Salem Falls Part 30

"Of course."

She reached out, going straight for the purple-packaged Trojan. But her hand veered to the left, and her fingers skimmed over a Contempo, two LifeStyles, and a Durex.

She picked up the Durex, then the Prime sitting beside it.

Suddenly, she flung the condom back onto the table and buried her face in her hands. "I don't know," she cried. "It was dark ... and I was ... I was so scared ... and ..."

Matt jerked his head toward Gillian, and Charlie quickly slid his arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, honey. You just relax."

"But you wanted me to be able to pick it. For evidence."

"We have other evidence," Matt said.

Gilly sniffed loudly. "Really?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "This is just icing on the cake. Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

"You want to stop?"

"No." Gilly turned back to the counter, her hands clenched at her sides as if she could will herself to remember. "It was purple," she said a minute later. "The package was purple." When she smiled, it transformed her entire face. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"You bet," Matt said, collecting the condom from her hand.

Charlie walked her to the door and opened it. "Joe," he said to the officer standing outside. "Would you be kind enough to walk Miss Duncan back to her father?"

"Sure, Lieutenant."

Charlie watched Gillian walk away with the big patrolman, then went back inside to the county attorney. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "She picked the Trojan."

Matt nodded. "Unfortunately," he said, "that wasn't the brand you took from the house."

It made Jack look good.

The unexpected thought hit Jordan like a punch to the belly, driving all the air from his lungs. To his absolute shock, there were things in the discovery he'd received from Matt Houlihan that evening that actually worked in his favor.

Jordan blew a ring of cigar smoke in the direction of his bare feet, levered onto the railing of the porch. The police statement from Charlie Saxton lay open on his lap. Beside him on the wooden floor were the testimonies of the girls who had been eyewitnesses, and the surprising result of the condom lineup. The only missing piece of the discovery was the forensic scientist's workup, which had been delayed for a week owing to lab overload.

The past two weeks had not convinced Jordan of Jack St. Bride's innocence-he was certain his client's one-note performance of the Iwasn't-there refrain was grounded in nothing more than wishful thinking. The Nelson Mandela tactics in jail were not a measure of a clear conscience as much as they were a nuisance. And the crazy story about decorations in the forest said less about the man's credibility than the brand of whiskey he'd been drinking.

But right now, staring over the county attorney's discovery, Jordan wondered whether Jack St. Bride might not be the real thing.

He slid open the door and padded down the hallway to his own bedroom, which he'd chivalrously given up to Selena. A pie slice of moonlight illuminated her, and for a moment the sight of this woman in his bed again took his breath away. He was not surprised when Selena sensed his presence and immediately woke, sliding her hand under the pillow.

"You don't sleep with a gun at my house," Jordan murmured. "Which is a good thing for me, I imagine."

Selena rolled away. "Get out of my bedroom, Jordan," she m.u.f.fled into the covers.

"It's my bedroom."

"I still don't want you in it. And that's a clear invite to leave, unless you've been taking lessons from your client on social interaction with females."

"It's about Jack. I need to talk to you."

Resigned, Selena flopped onto her back. "At three in the morning."

"Four, but who's counting?" Jordan eased down onto the bed beside her. "Did you read the discovery?"

"Some of it."

"Well ... there are holes."

Selena shrugged. "There are always holes. Or so you tell me."

"But half the time I'm lying. In this case, it's true."

"Such as?"

"The scratch. Remember I told you about that? And the psych records. And the girls' stories don't match a hundred percent."

"What about the physical evidence?"

"Hasn't come back from the lab yet," Jordan admitted.

Selena read over the transcript, then looked at him. "But you're thinking ...?"

"Yeah," Jordan said with surprise. "That it just might tell us what Jack's been telling us all along."

In his nightmare, Matt was in court.

He stared at the jury as if he had the power to mesmerize, because a rape case really came down to whom they believed the most. The judge called his name. "Mr. Houlihan!"

"Yes, Your Honor. Excuse me." He pulled at his collar, trying to keep from being strangled by his tie. "The state calls Gillian Duncan to the stand."

There were camera flashes and rustles of movement as the entire gallery strained to see the prosecution's star witness make her way toward the front of the courtroom. But the doors did not open; the girl didn't appear. Matt tried to ask the bailiff where his witness was but was stopped once again by the judge's voice. "Counsel, now what's the problem?"

"My witness," Matt said. "I can't find her."

"She's right here." The judge pointed down at the stand.

But Matt couldn't see anything past the lip of the box. He walked toward the bench quickly, although his legs felt like pudding beneath him, and put his hand on the carved railing. "Please state your name for the record," he said. When no answer came, he peered into the witness box.

And saw his own baby lying at its base, smiling up at him as if she knew he'd be able to save her.

There was some guilty pleasure that came from watching Jack appear with a correctional officer at the door of the small conference room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Jordan," he said, "it's the middle of the night."

"Didn't bother you before." Jordan sat back, studying his client.

"What?" Jack asked, looking down at his jumpsuit as if there might be bloodstains or some other incriminating evidence on it. "Did I get convicted?"

At that, Jordan almost smiled. "You would have been in the courtroom with me if you had."

"Then why are you here?"

Jordan rested his elbows on the table. "Because," he said slowly, "I am having a spiritual moment of sorts."

Jack looked at him warily. "Good for you."

"And for you, actually." Jordan pushed a manila envelope across the table to Jack. "I got the discovery from the county attorney today. Everything but the lab results, anyway." As he watched Jack open the packet and scan the pages, Jordan cleared his throat uncomfortably. "This isn't something I've said very often, and never directly to a client, so it's a little hard for me. Christ." He shook his head, a crimson flush rising up his neck. "Three little words, and I can't even choke them out."

Jack glanced up, eyes guarded. "You're not going to tell me you love me, are you?"

"h.e.l.l, no," Jordan said. "I believe believe you." you."

Then Jack managed to draw a breath into his burning lungs. "You what what?"

"I think the girl's lying. And I don't know where you were that night, but it wasn't with her."

He watched Jack's eyes darken with surprise. "I would have gotten you off no matter what," Jordan said brazenly. "But now I actually want want to." He felt drunk, dizzy. As if something bound tight inside him had broken free, making him able to move mountains, to bring down giants. to." He felt drunk, dizzy. As if something bound tight inside him had broken free, making him able to move mountains, to bring down giants.

Stunned, Jack turned away. "I don't believe this."

Jordan laughed. "Jack," he said. "You're not the only one."

1989.

New York City The girl had to be drunk, that was the first rule.

If she wasn't on the verge of pa.s.sing out, she usually freaked and spoiled it right in the middle of the fun. Every now and then one had gotten her bearings and gone all skittish, but it hadn't taken much more than another beer to convince her to stay. After all, this was why she'd come in the first place.

The idea had come indirectly from Coach, when some of the guys were getting p.i.s.sed about the minutes of playing time they were getting on the field. Factions began to fight; players cut each other down the second Coach's back was turned. A soccer team, A soccer team, he said, he said, has no room for a superstar has no room for a superstar. He was trying to make the players understand that how well they played together was a direct reflection of how well they interacted off the field. Visit the Empire State Building together, Visit the Empire State Building together, he'd suggested. he'd suggested. Go bowling. Split a pizza in Little Italy Go bowling. Split a pizza in Little Italy. But the Columbia University varsity soccer team had found something else to share.

There were always a number of girls hanging around their team bashes, soccer groupies who cared less about the sport than they did about being seen with and by winners. By unspoken agreement, the high scorer got to pick one from the crowd. He'd ply her with alcohol, even though she'd usually arrived ready, willing, and able. And after they screwed, he'd ask her if she wanted to meet one of his friends.

Once a girl had pa.s.sed out cold and all eleven players had gotten to f.u.c.k her.

Jack pushed through the press of bodies in his apartment, trying to reach the Holy Grail of the keg. He was not a particular fan of this tradition, never having been one who liked sharing what he considered his. But as the lead scorer all season, he was first ... so it was easy to pretend he was the only, too.

He filled up two plastic cups and wove back toward the girl he'd been talking to. She had green eyes and t.i.ts that looked like they'd fill up his hands. He couldn't remember her name. "Here you go," he said, offering his most charming smile.

"Thanks." She took the cup, and then stumbled against him as someone pushed her from behind. "Sorry. It's just so crowded in here."

She did this thing with her eyes, making them go all slanty and looking up from underneath her lashes, all of which was getting Jack as hard as a railroad spike. "You want to go somewhere quieter?"

"Okay."

He tugged her by the hand toward his bedroom. Chad, his roommate, was standing near the threshold. "Save me some," he said.

Jack closed the door. The girl walked around his room, touching the trophies on his shelves, his team jacket, the battered soccer ball his dad had given him as a kid. He set his hands on her shoulders. "See anything you like?"

She turned in his arms. "Yeah," she said, and kissed him.

They needed to turn down the music. Jack pulled a pillow over his head, wis.h.i.+ng he could drown out the sound. The ba.s.s alone was killing him.

Beside him, the girl lay sprawled on her stomach. He must have dozed off too, after. Wouldn't have minded just crawling under the covers right now, either, except for the fact that his teammates were out there waiting.

Rap rap rap.

"Jack!" Chad's voice came m.u.f.fled through the door. "Jack, c'mere!"

Naked, Jack stumbled off the bed and cracked the door open. "I'm almost done."

"It's not that. Your mother's here."

"My mother?" mother?"

Granted, his parents lived on the Upper West Side, just a stone's throw away. But they rarely saw each other, in spite of their proximity. The elder St. Brides did not move in the same circles as a college senior. Plus, it was nearly midnight, on a Sat.u.r.day. Jack glanced over his roommate's shoulder and saw the impeccably dressed Annalise sticking out like a hothouse flower in a tangle of weeds. He hiked on his jeans and pulled a s.h.i.+rt over his head. As he started out of his bedroom, he looked back to see Chad unb.u.t.toning his fly, and easing down beside the girl.

Something stabbed at Jack's conscience. Cynthia Cynthia. Her name was Cynthia, and she'd told him a story about how her father-a farmer-would cut fields of hay in a spiral and make all the rabbits run out of the center. "Chad," he said quietly, and his roommate looked up.

"What?"

Maybe she doesn't want to. Maybe she ought to be asked, at the very least, instead of waking up with some guy on top of her. "Jack?" Cynthia said, her voice slurred, and she reached out to tug Chad down.

It's not my problem, Jack thought, shrugging. Jack thought, shrugging. It's someone else's, now. It's someone else's, now.

Pus.h.i.+ng it out of his mind, he shoved through the thick snarl of people. It had gotten more crowded, if possible, these past twenty minutes. "Mom. Are you all right?"

Annalise St. Bride looked at him. She tried to speak, then covered her mouth with her hands.

"Mom, I can explain-"

His mother glanced up, tears in her eyes. "Jack," she said, "your father's dead."

The funeral was attended by a mult.i.tude of men in the finance industry, society women, and Mayor Ed Koch. Jack moved around his childhood home in his charcoal gray interview suit, shaking hands and accepting condolences. Everyone wanted to talk to him, to offer sympathy, to let him know that his dad had been a great man.

It had been a heart attack, his mother said. She was still shaky, and Jack a.s.sumed it was because she hadn't been at her husband's side when it had happened. Out on one of her crusades, she had come home to a message saying that Joseph St. Bride had been taken to Columbia-Presbyterian.

Slinking away from the well-wishers, Jack escaped to his old bedroom. It was much like his apartment, filled with paraphernalia from soccer. Jack sat on the narrow bed and fingered a blue ribbon that hung from one of the bedposts. For league play. He'd been ten.

His father had been the one to teach him. Every Sunday, in Central Park, they'd kick a ball around. Closing his eyes, he pictured the little boy he had been, and the young man who was his dad, weaving around each other's defense. With a start, he realized that right now, he looked exactly like his father had back then.

Footsteps approached down the hallway-his mother, probably, telling him to put on a good face and suffer in public along with her. But the sound stopped short of his bedroom door, and then Jack could hear two of his father's colleagues talking.

"He was so young," one said.