Hit List

prosecution rested its case late Friday morning, and when they resumed after lunch the defense moved for a directed verdict of acquittal. That was standard procedure, Keller knew, and the judge denied the motion, which was also fairly predictable. Then Nierstein announced that the defense would rest without presenting a case, since the prosecution had demonstrably failed to prove anything. The judge told him to save that for his closing argument, and told both attorneys to save their closing arguments for Monday morning. He gave the jurors his usual instructions—don’t talk to anybody, don’t read newspaper coverage of the case, di dah di dah di dah. Keller could have recited it along with him, word for word.
    There was one addition. This time the judge suggested that they bring an overnight bag to court Monday morning. Once they began their deliberations, he explained, they would be sequestered until they reached a verdict. The city would pay for their hotel room, but the city’s largesse didn’t run to toothpaste and razors and clean clothes, so they ought to bring those along just in case.
    “You’re already packed,” Gloria said, on the way out of the building. She nodded at Keller’s briefcase. “I bet you’ve got it all in there. Socks and underwear and a clean shirt.”
    “And a book to read,” he said. “Everything I need for a weekend away.”
    “A romantic weekend, I hope?”
    He shook his head. “A nephew of mine’s getting married. That makes it a romantic weekend for him, or at least I hope it does. For me it comes under the heading of family obligations.”
    He got back from Baltimore early Sunday evening and took a long soak in the tub, then called a Chinese restaurant and ordered dinner. He cradled the receiver, then picked it up again, feeling the urge to call someone. Dot? No, not Dot, but someone.
    Gloria? He couldn’t call her even if he wanted to, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Maggie? No, God, the last thing he wanted was to start that up again. He didn’t want to see anybody, didn’t really want to have a conversation with anybody, just somehow felt the need to check in with someone, though he couldn’t think who. He felt restless, he realized, a sort of full-moon restlessness, and the moon wasn’t even full, as far as he knew.
    Or was it? He went to the window, but couldn’t see any moon from there, full or otherwise. He could go outside and look, but he had Chinese food coming. You could probably find information like that in the Farmer’s Almanac, but the only copy he had was five years old. He’d never bought it again, and couldn’t recall now what had made him buy it the first time.
    He’d bought a paper, but left it on the train. There was probably something in it about phases of the moon. If it wasn’t in the weather report, it would probably be in the astrology column.
    Louise Carpenter. That’s who he wanted to call. If nothing else, the woman would know whether or not the moon was full.
    Was it too late to call? He decided it wasn’t, looked up the number and dialed it. She didn’t answer, and neither did her machine. He tried again, on the chance he’d misdialed, and no one answered, and then the buzzer sounded to announce the arrival of his dinner.
    After he’d eaten he gave his attention to the selection of approvals that had arrived several days earlier from the woman in Maine. He chose the stamps he wanted, mounted them in his albums, and wrote out a check.
    He wrote a note: “Dear Beatrice, Thanks for another nice selection. I found a few I could use, and I’m happy to have them. Enclosed is a check for $72.20. I’m on jury duty, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone about the case. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to hear about it!” He signed his name and tucked the note and the check and the stamps he wasn’t buying into the return envelope, then went downstairs and posted it in the corner mailbox. He was in the building again before he remembered the moon, and it didn’t seem worthwhile to go out again and look for it.
    Back in his apartment, he stationed himself in front of the television set. Around midnight he drew a tub and took another hot bath. Before he went to bed he repacked his briefcase with a fresh shirt and a change of socks and underwear.

Twenty-two
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    The foreman they had selected was named Milton Simmons. He was tall, forty-five or fifty, and he looked a little like Morgan Freeman. Keller figured that was why