“I can dismiss the driver and we can walk,” Selig suggested.

“Fine,” Nell said. Though her feet might start to ache in the high heels, she was tired of sitting down.

She watched as Selig walked over and talked briefly with the driver behind the wheel of their waiting white stretch limo, paid him, no doubt with a generous tip, and returned to her. Two women entering the restaurant gave him more than a passing glance. He was trim and moved like a much younger man. Nell could believe he was interested in more than companionship.

“Sure you’re not afraid strolling in the park at night?” he asked, taking her arm.

“It’s not that far,” she said, as they began to walk, “and usually there’s a cop nearby.”

32

It was too warm in the jury assembly room. Melanie thought that might be on purpose, so juries would come in sooner with their verdict. One of the jurors asked the bailiff, who was standing just outside the door, to kick up the air conditioning. He smiled and complied. It made no difference.

Light spilled in through grilled windows that didn’t allow for much of a view. Heat seemed to rise from the humidity-damp wood table and chairs, along with a subtle scent of furniture polish and painful deliberations past. No one on the jury thought this was going to be brief.

Melanie was the foreperson, primarily because no one else wanted the job.

The eleven other jurors stared at her for guidance. Each had a legal-size pad in front of them on the table, on which to make notes, but after only a preliminary discussion, Melanie suggested they take an anonymous vote and find out where everyone stood. So pieces were torn from the top sheets of legal pads and used simply to write “guilty” or “not guilty” on, then folded and passed to Melanie.

She unfolded and tallied them on what was left of her top yellow sheet. Three abstentions. Two not guilties. Seven for conviction.

“I’m a ‘not guilty,’” she said.

“What’s your reasoning?” asked Juror Number Three, a greengrocer from the Bronx named Delahey. With his rimless glasses, refined air, and conservative suit, he looked more like a college professor than anyone in the room.

His question was a good one, because Melanie simply knew that Richard Simms—Cold Cat—wasn’t a killer. “The time element,” she said. “If Simms was seen outside Knee High’s apartment around the time Knee High said he was there, he wouldn’t have had time to cross town on foot, or even by cab or subway, to his own apartment and murder his wife.”

“Barely time enough,” said Juror Number One, Mimi, a dance instructor who looked like, and in fact was, an aging ballerina and was always dressed in black.

“And for time to be a factor in the defendant’s favor,” said Number Eight, a portly, sweaty gentleman who was a financial analyst, “we would have to believe Merv Clark. And, frankly, I didn’t find him credible. Nor did I find his wife credible when she testified as to what a sterling husband he was.”

“She almost made you think her broken teeth were her fault,” said the ballerina.

“Clark might be a wife beater, but he was slightly more credible than Knee High,” said Number Two, a freelance writer named Wilma King who lived in the Village. “Why should anyone believe anything said by someone who’s legally changed his name to Knee High?”

“Because he was under oath,” said Melanie.

Several of the jurors laughed. Others looked at her as if they were having second thoughts about her being foreperson.

“If you believed Clark, you don’t have to believe Knee High,” Melanie pointed out to Wilma.

“I know. And I believed Clark’s testimony.”

“There’s also the fact that Edie Piaf was shot,” Melanie said, “and Simms didn’t have any powder burns on his hands.”

“He could have worn gloves, like the prosecution said.” Delahey the greengrocer added.

“Knee High and Clark were both lying,” Mimi said. “This seems to me like a slam dunk.”

“I thought you were a dancer, not a basketball player,” said a gray-haired man at the far end of the table. Number Twelve, Walter Smithers. No one laughed. A few of the jurors groaned.

“My preliminary vote was guilty,” said Delahey, “but I’m not firm on it. I’m willing to listen to reason.”

“I’m firm on my not guilty vote,” said Number Four, an African American man named Harvey, who worked as a super in a midtown apartment building.

“Naturally,” said Smithers, from the other end of the table.

“No, not naturally,” Harvey said. “It’s just that I’ve got plenty of reasonable doubt.”

“Of course you do.” Smithers was pushing it.

“I guess you don’t,” Harvey said.

“Not a particle.”

“Naturally not. You probably thought Simms was guilty the moment you walked into court and saw him.”

“Or heard his music,” Mimi said with a laugh.

“Stuff you’re too old to dance to,” Harvey said.

Mimi merely smiled. “I was only joking. If we don’t joke now and then, we’ll go mad in this stifling little room that smells like Lemon Pledge.”

Melanie hadn’t counted on this. She took a quick count. Six of the jurors were Caucasian, one Asian, one Hispanic, and three African American. “I don’t believe race enters into this,” she said. “We all need to agree on that.”

One of the other black jurors, a middle-aged nurse named Pam, looked dubious and said, “You ain’t noticed we’re trying a black rap artist?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Wilma. “The law’s color blind.”

“He might as well be a Martian,” Mimi said.

“See what I’m sayin’?” Harvey said. “How many Martians been acquitted in New York courts?”

“I think you understand my meaning,” Mimi said imperiously.

“You some kinda diva?” Harvey asked, obviously pleased to have gotten under Mimi’s skin.

“What we want to make sure we do,” said Wilma, “is not let the Justice Killer murders influence our judgment. If we really think we should acquit Richard Simms, we must do it.”

“Maybe you don’t think the Justice Killer’s guilty,” Pam said.

“I think he deserves all his constitutional rights and a fair trial even if he enjoys cutting people’s throats.”

“Nicely put,” Smithers said. “What kind of writer are you?”

“Right now I’m doing book reviews.”

“We’re getting off point,” Melanie said. “We’re here to discuss a man’s guilt or innocence. Race has nothing to do with it.”

“Amen,” said a lanky blond man with shoulder-length hair. Juror Number Two, Harold Evans. He was about forty, with narrow blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a long, pinched looking nose.

“You a preacher?” asked Harvey.

“Comedian.”

“You shittin’ me?”

“Nope. I play the clubs, had an HBO special. Stage name’s Happy Evans. Hap, offstage.”

“So say somethin’ funny, Hap offstage.”

“That’s not bad, Harvey. But comedians aren’t necessarily funny offstage.”

“Robin Williams is.”

“He’s got a point,” Pam said.

“Billy Crystal!” said Delahey. “I bet you could wake up that man at midnight and he’d tell you a joke.”

“I thought your name was Hap,” said Number Ten, a tax accountant named Hector Gomez. “So make us happy so we don’t notice the Lemon Pledge.”

Everyone was staring at Hap.

Melanie was afraid she was losing control. She was supposed to be setting the agenda here, and her jurors were turning on each other. Her throat was dry.

Hap shrugged. “A guy goes into an apartment and shoots his wife.” He grinned. “That’s it, folks.”

The Asian woman, Number Six, Marie Kim, held her nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Not funny,” Delahey said.

Hap shrugged again. “Then here’s the punch line: he didn’t do it.”