The Juror Read online

  As he approaches the hotel desk, Jerome gives him a glance. “Aren’t you a little late, Slavko?” he says. He turns his eyes back to his work. He’s keying something into the computer. “You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

  A funny round head Jerome has, and a funny nasal drawl.

  “Late?” Slavko says. “For what?”

  Still not looking up, Jerome whines, “The Dairy Farm Equipment Manufacturers Association?” Putting a question mark after every word, as though bells and whistles should be clanging inside Slavko’s head.

  Dimly, Slavko does remember agreeing to come in and work security for these crazies. But that was in another era. Week and a half ago. When such commitment was still within the realm of possibility, for Christ sake.

  “Jerome,” Slavko says. He’s trying to lean over the registration counter, trying to see down to the computer screen. But the counter is too high, or Slavko’s too short.

  He tells Jerome, “Look at me.”

  Jerome looks up and gasps.”Oh my God,” he says.

  “Happy Hallowe’en,” says Slavko.

  “What happened to you?”

  Slavko shrugs. “Well, you know, I should have realized, Jerome. The walls were made of shit. First big storm…”

  “What? What walls?”

  “You said it, buddy. You said a mouthful. What walls?”

  While he jabbers he puts his palms on the counter, jumps up and flops his chest onto the Formica, with his feet up in the air. Now he can see down to the computer screen. He sees the registration that Jerome was just keying in. But it’s hard to read it—because for Slavko it’s upside down.

  “What the hell are you doing?” says Jerome.

  Keep jabbering. “You ask, what walls? Ah Christ. I thought it was a mansion? I thought it was a castle? It’s shit soup. And now yours truly is swimming in it.”

  “Slavko,” says Jerome, “you shouldn’t be looking at that.” He gives Slavko’s head a gentle shove.

  Slavko gets his brain adjusted to the topsy-turvy view, and reads: Roger Boyle. STKB (standard room with a king-size bed). Address: St. Paul, Minnesota. Room 318.

  Jerome hits the Escape key, the screen dissolves. Slavko’s feet find the floor.

  He asks Jerome, “This is the guy just came in?”

  “Slavko, what do you want?” Starting to sound like a teakettle.

  Says Slavko, “You see the car he was driving? Hoo Daddy. And was that an Armani jacket?”

  “Not quite,” says Jerome. “Brioni. Two thousand dollars, minimum.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Room 318, that’s on this side, right?”

  “For someone who doesn’t show up for work, you seem awfully nosy—”

  “Was there a woman waiting for him?”

  “At two-thirty in the morning?”

  Slavko grins. “I’m sure she’ll be along. She’ll be expensive, too, I bet. Two thousand dollars, minimum.”

  “This is not my business.”

  “Nor mine. Just idle curiosity. The rich. They drive you crazy, no?”

  “No,” says Jerome. “Not really.”

  “Check you later, Jerome. Give the boss my regards. Give the oaf a big wet kiss for me.”

  He ambles out. He can feel Jerome’s eyes following him. In the parking lot he walks past the dark lounge and the dark dining room and the dark racquetball court. He walks around back. There’s a door beside the kitchen that the night staff uses, that they usually leave unlocked. Slavko glides through and heads for the back stairs.

  Up two flights to the third floor.

  Past the Coke machine.

  Down the broad corridor, his steps dead quiet in the thick pile carpet. Coming up to 318. He’s not planning an intrusion. No scenes, no fireworks. He doesn’t know really what he has in mind. Maybe just pause by the door and give a listen.

  But then he sees that even that’s not going to work. There’s a cop in the corridor.

  A sheriff’s deputy. Sitting on a little folding chair, his head nodding, a few steps down from 318. He opens one eye. Slavko focuses on the carpet and plows past him. Comes to the end of the corridor and takes the stairs down.

  What was the deal with that guy?

  E.R. has a deputy sheriff for a bodyguard?

  Maybe E.R.’s a county commissioner or something. And he gets, he gets a round-the-clock—

  No.

  OK, then maybe it’s a coincidence? Maybe the deputy’s here for something else? For example, maybe the Dairy Farm Equipment Manufacturers Association has been receiving bomb threats from disgruntled moo-cows?

  Slavko walks back to his car and sits and thinks.

  What do deputy sheriffs guard?

  Prisoners, right?

  OK then, how about this? E.R. has a girlfriend who’s also a convict. They brought her to the Caruso for an overnight conjugal visit—

  While Slavko is whipping these moonbeams into a froth, he idly stares through his windshield up at the broad ornate face of the big hotel. He can see into some of the rooms. But this is not a hotel for horny young lovers and at this hour there’s nothing much to look at. One or two rooms still have their TVs on. There seems to be the dregs of a party in a big suite near the office. There seems—

  Then it occurs to him: Room 318, that’s on this side of the hotel, right? Couldn’t he see room 318 from here if he looked for it?

  He pops open the glove compartment, gets out his binoculars.

  Quickly calculating: 318 ought to be on the third floor, nine balconies from the central elevator shaft. He leans forward, and with his chin over the steering wheel and his nose close to the windshield, he starts counting balconies….

  THE TEACHER dials room 316. Then he sets the disk of his stethoscope against the wall. He waits.

  The phone rings on the other side of the wall. Through the stethoscope he hears a sleepy and startled, “Oh, hell.” Not from Annie—from her roommate.

  But it’s Annie who picks up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  Says the Teacher, “Is this room 106?”

  “Oh. No.”

  “When your roommate falls asleep again, come out onto the balcony. Slide the door shut behind you.”

  He hangs up.

  In the stethoscope he hears Annie’s roommate ask, “What was it?”

  “Wrong number.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Then one of them uses the bathroom.

  Then bed-rustling. Then they settle down.

  From the two breathing-rhythms, the Teacher imagines he can pick out Annie’s. Coming a little short, ratchety. He can feel her fear. He shuts his eyes to listen.

  The other woman’s breathing starts to stretch, to roll smoothly.

  He pulls the stethoscope away from the wall. He tucks it into his little black bag.

  He steps out to his balcony.

  Lovely evening. A bit cool and drizzly—but full of autumn fragrance. Even up here he’s getting deep, late leaf-smells and earth-smells. He stands next to the partition between his balcony and hers. He waits.

  At last he hears her step out onto her balcony.

  He whispers, “Annie.”

  She comes to stand next to him, with only the partition between them. Standing in her nightgown, with a sweater pulled over it. Both of them lean out over the wrought-iron rail. He passes her a pack of cigarettes and a pack of matches. He tells her, “Light one. Pretend to be smoking.”

  She obeys.

  He looks at her. She’s backlit by one of the hotel’s facade-lights and she’s beautiful.

  But she won’t meet his gaze.

  “It’s risky to talk,” he says. “But I wanted you to know you’re never out of my thoughts.”

  “Thank you.” She doesn’t mean it, of course. But he notices there’s no sardonic sting in her tone either. There’s no emotion at all.

  “Will we win?” he asks her.

 
; “No,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s guilty. The others, they all know it.”

  “Did you fight for us today?”

  “Mm.”

  “What did you say to them?”

  “I said he didn’t do it. I said the Teacher did it.”

  “Annie. That won’t work.”

  “What.”

  “Lying to me.”

  “I didn’t, I mean—”

  “Three jurors voted not guilty. And when they asked you your reasons you didn’t say a word. You were useless.”

  He knows what she’s wondering. How does he know? A bug in the jury room? Or a rat, one of the other jurors? He finds himself listening, again, to her breathing. That slight raspiness, the dryness of her breath—this he loves. He wants to hold her, to comfort her. But he has to be firm now.

  “Annie, if the jury hangs because you’re lazy or timid or weak, how can that be forgiven? The people I work with, they’d punish you just to punish me.”

  “I thought—I thought it would be all right if—”

  “No. We need an acquittal. You can win this for us. That’s why I chose you. Out of all the jurors, I chose you to carry our case because I know who you are when you wake up. When your passion boils up, when you pour yourself into something, my Lord, Annie, how can you be stopped?”

  She hisses, “I can’t turn black into white.”

  “But you can set free an innocent man. Look at me.”

  He sees her temples pulsing. A muscle moving in her jaw.

  “Look at me, Annie.”

  Reluctantly she turns toward him.

  He says, “Louie Boffano could not have done this thing. He could have let it happen, yes, but he could not have compelled it. He has neither the courage nor the brains. Nor the will. You could have done this if you’d wanted to. I mean you have the mental wherewithal, the spine. You and I, we’re very much alike. But Louie Boffano? You know him, Annie, you’ve watched him. You know it’s not possible—”

  She raises her voice. “What does it matter what I know? They don’t know!”

  He puts a finger to his lips. “Your voice carries.”

  “God, what do you want me to do?” she whispers. “You want me to threaten them?”

  “I want you only to get into your own passion. Just climb inside of it, and you won’t have to do anything—things will flow of their own accord. Lao Tsu’s Soft and Weak will overcome Hard and Strong. That jury will be jelly for you. They’ll be begging your mercy.”

  “I can’t,” she says.

  “You can. You have to, so you will. I think it’s likely we’ll never speak again. If I ever do need you, I’ll call Inez and buy another piece of artwork. For twelve thousand. If I pay more, forget it, it’s just because I love your work, but if I offer twelve exactly, you call Maretti’s Restaurant in Larchmont, talk to Maretti. He’ll have a message for you. OK? Though I’m sure I won’t need to. You’ll do what’s necessary on your own. OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “On your own. Still, you should know, you should never forget that I will be with you, Annie, every step of the way.”

  SLAVKO, watching through the binoculars from his car, sees the woman at the balcony railing turn away from the man. Then one of the hotel’s facade-lights picks up her face. For the first time he sees more than her silhouette.

  He sees her big eyes, her simple figure, her long straight hair. And he’s certain that she’s the woman from the reservoir.

  He’s certain of something else, too—that she’s scared.

  She steps away abruptly from the railing. Goes back into her room and draws her curtains closed.

  Then E.R. himself, after lingering a moment on his balcony, savoring the last moments of another soulful day, no doubt, turns and goes in.

  Both balconies are dark.

  In his logbook Slavko writes:

  2:50. E.R. on balcony Rm 318 talks to neighbor

  Rm 316? Same woman as at reservoir. 8 min.

  They never even touched.

  So what kind of lovers’ rendezvous was that?

  Or could it have been a drug deal? But nothing changed hands, neither money nor merchandise. And there was a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside her door. Why would they, why would they…

  Come on, Think, Slavko. Concentrate.

  But the moment he tells himself to concentrate he gets an image of Juliet from that day they rented a boat and went up to Bannerman’s Island on the Hudson and fucked all day on the pine needles—but later she seemed restless and said something about how always the men she was attracted to were so focused, so concentrated. Now what did she mean by that exactly? Did she mean Slavko was too… distracted? Dissipated? But that’s bullshit, Juliet was always full of such bullshit—

  Cut it out, you moony clod. Do some work. Do a lick of goddamn work. Figure this goddamn conundrum.

  OK.

  Maybe the woman met E.R. on the balcony because she didn’t want that sheriff’s deputy to see them. Maybe the deputy wouldn’t have let her meet E.R.. But why? Why wouldn’t the deputy want her to—

  Could she be under some kind of quarantine? Some kind of special cloistering or…

  A tumble in Slavko’s thoughts, a single stone shifting.

  Sequestered?

  Like a juror?

  A trial juror? Could she be a juror? The Caruso sometimes rents rooms for sequestering jurors—

  The tumbling turns into a landslide of mud and sludge and revelation, and instantly Slavko is wide awake and ten years younger.

  Juror.

  He straightens up.

  He swings open the car door and gets out and walks across the lot into the lobby. Feels like he’s floating. His walk feels like the brisk purposeful walk of a young man, a young sober man.

  In his vitals blood vessels are opening up that haven’t been used for years.

  She’s a juror.

  “Right?” he asks Jerome, as he reaches over the counter for the registration card file box.

  “I thought you were gone!” cries Jerome. Poor put-upon Jerome. “Slavko, you can’t look at those!”

  Jerome grabs for the box, but Slavko has only to skitter back a bit from the counter and he’s out of the whiny creep’s reach.

  He flips through to room 316.

  “Holy holy.”

  Room 316 has been rented by the Westchester Superior Court. So has room 315 and room 314 and room 313 and room 312 and room 311…

  Jerome comes around from behind the desk and he’s hopping mad, and his round face is flushed and shiny. He wants that file box. Slavko cheerfully surrenders it. He considers asking Jerome which trial these jurors are serving on, but why bother? There’s no question which trial. There’s only one big jury trial in the county these days.

  The trial of Louie Boffano.

  Slavko heads for the door. Jerome is right behind him, berating him, threatening to summon management, to call the police, to bring down the vengeance of the archangel Gabriel, who knows what this pumpkin-headed idiot is raving about? And who cares?

  Slavko turns at the door and blows Jerome a kiss.

  Back in his car, he pulls out his little black log. He gives it a cursory account of his latest discoveries. He underlines the word juror.

  He wonders, What are you threatening her with, E.R.? She’s lovely, how the fuck could you do something like this? And how much is Boffano paying you to do it? And how much do you think your sweet Sari is gonna like all those long drives to Attica to visit her lonesome locked-up loverboy?

  Lonesome locked-up-for-a-long-time lover. Ha!

  Once I get clicking, Sari & Juliet, am I not an amazing poet?

  The night air is coming into the car and he loads up his lungs with it. It occurs to him that living is a simpler business than he had thought. Living—yes, living well, doing your work, rescuing some lovely scared creature from the clutches of a fiend (in fact two lovely scared creatures—Sari and that juror both), liv
ing successfully, nobly and victoriously… yes. It’s easy.

  “Yes it is,” he says out loud.

  A voice at his right ear says, “Nah. It ain’t.”

  Slavko drops the log book. It bounces off his thigh onto the floorboards. He half turns, and comes face to face with the black unblinking gaze of a pistol barrel.

  Behind the barrel is Mr. Ugly-As-Sin, E.R.’s number one flunky. Sitting calmly in the backseat and saying:

  “Nah, you fucked up again, Sure-Knack. What is the matter with you? Eyes forward. Hands on the wheel.”

  The barrel tickles Slavko’s scalp just behind his ear.

  Says Ugly-As-Sin, “I never in my life, I never seen nobody screws up as much as you. You got a death wish? ’Cause if you got a death wish, then congratulations, I’m your fairy fuckin godmother.”

  Slavko hears the guy tapping out a phone number. He hears a faint buzz and a voice on the other end: “Yes?”

  “I got a surprise for you,” says Ugly-As-Sin into the phone.

  And dimly, the reply: “What’s the matter, Eddie?”

  His name, good.

  Or come to think of it—not good, since the more Slavko knows about these guys, the less merciful they’re likely to prove.

  But there can’t be any margin for mercy left anyway, so why worry about it?

  Says Ugly-As-Sin Eddie: “I’m sitting here with an old friend. Mr. Sure-Knack, you remember him?”

  Slavko hears the voice on the other end: “Where?”

  Says Eddie: “Parking lot of the Caruso.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Eddie chuckles. “Come on out and have a look.”

  E.R. appears on his balcony with phone in hand. His eyes search the lot.

  Says Eddie, “No, we’re a little more to the left. See us? Rusted-out piece-a-shit Ford Granada? Yeah, that’s us. Wave to him, Sure-Knack. I said, wave.”

  Slavko waves.

  But E.R. doesn’t wave back.

  “What do you want to do?” says Eddie.

  With a gun at one’s neck, Slavko learns, time passes slowly.

  At last E.R. says, “I’d like to talk to him. Take him to Frankie’s house. I’ll meet you there.”