Tell No Lies Page 14

  "Hmm?" His eyes were closed and he wasn't really listening as his hand kept moving, only inches from its intended destination.

  "What made you decide finally?" She rolled over to face him, and his hand slid over her leg and landed on the mattress between them. He opened his eyes and they stared at each other.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, come on. You know how you are, a little impulsive. You might have been thinking about it for a long time, but something happened to make you decide. Did Earl say something to you?"

  He rolled onto his back and stared into the dark. "Is there a reason we're talking about this right now?"

  "I just thought of it. I'm curious."

  He wondered whether to tell her about the letter. At any other time he wouldn't have hesitated; she would have understood completely. But something about her demeanor—how she'd been so hot and cold ever since their phone conversation earlier in the afternoon—caused him to be almost embarrassed that he'd let the letter affect him as it had. But this was Claire, and he had to believe that she'd get it, that she'd comprehend its significance to him.

  "I got a letter today from the mother of a murder victim in a case I tried a few years ago." She rested her arm on his chest in anticipation—she wanted his reasoning to be heartfelt, if not sound—and it spurred him on. "She encouraged me to run. She wanted me to run. I thought . . ." He remembered that he'd shoved it into his pants pocket before leaving to meet Jenny. He threw the blankets off, grabbed his pants from the floor, and dug out the letter. "Turn on your light," he said.

  She reached for the paper, squinting a little, and said, "Why's it so wrinkled?"

  Instead of replying, he watched her read it and tried to gauge her reaction. Twice she raised her eyes, without comment, to look at him over the top of the letter. It took her a long time to read it and he thought that maybe she was reading it more than once, as he had. This was Claire. She had to get it.

  When she finished, she set the letter on her nightstand and turned off the light. She scooted over to him, snuggled in tight, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Jack. I jumped to conclusions."

  She started to say something else, but he put his finger to her lips and pulled her closer. He didn't need her to say any more. He understood what she'd been thinking and he really couldn't blame her and he didn't need to hear any apologies. He was tired and he'd lost interest in anything else but sleep. He closed his eyes and fingered her hair and thought about earlier in the day when everyone was in his office. He thought of telling her about it now. Instead he drifted off, a slight smile on his face, feeling again like an honest man.

  PART 2

  SUMMER

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE BLACKTOP DRIVEWAY was already hot under Jack's bare feet when he dashed out early to grab the morning paper. As he sat down at the table with his coffee, the headline screamed up at him. OUTGOING DA MUM ON WHETHER HE'LL SEEK DEATH IN LAST CASE OF HIS TERM.

  "How can you drink that when it's so hot outside?" Claire asked. She stretched to get a glimpse of the headline.

  He barely heard her. "It's like he's purposely dragging this out to make my life difficult. They're going to descend on me when I get to work today."

  Jack knew the honeymoon was over. After announcing his candidacy, he'd braced himself for a barrage of high-pressure questions from reporters, but they'd never come. He'd received plenty of calls, of course, and had been interviewed several times for profile pieces, but, amazingly, no one had pushed him on the death penalty.

  He now suspected the media had merely been waiting for the most opportune moment to spring the issue. They would take advantage of the public's combustible emotions resulting from the Barnard case and then throw Jack's position into the mix and wait for something to ignite. He pushed the paper away without finishing the story.

  "Oh, come on." Claire was skeptical. "Isn't that inevitable regardless of when he decides?"

  "I guess." Although usually he admired her reasonableness, he resented it just then. "I feel like he's milking the issue, though. He enjoys playing the media."

  She ruffled his hair. "I think maybe you're the one he's playing, Jack." He tilted his face to her, but she slipped away to the sink and began putting dishes in the dishwasher.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Maybe he's trying to force the issue. Maybe he wants to make sure you can handle it before it gets too close to the election." She spoke without looking at him.

  "He knows I can handle it."

  "Then why are you so worried?"He drew the paper closer to him and turned to the sports page. He tried to read an article but the words stuck to the paper like glue, refusing to find meaning inside his head.

  "You know what?" he said. "We can't talk about this. It always ends up this way."

  She shut off the water and grabbed a dishtowel. She turned to him as she dried her hands.

  "What way?"

  "With you challenging everything I say."

  He rose from the table and searched for his keys in the cabinet. He called up the stairs to Jamie, who emerged at the top in his pajamas. "Come down and say goodbye to me," Jack said, his tone softer. When Jamie reached the bottom, Jack grabbed him and lifted him into the air. "Are you going to the pool with Mommy?" he asked, tickling him under his shirt. Jamie shrieked with pleasure.

  "I don't mean to," she said as if they were still the only two in the room.

  "Yes, you do." He set Jamie down. "Go put your suit on." He kissed his head before the child climbed to the top. "I think you're waiting to see me squirm."

  "Jack . . ."

  "It's true. I'm not doing this exactly how you wanted me to, so you want me to pay."

  "That's not true." She crossed the kitchen and gently touched his shoulder.

  He picked up his briefcase and started for the garage. She followed, but stopped in the doorway as he climbed into his car. She pressed the button to open the garage for him.

  "Then why do you ask me a question like that?"

  "You took it wrong."

  "I don't think so," he said and slammed his door shut.

  Giving her a chance to make a move toward reconciliation, he fiddled with the air conditioner before backing out. But she merely stood there, arms crossed, and when he finally put the gear in reverse, she raised a hand and gave him a little wave.

  "Bye, Claire. Thanks for your support," he muttered to himself.

  He took the steps instead of the elevator from the third floor of the parking garage, but regretted it as soon as he stepped into the rank stairwell. The odor from urine and discarded beer cans hung in the stagnant heat, remnants of the city's July Fourth celebration a few days earlier. He emerged on the sidewalk expecting relief, but stopped abruptly at the corner when he noticed a small crowd at the bottom of the courthouse steps. He knew without being told they were there because of Barnard; the only question was whose side they were on.

  The light changed to green but he didn't cross. Feeling someone at his elbow, he mumbled, "Excuse me," and mindlessly took a step to the side to let the person pass.

  "Come on, we'll walk right by them together."

  He turned at Earl's voice. "Oh, it's you."

  They crossed together and Jack waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

  "I can't do this," he said, more to himself than to Earl.

  But Earl kept walking. "You don't have a choice. Anyway, you don't deserve to be DA if you can't do this."

  As they neared the group, the homemade signs made it clear they were there to protest the possibility of Earl's asking for the death penalty. The largest of the signs encouraged Earl to "take the more humane approach to justice." That was okay with Jack, of course, except that now he couldn't very well express his sympathies with them, could he?

  The group had enough of a presence to attract a news truck. A single reporter stood with the crowd, her cameraman tailing her every movement. Jack glanced sideways at Earl to gauge his reaction, but Ea
rl merely nodded to the crowd in greeting and kept going. The cameraman motioned to the reporter. Seeing Earl and Jack, she yanked the microphone away from the face of the young man talking into it and started in their direction.

  "Keep walking as if there's nothing unusual going on," Earl said quietly to Jack without changing his expression or his pace. They began to climb the steps.

  "Mr. Scanlon! Mr. Hilliard! Can I have a moment, please?" Jack heard the tap of the reporter's heels as she followed just behind them. Despite Earl's instructions, he couldn't just pretend he hadn't heard her. He stopped and turned, forcing Earl to do the same.

  "Of course," Jack answered, smiling slightly. A drop of perspiration trailed down the back of his neck; the collar of his shirt felt tight. This is it.

  "Mr. Scanlon" —the light on the camera came on and she shoved the microphone in Earl's face— "have you made up your mind whether to seek death in the Barnard case?"

  "No, ma'am, I haven't. I hope to complete my review of the evidence and the statute by the end of the week. I will announce my intentions then."

  Earl was well aware of the evidence in the case and could recite the relevant section of the statute by memory, if he wanted to.

  "So it is a possibility?"

  "It's always a possibility in a first degree murder case."

  "There have been very few cases in your tenure for which you'd sought death. Why's that?"

  Sweat ran down Jack's back as if someone had turned on a faucet. These questions may have been pitched to Earl, but Jack was on deck.

  "Despite the sometimes apparent heinous nature of the crimes that have crossed my desk, there have been very few for which I thought the circumstances justified the death penalty under our statutes. My job for this city has been to prosecute criminals to the fullest extent of the law, as that law was written by our state legislature. I can't substitute my own wishes or the wishes of a few vocal citizens for the intent expressed by our elected representatives."

  This sounded good to Jack, but this lady wasn't having any of it.

  "Well, Mr. Scanlon, if the Barnard case doesn't satisfy the requirements of the statute, what type of case would?"

  "As I explained, I'm still deciding whether Barnard does, in fact, satisfy the requirements of the statute." Then, with finality, Earl declared, "I'll have that decision for you within days."

  Jack considered whether to turn and continue up the steps, as if he, too, believed the interrogation was over. Earl would like that. Some sort of decisiveness on Jack's part, an effort to take control. But maybe not. He thought of what Claire had suggested: Maybe he wants to make sure you can handle it before it gets too close to the election. He could handle it, Earl knew that. It was Claire who doubted him.

  Jack looked the reporter in the eye to acknowledge that he knew the next question would be directed to him, and that he welcomed it. The microphone moved swiftly from Earl to Jack.

  "Mr. Hilliard? I'm sure the electorate would like to know how you would handle this case."

  He considered lobbing a pat response about how it wasn't his decision to make, but he knew she'd persist, and by not answering the question right away, he would be seen as evasive and weak. Anyway, hadn't he been expecting this question for months? He was ready for it.

  "Ma'am, I'm not going to stand here and tell you I like the idea of the death penalty. I don't." He intentionally looked past her at the small group of protesters so that he could also steal a glance at Earl. Earl was listening to Jack, but without any evidence of concern for what he might say. He'd completely, with full trust, relinquished the floor to him. Emboldened, Jack continued.

  "Although I know some believe otherwise, I really don't think any prosecutor relishes the thought of asking for the death penalty. But despite a DA's personal views about the appropriateness of such a punishment, he or she is ethically bound to follow the laws of the state in which he prosecutes crimes." He attempted a deep breath but, because of the stifling heat, managed only a shallow intake of air. "So to answer your question, how would I handle this case? I would handle this case in the same way any conscientious and ethical DA would handle it. Like Mr. Scanlon, I would review the totality of the evidence in light of the statute and make the difficult but informed decision as to whether the facts of the crime indicate it should be a capital case."

  The muscles in Jack's shoulders began to relax and he almost imagined a cool breeze tickling the nape of his neck. But then the young man who'd been talking to the reporter when they'd first approached spoke. "That's bullshit," he sneered, his voice easily carrying over to them in the morning's relative silence.

  The reporter ignored him but used his comment as an excuse to press on. "And, in your opinion, Mr. Hilliard, do the facts of the Barnard case indicate it should be a capital case?"

  "I don't—"

  "Surely you are privy to all of the relevant facts of the case. You're asking this city to let you wear Mr. Scanlon's shoes. Aren't the voters entitled to know where you stand?"

  "Yes, of course they are." He felt the tension rising at her insinuations. He struggled to follow the first advice Earl had ever given him, years before: don't let a reporter goad you into anger. "I think—"

  "Clyde Hutchins kidnapped twelve-year-old Cassia Barnard at her bus stop, then raped, tortured, stabbed and strangled her. Then he left her out in the brutal elements of a January winter to die, just in case that hadn't already been accomplished. I'm merely asking, Mr. Hilliard, is this a case for which you, as a candidate for District Attorney of this city, would ask for death?"

  What would he do? He remembered the conversation he'd had with Jenny that night, so long ago, it seemed: If there was ever the perfect argument for the death penalty, isn't this case it? And what had his answer been? I don't think there will ever be the perfect argument for the death penalty. And then he thought of Dunne's comment: Your goal is to get elected, not to make everyone think like you do.

  He looked at the group again. They stood quietly, ready to pounce. How to make them understand he was on their side? Maybe he was asking too much. Your legacy will be made in office, not on the campaign trail. There was only one response to the question. He stared hard at the reporter before answering.

  "Absent mitigating circumstances of which I may not be aware, since I'm not working on the case" —he paused, not for effect, but to gather the nerve required to say what he planned to say— "I think it may be an appropriate case." He ignored the rising murmur and looked at his watch. "If you'll excuse us, I have a meeting in ten minutes," he lied.

  The reporter made an effort to ask more questions, but Jack and Earl turned together and trotted up the steps to the entrance of the courthouse as if they had previously choreographed it.

  It was the comment of one of the protesters—a female this time—that caused Jack to stop abruptly just as he gripped the handle of the massive door.

  "Then you're no better than Cassia Barnard's murderer!" she called, her voice laced with contempt.

  Before Jack could react, Earl spoke quickly and quietly to him. "Don't respond. Don't even turn around or you'll erase every gain you just made down there." When Jack still didn't move, he commanded, "Open the door."

  They'd passed through the metal detector and stepped into the empty elevator before Earl spoke again. "You know," he said with a chuckle, "getting you through to November is a little like trying to thread a rope through the eye of a needle."

  Jack glanced at him, expressionless, and then, as if the force of his touch would make them get there faster, pressed the elevator button hard. He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and stared at the chipped linoleum tiles on the floor of the elevator.

  "Don't look so miserable. You handled that well."

  "Yeah, well, put in a good word for me if you get to the gates of St. Peter first."

  "Spare me, Jack. You knew you'd have to put up with comments like that."

  Jack didn't bother to respond. He couldn't deny it—he h
ad known he'd get comments like that. But that didn't mean he had to enjoy them. He thought again of what Claire had said that morning and suddenly wondered whether he'd just been set up.

  When they stepped off the elevator, Jack said, "I didn't say I'd ask for death."

  "No, you didn't," Earl agreed.

  He expected Earl to say more. Instead, they walked down the quiet corridor toward their offices. Jack stopped short at the door to the men's room. Perspiration drenched his shirt and he wished he kept an extra one in his office for times like these. Right, times like these. Despite the city's sweltering summers, he couldn't remember ever before sweating like this.

  In the bathroom, he wet a few paper towels with cold water and wiped his face. His cheeks were flushed, the way they looked after a long run. He folded the towels and placed them on the back of his neck. He remembered that Newman had showers in the men's room. If he won the election, maybe he'd have showers put in these offices, for everyone. He laughed, because he knew it wasn't even an option. He'd have the first say over whether defendants should live or die, but he wouldn't have the power to get a shower installed for his staff.

  "What's so funny?"

  Earl stood in the doorway. Jack hadn't heard him come in; he wondered how long he'd been there. He'd assumed Earl had continued on to his office.

  Jack shrugged. "I don't know. Everything. Life. Death. This summer. The campaign. The reporter. That girl's inability to read between the lines."

  "Nope. She doesn't even realize that you're her man, does she?" He paused, and then grinned when he saw the hint of a smile on Jack's face. He stepped all the way into the bathroom and let the door close behind him. "People hear what they want to hear, what they expect to hear."

  Jack nodded as he pulled down more towels from the dispenser and began to wipe his face and neck all over again. "Maybe I have no right to ask, but what's her mom want?"

  Earl remained quiet for a moment. He knew Jack meant Cassia's mother. "I don't know."

  "Maybe you should ask her."