Tell No Lies Page 11

  "But?"

  Jack closed the grill lid and joined them. He grabbed some chips and leaned against the railing. "But, I'm the only one who seems to care that my moral beliefs are antithetical to the position."

  "Yeah, he thinks monsters who rape, choke and tie little girls to trees, leaving them to die from the elements, should be allowed to live." Jenny winked at Mark after she rattled off her version of the Barnard case.

  Jack was amazed at how quickly she had figured out his brother. She seemed to know instinctively she had an ally.

  "I think his feelings are a little bit more complex than that," Claire said quietly.

  "That's exactly what his problem is, Claire," Mark said, coming to Jenny's defense. "He thinks about everything too much. If he wants the job, he should just go for it."

  "And what would you have him tell the voters when they ask his position on the death penalty?" Claire said.

  "I think he should do what every other politician does to get elected. Tell them what they want to hear and then do want he wants once he gets in." Mark smiled at Jenny.

  "Jack, what he's suggesting isn't as bad as it sounds," said Jenny. "I think what he's trying to say is that to get into a position to make any difference, you sometimes have to compromise."

  "He makes a difference now." Claire stood and walked back over to the grill. Jack's eyes followed her.

  "Of course he does," Jenny said. "But just think of what he could do as head of that office."

  "What's your boss say, Jack?" Mark asked.

  Jack pretended to be surprised that Mark spoke to him. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize what I think about this subject might be relevant."

  Mark, unable to resist an opening, retorted, "It's not. Just what your boss thinks."

  "The food will be ready in a minute," Claire announced as she went into the house. Then, through the screen, "Can you help me a second, Jack?"

  Jack stood to follow her. "He thinks I'm a fool if I don't do it." He glanced at Jenny, wondering if she'd remember calling him that.

  Inside, Claire came close and leaned into him. "Don't let him get to you," she said. "He's just in performance mode for her."

  He played with her curls. "Do I look like I'm letting him get to me?"

  "You're unusually quiet."

  He shrugged. He didn't want to tell her he was starting to believe that maybe they were right. Despite their tiff at the courthouse, he knew Claire really had no problem with him running; she simply didn't want him to misrepresent himself to get elected. But maybe Earl was right; maybe Jenny and Mark were right. Once elected, it would be up to him to decide how to handle cases. If he never saw a set of facts that convinced him the death penalty was appropriate, well, he'd never ask for it. He knew that wasn't fair, though, because implicit in this was some sort of bargain, some promise that if someday he came across a heinous enough crime, he'd ask for the death penalty. But he knew himself enough to know, no matter the facts, no matter the crime, he never would. And Claire knew that, too.

  He bent his head and kissed her lips lightly. "I'm fine."

  The screen opened and Jenny stepped in, but stopped suddenly when she saw them. Jack stood straighter and took a step back.

  "Oh, I'm sorry." She pointed toward the bathroom. "I was going to wash up and see if you wanted some help, Claire."

  "That's okay." She looked from Jenny to Jack. He looked down at the ground. "Come back when you're done, and I'm sure I can find something for you to do."

  "Why don't I put on some music?" Jack said after he heard the bathroom door close. Claire grabbed his arm as he turned to the family room and yanked him back.

  "Hey, what was that all about?" she hissed in a whisper.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is there some law against kissing your wife? You two acted like a couple of teenagers who just accidentally walked in on their parents having sex."

  "I guess it just made her uncomfortable, that's all."

  "What's your excuse?"

  Jack felt like he was being backed into a corner from which there was no escape. In trial, sometimes the only thing to do in that situation was to go on the offensive.

  "You're being paranoid, Claire. Lighten up." He shook his arm and she released her grip. After turning on the radio he went back outside with Mark. Let Jenny deal with it, he thought, and opened the cooler to grab a beer.

  After dinner, the four adults sat at the patio table and talked. Michael and Jamie hovered nearby in the yard, waiting for Claire to bring out dessert. Jack was ready for Mark and Jenny to leave; he thought the worst was over and he wanted the evening to end. But then Jamie asked for a cup of water, and Jack went inside to get it. Through the window above the kitchen sink he could see Jenny and Mark, but Claire sat on the far side of the table, out of his line of sight. The radio was turned up loud so they could hear it outside. The bass vibrated in his chest, and he heard only their voices over the music, not decipherable words.

  The song ended, and over the beginning strums of an acoustic guitar, the DJ announced the next one. Jack didn't need to be told the title, though; he could have named that tune in two notes. He remained motionless, staring out the window at Jenny, hoping that she'd been drunk enough not to remember the song they'd danced to.

  But she remembered. She fidgeted in her chair, crossed her legs, uncrossed them. Took a long drink of her beer. And then what he feared most: she looked up and saw him in the window. For a moment their eyes locked, each too nervous to know what to do. Jenny looked down at the bottle in her hands, into its long neck, and began to pick at the wet label. Mark said something to her; she smiled slightly, politely patronizing him. Mark must have sensed something, because he looked up, too, and Jack and Mark's eyes met briefly just before Jack spun around, his back to the sink. He wished that somehow he could see Claire without her seeing him. What was she doing? Did she see what was happening? Did she understand? And then he heard Jenny laugh, a spontaneous, easy laugh, followed by another from Claire, and he turned again to see his brother jumping around on the deck, like some character in a cartoon trying to walk across a bed of hot coals. What was he doing?

  "Yow!" Mark hollered. "Is it gone? Do you see it? It was a big sucker." He swatted at the air.

  "I never did see it." Jenny giggled. Jack could tell she knew it was an act, but she played along.

  "Jack, your son's dying of thirst out here," Claire called, still laughing at Mark. He looked down; to his surprise, he still held the cup. He stepped back outside and sat in his spot next to Claire. Jamie ran to him and guzzled the water. The music still played but now it seemed that he was the only one to hear it. Jenny had taken advantage of his brother's little show to compose herself, and she appeared relaxed. Claire, thank God, was clueless. But Mark wasn't letting him off that easily.

  "Tell them, Jack, about the time I had that allergic reaction to a bee sting."

  Jack repositioned himself in his chair. He had no idea what Mark was talking about, but knew he, too, was just supposed to go along with it. "Refresh my memory, Mark, it was so long ago." He wasn't in the mood for this, but Mark had just saved his ass.

  "Don't you remember? Mom and Dad rushed me to the hospital? I'd swelled up like a balloon?"

  "How come I've never heard this story before?" Claire asked.

  Fine, Jack could play this game, and he could play it better than Mark. "Yeah, I remember now. What I remember is when they gave you that god-awful shot with that enormous needle to administer the antidote. You screamed in pain and then cried like a baby. Even though you were like, what, thirteen or so?" He paused and glanced at Jenny. She had her beer bottle at her lips to cover her smile. She understood exactly what Jack was doing. "Yep, now that I think about it, I remember it vividly, Mark." He shook his head slowly, as if he were sympathizing with his little brother all over again. "You were thirteen, but you cried like a baby. Just like a little baby." And then he leaned back, put his arm on the back of Claire's chair, and tried in
vain to enjoy the laughs he got out of Claire and Jenny at his brother's expense.

  Jenny left first, and later Jack walked out to the driveway with Mark.

  "Mark . . ." Jack began when they reached his brother's car. Just as he had decided to fabricate some story to explain the odd behavior, Mark saved him the trouble. He raised his hand.

  "I don't want to know." He poked his index finger hard against Jack's chest. "You'd just better get your shit together, Jack." He pushed him back, away from the car door. "Don't think for a minute I did that bee routine for you. I did it for Claire." He opened the door and got in. Closed it hard. He backed the car out of the driveway and stopped just as he'd turned the car in front of the driveway entrance. "And I'll make it easier for you," he called from the open window. "I think I'll ask her out."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ON THE THIRD Wednesday in May, Jack woke to the loud, low slap of their bedroom door slamming shut. Sleet pelted the bedroom window, and tiny, needle sharp pellets of ice and water blew sideways through the five-inch gap below the window, which they'd opened the night before to catch a cool breeze. Now, the temperature in the room reminded him of the walk-in freezer at Dierbergs, the grocery store where he'd worked years before as a bagger.

  "You've got to see this," he said to Claire from the window.

  The slamming door must have startled her awake, too. She appeared at Jack's side, fully awake. Together they gazed at the three large maple trees surrounding the deck, their new leaves, spring green and still tender, encased in ice and hanging heavily. "It's freaky," she said. "It's going to kill everything."

  Jack knew she was thinking of the many hours she'd spent in the yard last weekend. On Sunday she'd planted rose bushes. After begrudgingly allowing Jack to dig the postholes for her—she'd wanted it to be her project, and hers alone—she'd installed two perpendicular sections of post-rail fence in a sunny corner of the backyard and planted the climbing roses all along the front of it. That they would become casualties of this freakish storm, as she called it, he knew caused her the most distress.

  "Just think of how neat it will look, though," he suggested as he pulled her close to him. "The ice on the new buds. We can go out with the camera before it melts." He thought this would help; it bothered her that he didn't use his camera much anymore.

  She leaned against him, her arms crossed tight in a vain attempt to ward off the chill. "I'd better go shut the kids' windows." As she opened the door to leave the room, she added offhandedly, "I think Mother Nature is a little bit confused."

  Join the crowd, he thought.

  He had two days left to make his decision.

  When the schools announced a two-hour delayed opening because of the ice storm, he offered to go in late so Claire could still make her ten o'clock class; classes at the university would be held regardless of the weather. But he had an ulterior motive. He planned to dig his camera out of a box in the back of their closet and take some pictures after she left. If he was fortunate enough to get a good shot before the temperature started its inevitable rise, he would enlarge a print and save it for her birthday in September.

  After Michael scrambled out the door to catch his bus, Jack got Jamie dressed quickly. He searched the hall closet for their coats, sensing that any delay would cause him to miss out.

  The grass crackled under their feet as they started over to the far side of the yard where Claire had spent most of Sunday. Jamie tagged behind, stopping several times on the way to investigate a branch that had fallen from the weight of the ice or some crispy brown leaves left over from fall. Jack finally realized these little pit stops provided some good photo ops, so he stopped, too, and began shooting. When Jamie saw what Jack was doing, he mugged for the camera. He smiled wide, his top lip stretching to show not only his baby teeth but his gums, too. The mist settled on his face, and Jack tried to get in close enough to capture the beaded droplets that blended with the faint freckles on his nose and cheeks.

  Jamie decided he'd rather be photographer than model. He stretched out his arm for the camera, but Jack whisked it out of his reach before the boy's wet hands touched the lens. The interruption reminded Jack of the reason he'd come outside.

  "Come on, Jamester, let's go see what Mommy's flowers look like."

  Jamie followed Jack to the fence, where they both pondered the scene before them. The rose bushes were pruned low, but a spattering of tiny green buds sprouted from the almost leafless canes. Ice still coated the bushes and the fence, but it was wet and glassy, as if someone had applied a clear varnish. It would be gone in less than an hour, Jack knew. As he squatted and began snapping, Jamie approached the fence, stuck out one finger and touched it lightly.

  "It's like God wanted to freeze the day," he said quietly.

  Jack lowered the camera and regarded Jamie, a little awed by his statement. It was just the type of insight Claire would have had, had she been there with them. An insight to reinforce his belief that she viewed the world differently from everyone else. That she saw it with more clarity.

  "Yeah. It is, isn't it?" he said.

  He grabbed Jamie by the sleeve of his coat and pulled him closer, between his legs. He held the camera in front of the boy's face, focused for him, and showed him which button to press. Jamie tried to grasp the camera between his hands, but he was caught off guard by its weight and almost dropped it. Jack caught it and put it back into his hands, this time looping the camera strap around his son's shoulders. He placed his small fingers in the right spots, then he stood close as Jamie pointed it first at the bushes, as Jack had, and then at the woods farther back, and then at the ground and the sky, taking a picture of each view. Jack laughed when Jamie finally turned around and snapped a picture of him, at the most ten inches away.

  "My turn now, buddy," Jack said. "We've gotta finish and get you to school."

  He took a few more pictures, approaching the roses and the fence from different angles, and then he took some of the maples, too, because he doubted he'd ever see them like this again in his lifetime.

  "I guess Mother Nature has just about made up her mind, hasn't she?" he whispered into his son's ear. And Jamie smiled that illuminating, gummy smile again, as if he knew exactly what Jack was talking about.

  On the drive to work after dropping Jamie at school, Jack thought of Claire, and the kids, and how he'd been in his own world the past several weeks, a world in which they weren't even invited to visit. Once he and Jamie had stepped into the yard, though, he'd remembered why he once enjoyed photography. It granted him the ability to zero in on one thing, to concentrate on the moment to the exclusion of everything else. When he saw Jamie through the viewfinder, Earl disappeared, Jenny disappeared, Gregory Dunne disappeared, the entire courthouse and all the judges and the DA's office disappeared. The noise that seemed constantly to dwell in his head evaporated, and the only sounds that had mattered to him were the words spoken by his son as he crouched in the yard talking to himself. Jack had forgotten the camera had this effect on him. But Claire had remembered. She always knew. She knew back when she was the only subject at the other end of the lens, and later, when she shared the space with Michael. By the time Jamie came along, though, Jack had all but abandoned his old Nikon, and Claire took the family's pictures with a fully automatic camera.

  When he finally pulled into the parking garage around eleven thirty, he'd made up his mind to abandon any fantasies of running for DA. He was eager to tell Earl of his decision. Once in front of his own office, though, he hesitated. He knew Earl would not accept the news happily, despite his promise to Jack.

  Finally he went into his office and closed the door. He decided he wasn't ready to endure Earl's wrath.

  He'd tell him later, right before he went home to share the good news with Claire.

  The letter lay on his desk, hidden among other mail that had arrived that morning. It caught Jack's attention because his name and address were handwritten. The top left-hand corner, where he would usually s
ee the name and return address of some law firm, was empty. He looked the envelope over. The writer had used black ink and written in small, scratchy letters, all caps. Except the J and the H. These letters were larger than the rest, almost twice the size. He looked at the postmark. Nothing unusual: St. Louis.

  He opened the letter. The handwriting inside matched that on the outside: same color ink, same small, sharp, capital letters. Monday's date was written in the upper right-hand corner. The writer began, Dear Mister Hilliard.

  You wont remember me. You did my daughters case more than three years ago, but I seen your name in the paper and I want to tell you that you would be a good man to run for Mister Scanlons job. I will vote for you. My girl Sheryl was shot by her no good husband and his no good lawyer tried to say it was self defence but you proved it was not.

  He did remember, though, as soon as she mentioned the name Sheryl. He remembered because the case was the first time he'd ever seen the name spelled with an S instead of a C. And he remembered the daughter. He remembered the pictures the mother had brought him, because she hadn't liked that he knew her daughter only from the bloody crime scene photos.

  If not for you he would have got away with it and my granddaughter would have to see him or even live with him. But you showed he was lying. You showed that it didn't happen like he said, that it couldn't happen like he said. And you put him in jail for life. How can I ever thank you?

  Jack remembered the details of the case more clearly as he read. Sheryl's daughter, the letter writer's granddaughter, had been in the room when her father shot her mother. He remembered the grandmother's agonizing throughout the trial, because she feared that if her son-in-law prevailed, he would gain custody of the girl. Jack had feared the same thing, and that fear had motivated everything he did on the case.