And that was it. He was excited at the prospect. And he had to admit to himself what he hadn’t admitted to Dot. He’d wanted to get on the jury.

Part of it, he supposed, was the impulse that made a person want to pass any test, whether or not he’d wanted to take it in the first place. Just like Charlie the Tuna, you wanted to be good enough to be Star-Kist, even if it meant winding up in the can.

So he’d done his best to get chosen. A lot of the questions had to do with the police. Did the prospective juror have any relatives who were cops? Did he believe that cops generally told the truth? Did he believe it was likely that a police officer might bend the truth in order to secure a conviction?

That suggested to Keller-and to anybody else who was paying attention-that some cop’s testimony was going to be a key element of the prosecution’s case, and that the defense was going to be that the cops were lying to frame an innocent man. If Keller had just wanted to answer the questions honestly, he would have had a hard time doing it. He’d had comfortingly few dealings with the police over the years, and how he felt about them generally depended on what film or TV program he’d watched most recently. He liked the cops from the Baltimore show, and he liked the fact that they sometimes had joint cases with cops on another program set in New York. In fact Munch, Keller’s favorite cop from Baltimore, had now moved to New York to be on a new program about sex crimes. It wasn’t just the actor who had switched, it was Munch, the character himself. Keller liked that a lot.

But there were other programs where the cops were stupid and brutal and an all-around pain in the ass, and Keller didn’t like those cops. They’d stand up in court and lie their heads off, whereas Munch might introduce a lot of irrelevant stuff, blaming the system and the government and his ex-wife whenever he got the chance. But he certainly wouldn’t perjure himself.

So Keller didn’t follow the example of one woman who preceded him through voir dire. If cops could plant evidence in an attempt to frame a public figure like O. J., she said, then they were capable of anything. Bang! Excused for cause. She was followed by a man, every bit as matter-of-fact about it, who said that sometimes it was a cop’s obligation to lie in court, or otherwise criminals would get off scot-free. Whack! Excused for cause.

Keller steered a middle course, one that made him acceptable to both the prosecution and the defense. He made the cut. He was on the jury.

And so was Gloria Dantone.

At nine the next morning, Keller was seated in the jury box, along with the other lucky thirteen. Both sides had gotten through opening arguments by the time the judge declared a recess for lunch. Automatically, Keller and Gloria drifted apart from the others in the exodus from the courtroom. Just as automatically, they went straight to the Saigon Pearl, where they both ordered the daily special.

They’d talked about the weather on the way to the restaurant, and how fresh the air was compared to the courtroom. Waiting for the food to come, they were both stuck for something to say. “We’re not supposed to discuss the case,” she said. “In fact I’m not a hundred percent sure we’re supposed to be having lunch together.”

“The judge didn’t say we couldn’t.”

“No. Can we talk about the other jurors?”

“I don’t know. We’re not supposed to talk about the lawyers, or what we thought of their opening arguments.”

“How about their clothes? How about their hairstyles?”

She rolled her eyes, and Keller got the message that Gloria didn’t much care for the prosecutor’s clothes, or the way she did her hair. The woman’s hair-medium brown with red highlights, shoulder length, worn back off her face-seemed okay to Keller, and she was wearing what looked to him like fairly standard women’s business attire, but Keller knew his limitations. When it came to looking at clothes and hairstyles, any heterosexual male was like a noncollector looking at a page full of stamps. He missed the fine points.

“I wonder what they talk about during those bench conferences,” he said. “But I have a feeling we’re not even supposed to speculate.”

“A couple of times I could almost make out what they were saying.”

“Really?”

“So I tried not to listen, and that’s like trying not to think of something, like a white rhinoceros.”

“Huh?”

“Go ahead,” she said. “Try not to think of one.”

There were a lot of things they couldn’t talk about, but that left them the whole world outside of the courtroom. Keller told her how he’d been up late finishing the book, and she told him a story about one of the senior partners at her firm, who was having an affair with a client. They didn’t run out of conversation.

At one-thirty they were back in the jury box. The assistant DA who was trying the case began presenting witnesses, and Keller concentrated on their testimony. It was close to five by the time the judge adjourned for the day.

The next day, Friday, he was sorry he’d finished his book. Everybody told you to bring something to read while you waited to see if you drew a case. What they didn’t tell you was that you were just as much in need of diversion after you’d been impaneled. You couldn’t read during bench conferences-it wouldn’t look good if a juror whipped out a paperback the minute the judge and the lawyers got in a huddle-but there were plenty of other opportunities.

“In my chambers,” the judge said around ten o’clock, and he and the two lawyers were gone for twenty minutes. A couple of the jurors closed their eyes during their absence, and one of them didn’t manage to open them after things got going again.

“I think Mr. Bittner may have nodded off,” he said at lunch, and Gloria said the man was either sleeping or he’d mastered the art of wide-awake snoring.

“But we’re probably not supposed to talk about it,” she said, and he agreed that they probably weren’t.

During the afternoon there were a couple more bench conferences and one long break where the judge and the attorneys stayed in the courtroom but the jury had to leave. The bailiff escorted them to another room, where they all sat around a table as if to deliberate the verdict. But they had nothing to ponder, and they were under orders not to discuss the case, and they were seated too close together to have private conversations among themselves, so all they could do, really, was sit there. That was when a book would have come in handy.

Around four-thirty the judge sent them home for the weekend. Keller, who’d packed a briefcase with a clean shirt and a change of socks and underwear, went straight to Penn Station.

Twenty-one

The previous weekend Keller had stayed at a hotel near the train station, but he’d come across a bed and breakfast in Fells Point that looked inviting and was certainly more convenient. He’d reserved a room the night before, and checked in a little after nine. It was almost midnight when he called White Plains from a pay phone around the corner.

“I’m in Baltimore,” he said.

“That’s nice,” she said. “Everybody’s got to be someplace. And, since you’ve got something to do in Baltimore-“

“Not this weekend I don’t.”

“Oh?”

“Our friend left town. She’s on the Eastern Shore.”

“Aren’t we all? Isn’t New York on the eastern shore, and Baltimore, and all points in between?”

It was a section of Maryland, he explained, a sort of peninsula on the other side of Chesapeake Bay. And that’s where Irene Macnamara was, and would be until Monday morning.

“At which time you’ll be in a stuffy old courtroom,” she said. “Unless you’re going to make old Aunt Dorothy very happy by telling her the trial’s all wrapped up.”