Joseph Teller - The Tenth Case

Now that same weakness has suddenly turned into a li ability. Will the two of them, or one of them, if that's what it's already down to, have the strength to withstand the pressure now being applied by the rest of the jurors?

"Where were you during the testimony, on another planet or something?"

"Weren't you listening?"

"Are you saying the rest of us are all wrong?"

"What part of 'Guilty' don't you get?"

"You know you're the only thing that's standing be tween us and going home, don't you?"

"As long as you know you're the one who's locking us up in some godforsaken, flea-bag motel."

"I don't want to say anything, but I've got an eighty-six year-old mother at home, waiting for me to give her her insulin shot and put her to bed. But I'm sure you couldn't care less."

7:30.

Halfway there.

According to one court officer, there have been a few raised voices in the jury room but no outright shouting. Shouting would be good, a suggestion that someone has dug in and is being stubborn. Raised voices are harder to read.

7:46.

The same court officer reports to Jaywalker that he's heard some crying from what sounds like a woman juror. Crying is bad. Crying can only mean despair at having to convict, coupled with frustration over not being able to force the judge to be lenient. Crying is very bad.

7:48.

Has the clock stopped moving? Has someone been tam pering with it?

7:50.

Jaywalker can no longer sit still. His bladder has been calling to him for a half an hour now, but he's afraid to leave the courtroom, afraid that as soon as he does, the buzzer will sound twice, afraid that his leaving the court room will cause that to happen. So he paces the floor, out of nervousness, and to keep from wetting his pants. If he can just hold out for another ten minutes, he figures, so can Carmelita Rosado or Angelina Olivetti.

Or so his magical thinking goes.

7:57.

Judge Sobel reappears and takes the bench. Jaywalker and Samara resume their places at the defense table, Burke at the prosecution's. Jaywalker's legs are crossed tightly, his knees knocking together almost audibly. Let them think it's nerves, he tells himself. He remembers his former client, the one who used to wet himself every time he had to stand before the judge unless Jaywalker was there to hold his hand and squeeze it tightly.

"It's not eight o'clock yet," says Burke.

"Bring in the jury," says the judge.

"Would the foreman please rise."

Mr. Merkel stands.

"Mr. Foreman, in the case of The People of the State of New York versus Samara Tannenbaum, has the jury reached a verdict?"

"No, not yet."

Jaywalker exhales.

As soon as the jurors had been led out to a late dinner and an even later overnight stay, Tom Burke rose and renewed his application to have Samara remanded. "It's obvious to all of us that the jury is on the verge of-"

"Excuse me," said Jaywalker, also rising, "but I'm on the verge of wetting my pants. I need a three-minute break. Then I'll be happy to come back and talk about this for as long as you like."

"There's nothing to talk about," said Judge Sobel. "Mr. Burke, if you're afraid the defendant is going to flee, station your detectives outside her building tonight, front and back. Mrs. Tannenbaum, I trust you'll be here promptly at nine-thirty tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Mr. Jaywalker. Mr. Jaywalker?"

But Jaywalker was already halfway down the aisle. Magical thinking or not, his strategy seemed to have worked. Now if only the janitorial crew hadn't already locked the door to the men's room, it would be an unmiti gated triumph.

To think about it, all that had really happened was that Samara wouldn't be convicted tonight. Tomorrow, of course, would be another story. Right now, that tiniest of victories felt like pure nirvana to Jaywalker. It felt almost as good, in fact, as it did when a turn of the knob succeeded in opening the men's room door.

Washing his hands in the men's room sink, Jaywalker happened to look up and catch his reflection in the mirror. Neither the full-length crack in the glass nor the accumu lation of city grime and cigarette tar could diminish the breadth of the grin on his face. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and silently thanked his I-know-there's-noGod-but-just-in-case-I'm-wrong for having granted the night's reprieve. Anyone who thought you spelled relief with the brand name of an antacid had it all wrong. Relief was making it to eight o'clock without a conviction. Relief was making it to the men's room without a catastrophe.

When Jaywalker opened his eyes, the grin was still there. It was still there as he checked the paper towel dis penser, with, as Detective Bonfiglio might have put it, negative results. It was still there as he shook his hands dry, or at least tried his best to. It was still there when he opened the door, stepped out into the hallway and found himself face-to-face with Samara.

"What's so funny?" she wanted to know.

"Nothing," he said. "Everything. We're alive. We're coming back tomorrow. Somebody in that jury room still believes in you."

"And you?" she asked, looking up into his eyes, cutting off all escape routes, leaving him no place to hide. "Do you still believe in me?"

"Yes," he said, "I still believe in you."

"Do you mean that? I mean really, r eally mean it?"

"Of course I do."

Could there possibly have been another answer?

Still her eyes wouldn't let go of his. It was as though she was testing him, challenging his faith in her innocence. He readied himself for whatever might come next. Would she ask him to take an oath, perhaps, or to repeat Samara didn't do it twenty times over?

What she actually did say took him by surprise. "Then come home with me." And the way she said it, it wasn't quite a command, yet it wasn't simply a question, either. It was something halfway in between. It was a request, he decided, a request with the please left out, lest it sound too much like begging. And, as before, there could be only one possible answer.

"Yes," said Jaywalker, "I'll come home with you."

It was raining out on Centre Street, an icy rain that turned to sleet even as they stood there, waiting for a cab.

"C'mon," Jaywalker said to Samara, and they bent into the sleet and began walking uptown, arms locked together. At Canal Street, a little old Korean woman was huddled in a doorway, hawking umbrellas. "Faw dolla, faw dolla."

Jaywalker reached into his side pocket for four singles. It was a New York thing, knowing never to carry your money in your wallet. Walking up to the woman, he asked, "Is there any chance this one's going to last longer than the one you sold me two weeks ago?"

"Three dolla."

"Deal."

The sleet was coming down even harder, and by now the pavement had a coating of slush on it. Even huddled tightly together underneath their three-dolla special, Samara and Jaywalker were getting pelted. And still there were no cabs in sight. Another New York thing.

So they ducked down into the subway and rode the Lex ington Avenue local uptown, the about-to-be-convicted "billionheiress" and her about-to-be-suspended lawyer.

By the time they emerged at Sixty-eighth Street, the sleet had changed over again, this time to snow. It was a wet, heavy snow, lit up by the streetlamps like soggy corn flakes, but it was better than what had preceded it. Jay walker wrapped one arm around Samara's shoulders, leav ing the other to carry both his briefcase and the umbrella, an easy enough task if it had had two hands attached to it. He pondered the situation for a moment. The trial was all but over, he knew, and with one day left on his ticket, chances were he would have no more use for the briefcase. Then again, life could be funny, and one of the best parts about it was that you never knew for sure. So, at the next corner, he tossed the umbrella into a wire trash can.