The Juror Read online

  The Teacher wraps his fingers around the snub-nose revolver. He pulls it from its holster. He tries to lift it to level.

  But then this church fills up with gunfire.

  All this dim draggle-tail barnyard rabble making nonsense out of everything I’ve been trying to teach them. The owl, shooting at him. The pig, in deepening shadow, shooting at him. The churlish Zeke of a besotted farmer, shooting at him. The monkey, class clown, cutup, shooting at him. Annie, even his Annie, even his stubborn groping grim earthly bride, shooting at him. Annie, Annie, Annie, Annie, daughter of chaos, killing him.

  16

  a wild honky-tonk Chopsticks

  ANNIE waits in the darkness. She has her eyes shut, because these ruins were suddenly much too bright for her, that blossoming of blood dazzled her.

  She’s waiting for the echo of the shots to fade.

  Someone takes the gun from her. She lets them draw it from her fingers like a glove.

  In the dark silence, the valley begins to speak up.

  Some of the marimbas have quit, but there’s one still going, still cranking out a wild honky-tonk Chopsticks. Above her, half a bird-call. Then to the left, a horse sneezing. Dogs barking. No rhyme or reason, no judgment or law or ordering to any of this, just odd fragments of sound, coming to her ears. She reaches. Touches Oliver. Reels him into her. Some shout from the valley and an answering shout from a voice near her. Not Spanish, but that guttural, hive-of-bees local language. Her lips against her child’s hair. I will open my eyes soon, but first I want to remember how beautiful it was to see that man in shards, to see the whole ex-church stained with his leaping blood, and first I want to listen to the howling dogs of T’ui Cuch. I want to run my fingers along my child’s eyelashes and down his temples beside his ears down to his jawline and dipping under it, slipping my fingers along the faint fuzz of Oliver’s neck, lightly, so lightly that it tickles, so that he laughs. So that I can hear him laugh, and then right after that hear some more of that disorder of the T’ui Cuch dogs and the T’ui Cuch music, that pure ungovernable ruckus. More of those dogs. More of everything, before I open my eyes. More of this silent weighted sunlight, blood-red on my eyelids. More of the smell of his hair. More of that hive-of-bees shouting. More of that sneezing horse. A moment or two more.

  Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  1. When Annie Laird agrees to become a juror, it is a decision that irrevocably changes the course of her life. Does she consider its ramifications before she makes it? What other kinds of seemingly routine decisions commonly shape the direction of a person’s life? What might the consequences be if those decisions are impulsive?

  2. Annie is attracted to the villain when she first sees him on the street as “some beautiful city guy with gothic cheekbones” (p. 31). How long does this attraction last? Do you think the author is commenting on the nature of evil? Can evil be seductive?

  3. What do you think of Annie’s art, particularly her “grope boxes”? Why do you think her art appeals to the villain?

  4. Why is the villain called The Teacher?

  5. Annie Laird asks Eddie about The Teacher’s motivation for his involvement in the Buffano case, for scaring her, and perhaps for his twisted behavior. She asks, “Why is he doing this?” (p. 198). Why do you think he is?

  6. Discuss the way Annie’s behavior changes as a result of the threats against those she loves. How do you think you’d react?

  7. What do you think of Annie’s friend Juliet? Do you think her name was chosen for a reason?

  8. One by one the major characters in the book are killed off. Did the death of any of these characters surprise you? Which one(s)? Why?

  9. Why do you think boys like Annie’s son, Oliver, are attracted to video games, particularly violent ones? Is there anything symbolic about Annie playing the video game with Oliver very early in the book and the life-and-death decisions she is forced to make later in the novel?

  10. The page that opens the first section of the book includes the words “varnish, putty, char, clay, moss, fur, wax, turpentine, ink, cedar.” What do the words refer to? What is the purpose of the heading or excerpt that accompanies each section of the book?

  11. Is this book simply an entertaining thriller or are there layers that go deeper than the suspenseful story? If so, what are they?

  12. What is the difference, if any, between the criminals in the story? Are some better than others? Did you like Eddie? Why or why not?

  13. Do you think the novel takes a “dark” or “negative” position on romantic love? What happens to each of the couples in the book? What does this say about the various forms of love and attraction?

  14. To paraphrase Edmund Burke, all that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing. When Annie and her son are writing notes to each other to evade the listening devices, Oliver writes, “Mom we got to fight him.” Annie writes back, “If we fight him, he’ll kill me.” Who do you think is right?

  15. Discuss the final section of the book that begins with “a wild honky-tonk Chopsticks.” Is the ending satisfying? Is it what you expected?

  A Q & A with George Dawes Green

  Q. What sparked the writing of this novel? Did a real-life incident or situation inspire you?

  A. Thomas de Quincey’s thunderous essay “The English Mail Coach” tells of an approaching accident that the narrator is powerless to avert. I wanted to re-create that atmosphere. So I dreamed up a terrifying car ride during which a protaganist realizes that the destination is the murder of her own child. I filed that away in my head and years later, when I came across a small news item about a juror who had perhaps been threatened by some mobster, I knew that was the story to wrap around this core terror.

  Q. You are a poet as well as a novelist. In The Juror, you create two characters who actually write poetry. The hotel night clerk describes the first fictional poet, the detective Slavko Czernyk, as a “romantic” (p. 273). Eddie says about the second poet, the villain: “There was always some question…as to Vincent’s sanity” (p. 209). By choosing these characters, are you commenting on the nature of the poet, or just poking a little fun?

  A. Vincent creates worlds, as poets and murderers will. Slavko is a failed poet, and thus is deserving of our deepest compassion and reverence.

  Q. You also include an excerpt from the poem “The Gulf” by the Nobel Prize–winning poet Derek Walcott. Why did you choose Walcott?

  A. There I was poking a little fun. But Derek charged me an arm and a leg for the rights to use that one little stanza, so he had the last laugh.

  Q. It isn’t common for an accomplished poet to also write genre novels, and vice versa. Yet you have done both. Are the experiences of writing in each genre the same or different? How does your use of language as a poet influence your style as a novelist?

  A. As Cheever said of novels versus short stories, they are two distinct disciplines—utterly dissimilar. One doesn’t seem to help with the other.

  Q. You also associate the villain with Taoism and refer to specific aphorisms by Lao Tzu. Can you share with readers why you included the Tao?

  A. Because Lao Tzu’s meaning is so difficult to plumb, he’s always been beloved by charlatans. Such as Vincent.

  Q. Protagonist Annie Laird is a talented artist who has to work at data entry to support herself and her son. Is this a comment on the artist’s struggles in contemporary society?

  A. Not a “comment” but it is how things work.

  Q. Like the character Turtle, you spent time in Guatemala. Are there any parallels between you and that character? When the heroine Annie escapes with her son, she goes there. How did your personal experience influence that plot twist?

  A. She wanted to get as far from her tormentor as possible—to the very end of the earth—and I recalled the Cuchumatanes Mountains, which perfectly fit that description.

  Q. There are many kinds of criminals in The Juror, from figures in organized crime and
corrupt officials to the novel’s villain Vincent/Zach/Eben/Ian. Are any of them “evil”? Is crime boss Boffano? Is Vincent? Would you talk a bit about your concept of evil?

  A. The word has no meaning to me. I suppose that should worry me.

  Q. Will you share some of your writing life with us? Do you write daily? Do you have a routine? Do have a specific place to write?

  A. I wrote most of The Juror in a one-room schoolhouse in the Pennsylvania Mountains, in winter, with two-foot snowdrifts all around. I was alone. At night I would slog through the snow and shine my flashlight at deer in the meadow, and pick up the slow-gliding headlights of their eyes. All of them moving away from me. Then I’d go back to the schoolhouse and work some more. Vincent got into my head and loosened the hinges. I was having an affair with a beautiful girl I’d met at a bar in town (Stroudsburg, Pa.); she was also sleeping with her father. I think if I’d stayed out there much longer I’d have lost my mind. Maybe I did anyway.

  Q. How do you go about developing a story? How carefully do you plot your novel before you write it?

  A. All the pieces of a thriller have to fit seamlessly, and should be weighed and measured scrupulously before any assembly is undertaken.

  Q. Do you base characters on real people?

  A. On myself mostly, although the characters of Vincent and Annie were informed by people close to me. But when the writing begins, all personas must say good-bye to their models and board the train and make the journey by themselves.

  Q. Discuss your choice of a female protagonist. Do you feel a man writing about a woman’s emotions and mental state faces any special challenges in making them seem authentic?

  A. Creating any character is impossible. To me “authentic” always signifies really good sleight-of-hand. Woman, monster, child—I do the best I can.

  Q. How important is storytelling for a society? Would you talk about your founding of The Moth?

  A. The art of the raconteur is a beautiful thing—there’s its prime importance. It may have some kind of therapeutic or societal value, but I’m mostly interested in the beauty. So far as I know, there had never in history been a public forum for the kinds of stories we celebrate at The Moth—unscripted, personal, “kitchen” stories. So I created one—with the help of a thousand friends and, in particular, Joey Xanders and Lea Thau—and now we’re traveling all over the world and we’re downloaded by millions and the art of the raconteur seems to be exploding. As it should. If you haven’t been to a Moth, please go—the evenings can be rapturous.

  Q. The Juror was your second novel and was tremendously successful. Your first book (The Caveman’s Valentine) won an Edgar Award. Then over a decade passed when no novels appeared. Now you have a third book, Ravens. Why did you take a hiatus after The Juror and why did you return to novel writing?

  A. The years just kind of got away from me.

  Q. The Juror became a Hollywood movie. Would you tell us something of your experience and the process through which your novel was transformed into a film?

  A. The studios were captivated by a certain strain in the novel, the core story, which they seemed to find compelling. The rest they jettisoned. And naturally, it was “the rest”—the other strains, the surrounding layers—that I most cherished. It’s very tough to make novelists happy. But we’re paid handsomely so no whining.

  Q. Are you currently working on another novel?

  A. I am, and I’ve sworn to deliver it soon, and my amazing, beautiful, patient, and gracious editor has threatened to put me in irons if I don’t.

  Please turn this page

  for a preview of the long-awaited new novel

  BY GEORGE DAWES GREEN

  RAVENS

  Available in hardcover

  WEDNESDAY

  Romeo was driving down from the Blue Ridge Mountains in the baffling twilight, going too fast, when a raccoon or possum ran in front of the car. The impact was disturbingly gentle. No thud—just a soft unzipping, beneath the chassis. Still, it tore at Romeo’s heart. He braked and pulled over.

  Shaw awoke. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hit something,” said Romeo, and he got out and started walking back up I-77, hunting for the carcass. Shaw followed him. A tractor-trailer bore down on them with a shudder and the long plunging chord of its passing. Then the night got quiet. They could hear their own footsteps. Cicadas, and a sliver of far-off honkytonk music. “God,” said Shaw. “This is it. We’re really in the South.”

  But they found no trace of the animal.

  They walked quite a ways. They waited for headlights so they could scan up and down the highway. They backtracked and searched along the shoulder. Nothing—not so much as a bloodstain. Finally Romeo just stood there, watching the fireflies rise and fall.

  “Hey,” said Shaw, “I bet your friend got lucky.”

  “Uh-uh. I hit it.”

  “Well maybe it was like a sacrifice.” Playfulness in Shaw’s tone. “Maybe it just wanted us to have a propitious journey.”

  When they got back to the Tercel Shaw said he was wide awake and could he drive? That was fine with Romeo. He got in on the passenger side, and they descended into the North Carolina piedmont. His ears popped; the air grew humid. He tilted his seat all the way back and looked up at the moon as it shredded in the pines. Somewhere after Elkin, NC, he let his eyes slip shut for just a second—and then the highway started to curve beneath him, and he felt himself spiraling slowly downward, into a bottomless slumber.

  Tara kept away from the house on Wednesday nights.

  Wednesday nights were jackpot nights. Mom would start drinking early. Pour herself a g&t in a lowball glass; then fan out all her lottery tickets on the coffee table and gaze lovingly at them, and touch them one by one and wonder which was going to be the one. The TV would be on but Mom would disregard it. All her thoughts on the good life to come. Yachts, spas in Arizona, blazing white villages in Greece, the unquenchable envy of her friends. She’d finish her first drink and fix herself another. Her boy Jase—Tara’s little brother—would put his head in her lap while he played with his Micro. She’d tousle his hair. She’d swirl the ice in her drink. At some point the colors of the dying day, and the TV colors, and all the colors of her life, would begin to seem extra-vivid, even gorgeous, and she’d tell herself she was the blessedest woman in the world, and pick up her cell phone and text her daughter:

  I know we win tonite!!

  Or:

  I need u!! Tara baby!! My good luck charm!! Where are u? Come home!!

  They were siren calls though, Tara knew. She had to be deaf to them. Study late at the library, catch a movie, hang out with Clio at the mall—just keep clear of the house till the jackpot was done and Dad would come home to take the brunt of Mom’s drunken post-drawing tirade. By midnight Mom would have worn herself out with rage and grief, and she’d have passed out, and the coast would be clear.

  But on this particular Wednesday, Tara had made a blunder. She’d left her botany textbook, with all the handouts, in her bedroom. She’d done this in the morning but she didn’t realize it till 7:00 p.m., after her organic chemistry class, when she checked her locker and saw that the book wasn’t there.

  She had a quiz tomorrow. She hadn’t even looked at that stuff.

  She thought of calling Dad. Maybe he could sneak the book out to her. But no, it was too late. He’d be on his way to church by now, his Lions of Judah meeting. Maybe Jase? No, Jase would tip Mom off; Jase was in Mom’s pocket.

  No. What I have to do, Tara thought, is just go back there and be really docile and don’t let Mom draw me into a fight, whatever she says don’t fight back—and first chance I get I’ll slip away to my room before the drawing, before she blows up.

  Tara went to the parking lot and got in her battered Geo, and left the campus of the Coastal Georgia Community College. Fourth Street to Robin Road to Redwood Road: streets she despised. She hated their dull names and their blank lawns and their rows of squat brick ranch houses. H
ers was the squattest and brickest of all, on a street called Oriole Road. When she got there, she slowed the car to a crawl, and looked in through the living room window. Mom, the TV. The painting of Don Quixote tilting at windmills. The wooden shelf of Dad’s # 3 Chevy models, and Mom’s Hummels. Jase’s feet stuck out at the end of the couch. Everything that Tara despised about her home was glowing and warm-looking like an advertisement for low mortgage rates or pest control, and such a depressing show she had to call Clio and tell her about it.

  “I’m spying on my own house.”

  Said Clio, “That’s kind of perverted.”

  “It’s a really ugly house.”

  “I know.”

  “I can see my brother’s little marinated pigs’ feet.”

  “OK.”

  “But I have to see how drunk Mom is.”

  “How drunk is she?”

  “That’s the problem, I can’t tell. I can’t see her hands. I have to see how she’s holding her glass. If she’s swirling her glass with her pinky out, then I’m already in deep shit.”

  “Are you going in there?”

  “I have to.”

  “But isn’t this your Mom’s freak-out night?”

  “Uh-huh.”