Page 30 of Jury Woman, Part 4 of 6

"Were you present when the decision was made regarding Horatio Alvarez?"

"I was."

"Who made that decision?"

"Robert did." He said the first name quietly, almost gently, as though speaking of a brother. "Dellano told you he said close it. That's true. What Dellano didn't hear was what Robert said to me afterward, when the others had gone." He paused. "He said, 'Make sure his boy sees the news.'"

A sound rippled through the gallery. Renata Cole made no sound at all.

My hands lay motionless on the finished headband in my lap. I'd stopped even pretending to knit.

Then McDavid asked about the trial in Savannah, four years ago. The one that ended in a hung jury.

"Robert told me every jury has a soft spot," Ferrante said. "You find the one who's lonely, or scared, or needs money, or has children. You don't need all twelve. You only need one."

I felt every juror in the box go rigid at once. My vitals stalled out before sputtering back to life.

By four-thirty, Stone's cross had done little more than establish that Ferrante would spend fewer years in prison for saying all this, which everyone already knew. When McDavid stood and said, "Your Honor, the United States rests," the words seemed to fall into the room and lie there, heavy and final.

I walked out of that courtroom as limp as a wrung-out dishrag. Two days without testimony. My body, at least, could rest. My mind was another matter.

At dinner time, I didn't go down to the jurors' dining room. I didn't want to see anyone's face, or have anyone see mine. I ordered soup and a grilled cheese sandwich to my room and ate cross-legged on the bed in my pajamas, like a college student during finals.

I'd just set the tray outside the door when Deputy Wells walked up. Not in his jacket, for once, only in shirtsleeves.

"Sorry to bother you," he said. "I wanted you to know I followed up on your son."

My hand tightened on the doorframe.

"I had a deputy keep an eye on him for a couple of days. From a distance. Josh never knew." He met my eyes. "Nobody's following him. No car, no one hanging around the park. It looks like nothing."

The breath went out of me so fast I had to lean against the frame. "Thank you. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

"I'll still have someone check in over the next few days. Just to be sure."

"You didn't have to do any of this."

"Yes, I did."

We stood there. The hallway was quiet, the ice machine humming. He was close enough that I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. I realized I was holding my breath.

Then he straightened, took a half step back, and the moment slipped away like a stitch off a needle.

"Just doing my job, Mrs. Good." His voice was gentle.

"Ms.—I'm not married anymore."

"Oh. Right." He gave me a brief nod. "Goodnight, Ms. Good."

"Goodnight," I said, and watched him walk away before I closed the door.

October 31, Saturday

WARREN WAS in the master bathroom, laptop balanced on the counter between the sinks. My sinks. I recognized the brushed-nickel faucets I'd spent three weekends choosing. He was fiddling with his hair in the mirror, and when he stepped back, I saw his costume.

A black T-shirt. Across the chest, in orange letters shaped like jack-o'-lantern teeth: PETER, PETER.

I squinted. What? Then Heidi swept past behind him, and I understood.