Tell No Lies (8 page)

"Let's go upstairs," Jack suggested between kisses.

"I can't leave this like that," she whispered, motioning to the mess on the floor.

"Sure you can."

She giggled. "We've gotta feed the kids and get them to bed first." She climbed off him and headed for the kitchen. He closed his eyes and listened to her putting the glass he'd left on the counter into the dishwasher. Then he heard Jamie's voice from upstairs and suddenly had the urge to be with him.

Jack found his younger son seated on the floor of his bedroom, his miniature dinosaurs and zoo animals lined up in front of him. He held two, a T-rex in one hand and a stegosaurus in the other, and he had them engaged in some sort of combat. Jack stood in the doorway and watched him a bit before announcing his presence.

"Hey, buddy."

"Daddy!" Jamie shot up and hugged Jack's legs. Jack squatted to give him a real hug and kiss. Jamie looked at Jack hopefully. "Come on, play animals with me."

"Are you kidding? That's why I came up here. On my way home from work today, all I could think about was getting here so we could play animals together."

Jamie tilted his head in serious thought about what Jack had said, and then, eyes wide, he broke into a large grin. He grabbed Jack's hand and tugged him into the center of the room.

Jack lay on his side next to the line of animals and asked Jamie to choose which animals he wanted him to be; Jamie handed him a brontosaurus and a bear. As they played on the floor together, Jack felt his eyelids getting heavy and he kept dozing off. Jamie jumped on Jack to rouse him, which worked a few times, but he gave up eventually and resumed playing alone. Jack heard Claire calling up to them once or twice, but he couldn't summon the energy to answer her. He eventually rolled over onto his stomach and gave in completely to the exhaustion. At some point he felt Claire touching his shoulder; he stood, half asleep, looked around the now dark room, and saw Jamie asleep in his bed.
 

"What time is it?" he asked Claire as she led him out of the room.

"After ten."

Damn, he'd missed seeing Michael for two nights in a row.

"What about dinner?" he muttered, falling backward onto their bed. She'd already pulled the covers down for him.

"We saved you some. You can have it for breakfast."

She laughed at him, but he didn't mind. He closed his eyes. She pulled off his shoes and removed his tie. She unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way but didn't bother trying to get it off. He felt the palm of her hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes and looked at her in the dark as she caressed his face.

"You've got to start sleeping in your own bed, Jack."

Sweet Claire. He felt then that everything would be okay.

On Monday morning, the racket from angrily chirping birds outside the open window woke Jack at quarter to six. The approaching dawn crept through the thin line of space between the shade and the window frame, and in the faint light he watched Claire's face as she slept. He wondered if she'd want to make love. She usually liked to in the morning. She'd once told him, in a particularly blunt admission, that the sensation of a full bladder heightened her body's sensitivity during sex. He'd laughed, but something about the fact that she'd even admitted it excited him.

Now he reached up, pulled the rubber band out of the end of her braid, and spread apart the plaited strands. He gently rubbed her temple with his thumb.
 

She opened her eyes and rolled over to face him better. "Morning."

"Hi."

"It's early."

He looked to the window. "I was going to run."

"Too bad." Yeah, she wanted to.

He traced his finger down her arm. When he reached her hand, he picked it up, turned it over, and then, like a palm reader, lightly caressed it.

"I'm in no hurry." He lifted the blanket and sheet, pulling it down a bit to expose the top half of her naked body. He placed his hand on her warm belly.

"Claire?"

"Hmm?"

"You know I love you."

A small smile. "I know."

Pushing the covers down farther as he went, he slid his hand over her hip and then to her inner thigh. He stayed there a minute, teasing her, then climbed over her and lay down on the other side of the bed, using his foot to push the covers off completely. He kissed her, and as he began to run his hands over her body, all he could think about was that he needed to do this; he'd needed to do this so badly since Thursday night. He needed to get back to wherever they'd been before that night, and this was the only way he knew how.

He felt that she sensed his desperation, and even though she couldn't know its origin, she responded eagerly. In bed, as in the other areas of their marriage, there was a balance of power between them that shifted back and forth like a seesaw, depending on the day, depending on their moods, depending on whatever else was happening in their lives. This morning he reigned, wielding his authority as if his life depended on it; she knew it and she let him. He kept his eyes open, watched her underneath him, kept his mind on one road, the road back. He kept telling himself that this was his wife, this was the woman he loved, had always loved, would always love. He was almost there . . . almost there. But then she cried out, he felt every muscle in her body tense, and it was as if someone had knocked him out of his lane and into the oncoming traffic. He closed his eyes, tried to get back the control, but couldn't. His mind raced down that other road—the road right into the garage. And standing there, at the end, was Jenny. When he saw her, he shuddered and cried out, too, and then whatever strength he'd had, whatever self-restraint he'd managed to hold on to, was gone.
 

In the middle of the parking lot outside the Child Advocacy Center, Jack unlocked his car and sat in the driver's seat. The captured heat suffocated him and he closed his eyes briefly, oddly enjoying the sensation. He'd just come from an interview with a young girl who'd been sexually abused by her mother's boyfriend. The police report indicated she was eight years old, but she'd been quiet and withdrawn and had spoken with the vocabulary of a child of four or five.

From the beginning, sex crimes had been the hardest for Jack, because more often than not they involved children. He'd had trouble falling asleep at night because he couldn't shake the faces of the kids as they reticently told him their tales. They were completely unaware that what had happened to them hadn't happened to every other kid on their block, and yet they knew, subconsciously, that it wasn't right.

At one point he'd become so depressed that he'd considered quitting altogether. It seemed that no matter how much time and energy he put into these cases, they gave him the least satisfaction because the conviction rate was so low and recidivism so high. Sometimes a mother would decide at the last minute to withdraw her complaint, claiming her child made up the story, or the judge would just dismiss it because the witnesses kept failing to show up. Jack quickly learned that usually the mother simply didn't want to lose the man—most often her husband, or a boyfriend, like in the case today—who had committed the crime.

He struggled with his inability to reconcile his opposition to the death penalty with the emotions he felt when he thought about Michael or Jamie falling victim to some predator. If the unthinkable happened, he insisted to Claire, he would hunt down the perpetrator and kill him with his bare hands. Claire thought he was merely grandstanding; she claimed that reason would prevail and they would handle it together in a levelheaded manner. He knew she was right, that's what they
would
do, but it wasn't what he would
want
to do. And yet he knew these same types of emotions motivated those in favor of the death penalty. How could he hold everyone else to a higher standard than he held himself?
 

He didn't quit, of course, and what bothered him now, ironically, was that over the years, he had become somewhat desensitized to the cases. Everyone told him that it was completely normal, that it was a defense mechanism and was to be expected after years of prosecuting child sex abuse, but his numbness disturbed him nevertheless.

Now he was just relieved to have the interview over with; it was not the way he wanted to start the week. Maybe the day would begin to improve. He left the door open to cool the car off while he called Beverly from his cell phone.

"Don't come back to the office, Jack," she said. "Earl wants you to meet him at the Noonday Club for lunch. He says it's important."

The Noonday Club was a private club frequented by partners of the silk stocking firms and CEOs of the major corporations based in the city. Even with Earl's upcoming move to Clark & Cavanaugh, it wasn't the kind of place he would normally eat lunch. Especially with Jack.

Beverly gave him the rest of his messages; none were from Jenny. Jack had a feeling he wouldn't hear from her again for a while. Maybe she was expecting him to be the one to make the call for that first, awkward post-kiss lunch.

The restaurant was on the top floor of the Metropolitan Square building. Earl was waiting for him as he stepped off of the elevator.

"I assume you're buying," Jack said, surveying the extravagant lobby.

"Come on," he said, leading Jack into an empty room across the lobby from the main dining room. "I want to talk to you alone before we go in." He closed the double doors.

"Alone?" Jack walked to the window and looked out. It faced west; Jack could see the government complex where he'd been that morning, and, just past that, Forest Park. "Aren't we having lunch alone?" he asked.

"No. We're having lunch with some guys from the party. I wanted them to meet you."

"The party?"

"Don't be so naïve, Jack. The Democrats. The ones who will make sure you win the election, if you decide to run."  

"Dammit, Earl," he said, his jaw clenched tight. In all the years he had worked for Earl, he couldn't remember ever really getting angry at him. But now he was fuming. "Didn't we go over this on Friday? What are you doing to me?"
 

"Sit down." Earl pulled out a chair but Jack glared at him and ignored the command. "Relax, will you? It's not what I'm doing to you. It's what I'm doing
for
you."
 

"You spring this on me when I get off the elevator? That's not doing something for me. That's sandbagging me. You could have at least told me ahead of time."

"And you would have come, right?"

Jack crossed his arms and turned back to the window.

"That's what I thought. Look, Jack" —Earl's voice was tamer— "all I'm asking is for you to have lunch. Just meet them. Let them ask you a few questions, see what you're all about."

Jack focused on the monstrous compressor on the roof of the building below them, mesmerized by its whirling fan. "Why bother?" he asked.

"Because I think you want the job; I think you can taste it. You're afraid it's impossible. I want you to see it's not."

"It is."

"It's not. Trust me. There are ways to deal with the death penalty issue."

Jack wanted to call Claire, ask her what he should do. Calm, wise Claire.

"What have you told them?" he asked.

"A lot," Earl confessed. "I've been talking to them about you for a while. Did you think I just came up with this idea last week? Not quite."

Jack couldn't help but feel flattered. "Do they know we've discussed it, and I told you I'm not interested?"
 

"They know that I've mentioned it to you, and you're thinking about it."

"You're something," Jack said, turning to the window again. He saw the spire of the courthouse sandwiched between a parking garage and an office building. Maybe he should just do it, see what they had to say. "And if I eat lunch with them and then tell you the same thing I told you Friday, you'll respect that and leave me alone?"

Earl hesitated, then smiled, as if he knew Jack had taken the bait and now it was merely a matter of reeling him in. "If that's what you want."

"That's what I want."

Jack turned, and they looked at each other, both questioning each other's sincerity. Jack started to straighten his jacket. He wasn't wearing a suit that day. "Look at me. I'm not dressed to be meeting these guys."

"Christ, Jack, you're a prosecutor. They don't expect you to look good."

They both laughed, and Jack felt his muscles beginning to ease. But Earl wasn't finished.

"Now listen to me. This isn't the time to bring up your opposition to the death penalty, you got it? First win them over, and we'll address that issue later. And you don't need to tell them how you left Newman. If they ask you about your experience, just tell them you were there two years before coming to my office." He started for the doors.

Jack shook his head in disbelief. "You amaze me."

"What?"

"You believe in me enough to do all this, but then you stand there and lecture me about what and what not to say."
 

"Just my nature, Jack. You know that. You just be sure to turn on that Hilliard charm, and I don't think it matters what comes out of your mouth."

When they entered the main dining room, the quiet noise of subdued conversation and silverware against fine china embraced them. The table was in a corner, next to a window overlooking the Mississippi and the Arch. Jack glanced down at Jenny's building and wondered if she was there. The three men at the table stood when Jack and Earl approached. One of them, the tallest of the three, looked vaguely familiar. Jack thought he recognized him from the news, always at the Governor's side or something.

"Earl, how are you, ol' boy?" said the tall one, shaking Earl's hand. "It's been too long." He turned to Jack. "You must be Mr. Hilliard."

Jack smiled and extended his hand. "Please, call me Jack."

"Gregory Dunne," he said. "This is Stuart Katz and Pat Sullivan." He motioned to the other two.

Jack did a quick appraisal as he shook their hands. Gregory was the only one of the three whom Jack would have mistaken for a Republican. Most Democrats would have just called themselves "Greg." And with his close-cropped hair and expensive suit, he just looked too, well, conservative.