends, thought Jaywalker. For Samara, for him, for the whole stupid business of having decided to be a criminal defense lawyer in the first place.
The judge was summoned to come down from his chambers. Even before he arrived, the media began appear ing, filtering into the courtroom. So far as Jaywalker knew, nobody had told them there was a note, much less what it said. But they knew. The fuckers knew. A couple of them tried to talk to him. Those who knew him knew enough to steer clear.
He walked back to where Samara sat. The expression on her face told him that while she still might be composed, she wasn't stupid, and she wasn't oblivious.
'Not good, huh?'
'Not good.'
He told her what the note said. He didn't have to tell her what it meant. She nodded. He decided she was probably in shock, and that was why she could remain so calm.
The judge appeared, and Jaywalker led Samara to the defense table and sat down next to her. Sobel informed the lawyers that he intended to bring the jurors in and tell them that while they were free to make any recommendation they wanted, they needed to understand that sentencing was the province of the court, and he would feel free to reject their recommendation or even ignore it altogether, should it come to that.
Jaywalker objected. He wanted the judge to forbid the jurors from making any recommendations. If they felt Samara deserved mercy, they should acquit her.
Sobel said he would stick to his answer.
6:51.
As the jurors file in, they seem to give the defense table a wider berth as they pass it on their way to the jury box. They studiously refuse every chance to make eye contact. They study their hands, their feet, the judge, each other. And Tom Burke. They look like they've come from a funeral or a wake, held for someone very young, someone who hadn't been expected to die.
Jaywalker stares at them, trying to make it even harder for them. The only thing he gets in return is a fleeting glance from Juror Number 8, Carmelita Rosado, the kindergarten teacher. Yet even in that fleeting glance, he can see that her eyes are glassy, suggesting that she's been crying.