Tell No Lies (39 page)

"Mr. Hilliard . . ." The reporter's mouth hung open.

"Not enough?" He handed the recorder back. "Here, ask me anything. Anything." A part of him realized that what he was doing would end up in tomorrow's paper, but he couldn't stop himself. He already envisioned the headline:
HILLIARD LOSES MARBLES OVER DODSON MURDER CASE
.
 

"Well, okay," he stammered. "Do you know who her alibi is?"

Jack looked at the recorder to see if Wolfe had turned it back on. He had, of course; the tiny red light mesmerized Jack.
You're a better person than this
. He wondered what Claire was doing just then. He wanted to go over to the university now, sit in the privacy of her office and talk to her. Tell her everything. Slowly let the air out of the balloon of lies he'd created, instead of waiting for someone else to pop it. "No, I don't," he managed to say. "I just know she didn't do it."
 

Wolfe seemed more intent on processing the look on Jack's face than on the content of his response. "What if she confesses?"

"What if she confesses?" He repeated the question as if he hadn't heard it or didn't understand it. But he did. What he didn't understand was how he'd managed not to think of it himself. Because it suddenly occurred to him that if Jenny also thought of the idea, and if she felt desperate enough to protect him, she just might be crazy enough to do it.

Wolfe pressed him. "Yes, if she confesses, admits she murdered Maxine Shepard. Then would you concur in Mr. Sterling's opinion that her crime warrants the death penalty?"
 

"No, absolutely not."

"Because she's your friend?"

"No." He glared at Wolfe. He could see where the conversation was heading, but he was too distracted by the countless thoughts playing pinball in his head to collect himself and give the media-savvy answer. "No."

"Mr. Hilliard, I don't have to remind you of your campaign promises."

He wanted to take those few steps through the courthouse doors and leave Wolfe standing there, but his legs wouldn't move.

"I believe my campaign promises were to represent the city to the best of my abilities."

"And I believe that included asking for the death penalty in an appropriate case."

Shut up now, Jack. Just shut up
. "This isn't an appropriate case, Mr. Wolfe. I think we're finished." He willed himself to reach for the tarnished handle in front of him. His arm felt heavy, slow. He could see his hand trembling and he hoped that Wolfe didn't notice.
 

"One more question, Mr. Hilliard."

Jack raised his eyes.

"Is there
any
set of facts that would, to your mind, warrant the death penalty?"
 

He asked it as if he already knew the answer, as if he knew that Jack had lied all along but now had an overwhelming need to come clean. Jack looked beyond the reporter's head, to the cars driving by on Walnut Street; they drove slowly, but to Jack they were a blur. The wind picked up and blew through the back vent of his coat. He thought of Claire again and wondered if she thought of him during the day when they were apart. Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe she wasn't even aware of her capacity to forgive. They had so much invested, so much history. Something special, something indescribable between them. Even Jenny saw it. He couldn't believe that Claire would turn her back on that.
Will it get better
? He had to believe that she'd give him the chance. But it had to be all or nothing.
You're a better person than this
. It had to be all or nothing.
 

When Jack refocused, Wolfe was fumbling with his briefcase and had started down the steps. He mumbled something about catching up with Jack later, but Jack called his name to get his attention. Wolfe turned.

"Your question?" Jack said.

Wolfe nodded, almost undetectably.

"To my mind?" Jack slowly shook his head. He almost imagined he could hear the slow hiss as the balloon began to collapse. "No, there's not."

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE STORY MADE the next morning's paper—the bottom half, but the front page nevertheless. Unable to concentrate on his work, Jack spent most of the morning staring at the newsprint in front of him, even though he'd finished reading it long ago.
HILLIARD CHANGES STANCE ON DEATH PENALTY
, the headline read. The accompanying story reported his death penalty flip-flop and recounted his unsupported defense of Jenny. Every time he reread it, the little bit of coffee in his stomach—the only nourishment he'd had all day—began to percolate uncomfortably.
 

But he'd done it, hadn't he, and survived? Somehow he'd found the strength to admit he'd lied about his position on the death penalty. Now he had to find the strength to admit to everything else. Now all he had to do was tell Claire.

A knock on his door startled him. It opened and Beverly leaned her head in.

"Can I come in?" She spoke gently. "I know you don't want to take calls, but Earl's on the line. He says it's urgent." She waited. "Jack? You okay?"

He looked at her without really seeing her. "I'm okay. I'll be okay. You can send it in."

He picked up the receiver in the middle of the first ring.

"Listen to me and listen carefully," Earl's veteran voice barked at him. "You've got to get hold of Claire immediately. You need to tell her not to take any calls unless you want them to get to her before you do."

"What are you talking about?" But he knew. He didn't know the specifics, but he knew. He began to tremble. The ice on that big frozen lake he'd been trying to cross—all the while thinking he could see the other side—was beginning to thin, and he felt the cracks forming beneath him.

"I just got a call from a reporter. He wanted to know if it was true that you were Dodson's  alibi. He might call you next, but if he's like most reporters, he'll call Claire first."

"Oh God." Jack bolted from his chair. "What happened? How'd he know?"

"I'm still trying to find that out. Right now, you need to hang up and find her. Hear me?"

"I can't," he said, looking at his watch. "I can't. I can't even think straight."

"Jack, you can't talk to her if you don't calm down." Perhaps realizing that Jack wasn't in any condition to speak to Claire, he tried to keep him talking. "Listen, try to think. Who else knows?"

"No one." His jaw tensed; he'd told Earl that repeatedly.

"How about Jenny?" Earl asked, his voice lower now, aware of the heresy of his suggestion. "Would she have leaked it?"

"No. No way. She wouldn't do that to me." Sensing this wasn't enough for Earl, he added, "She's the one who practically made me take a blood oath not to tell, remember?"

"That would be consistent with someone who didn't want you to think she was the leak."

"No," he said more forcefully, "she wouldn't do that."
Would she?
 

"Listen, we'll worry about 'who' later. Just hang up and call Claire. Do you think you can?"

"Yeah, okay, I'll try," he said, talking himself through it. "I think she's teaching a class now."

"That won't stop someone who really wants to talk to her." And he knew Earl meant the reporter, not Jack. "They have their ways."

He dialed Claire's number and waited impatiently through each ring. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, yet he still didn't have the time he needed to think.

"Hold on, Jack, she's in her office now," the receptionist said. He looked at his watch again, certain that she was supposed to be in class.

"Hello?" Her voice was hesitant, cautious.

"Claire, it's me."

"Jack." She seemed relieved to hear from him, and he thought this was a good sign.

"Listen, don't take any more phone calls and don't talk to any reporters if they show up at the school. They might be trying to reach you about Jenny's case."

She was quiet, and he thought this was a bad sign. "They already called," she said finally. "He pretended to be someone calling with a message from you, so they pulled me out of class."

"Oh God, the asshole." The line fell silent, and he heard her take a deep breath.

"Is it true?"

Giving him a chance. Willing to trust him still, willing to believe whatever he said. If he'd had two options before, if he was going to lie to her, he lost the opportunity in the instant he hesitated. The ice broke and he fell in.

His hands gripped the steering wheel; he tried to stay focused on the highway. Ten minutes to the university if there was no traffic, another five from his car to her office. How do you contain a bomb that has already exploded? His car was not capable of going as fast as he wanted it to go. It was December, and he was sweating profusely.
I can't talk to you right now
was all she'd said before she hung up.
I can't talk to you right now.
 

He burst into the lobby of the Dean's office, then stopped abruptly when the receptionist and the secretary looked up at him in unison from the eerie quiet of their desks.

"She left right after you called," the receptionist told him. She leaned back a bit, alarmed by his flushed face. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, great," he said and ran out.

Back in his car, back on the highway. It was at least twenty-five minutes to their house. And how did he even know she would be there? That might be the last place she'd want to be. But he couldn't think of where else she might have gone. He thought of Jamie. Maybe she'd gone to pick him up from school. No; being with the kids didn't have a calming effect on her as it did for him. Something about them, Jamie especially—his curly towhead, his new skin, his dewy smell, his laugh—they always had a way of making everything else fall away. But he knew it was different for her; she spent so much more time with them. She'd want to be alone.

By the time he turned onto their street he had no memory of driving there. He realized he was driving ridiculously fast when he passed a woman pushing a stroller and she hollered at him. He didn't actually slow down, though, until he reached the crest of the hill near their house and saw a car parallel parked on the street out front. He recognized it immediately as the same car that had waited for him outside the jail the first day he'd visited Jenny. He couldn't believe it.

He sagged against the headrest. He had the distinct sense of time passing at an uncontrollable rate and a feeling that the longer he sat there, the more irretrievable she became. He reached for his phone on the seat next to him. Even as he punched in the numbers, he knew it wasn't wise, that there was a good chance the reporter had a police scanner in his car and might pick up the conversation. But he couldn't think clear enough to see any other options.
 

The answering machine came on and he heard Michael's voice telling him to leave a message. He choked up at hearing it. The long beep sounded.

"Claire, babe, pick up. Please, pick up." Silence. He knew he had to keep talking or it would switch off. "Claire, please. Please." Maybe she wasn't in there. But where else could she be? "There's a reporter outside the house." Silence, still. "I want to come in and talk to you, but I need to know you're there. Okay?" Silence, again. "Okay? Claire, please pick up. You can hang up on me, but just pick up first." He thought about calling Marcia, across the street. Maybe she'd seen Claire come home. "Babe, please.
Please
. We need to talk." Inhale. "I love you."
 

He heard a crashing sound in his ear when she picked up; she must've dropped it.

"If you ever say those three words to me again, I swear I'll cut your tongue out." The venom in her voice wormed its way into his head. He was stunned. "Don't even try to come into this house. I've disconnected the garage opener and locked the garage. I know you have a key for the front, but I'm sure your reporter friend would love the opportunity to talk to you as you struggle to get in."

He stared at the steering wheel. Her voice had been calm when she'd hung up on him at the university, but still, he'd known it would be bad when he found her. He'd expected her to yell and scream and call him names and tell him what a fuck-up he was. He'd expected to have to explain what he'd done, to come up with some half-brained explanation for it, even though he had none. He'd thought she might even try to take her anger out on him physically. He almost would have preferred that; physical pain might blunt the emotional pain. He knew she would probably tell him to pack his bags and find somewhere else to sleep—that's what women did, wasn't it, when their husbands cheated on them? Yes, he had expected it to be bad, but not like this. Not so fast. He didn't think for a moment that in her cold calm she would lock him out of the house first thing.
 

"Don't hang up," he managed to croak.

"I'll give you one sentence. Don't waste it."

He resisted the urge to just starting talking. He recognized immediately that if he didn't say the right thing, he'd never get in. Ever. He knew this wasn't the time to try to justify or make excuses for what he'd done. He glanced at the reporter's car.

"There's a reporter sitting outside the house and we'd be much better equipped to deal with him if we act as a team and it's very important that we do this before Michael gets off the bus and he accosts him and I promise you he will because they have no scruples." Then he let out a deep breath; for fear she would cut him off, he'd said it all in one long desperate go.

"Yeah, and you're swimming in them, aren't you?"

He waited. He didn't say anything because he knew it was just an editorial and not her real response. He had appealed to her mother-bear instincts, putting his money on his belief that her desire to protect the kids would prevail over her anger at him, and he was praying that he'd bet right.

"Fine. If you can get around to the deck without him seeing you, I'll let you in. But I don't want him to know you're here."

"Okay, I'll—"

She hung up without letting him finish.