Little Deaths(94)

“Jury’s back! They’re back!”

As they took their seats, Pete looked around him. The jury had been out for a total of sixteen hours. He couldn’t tell if this was a good sign and, from their faces, neither could Scott or Hirsch.

Ruth sat in her usual place. The photographs of the children had been taken down and she didn’t seem to know where to look. She held her hands in her lap, clasped together. Her face was pale and there were dark circles around her eyes. He watched her turn to Scott and say something and try to smile.

Then the jury filed back in. Scott placed his hand on Ruth’s arm, bent to whisper to her. She nodded, biting her lip, her eyes on the jury.

The judge called for order and then:

“On the charge of murder, are you all agreed upon a verdict?”

The foreman rose. He was short, plump, heading for fifty, with receding hair and bifocals with wire frames. The kind of man you wouldn’t notice if you passed him in the street.

“We are, Your Honor.”

“How do you find the defendant?”

Pete clasped his hands. Kept his eyes on Ruth.

“Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

It must be a mistake.

This was a terrible mistake.

But Pete felt the reality in his body. His stomach dropped and the breath left him as though he’d been winded. He fell back in his seat, stunned, then heard a low moan from the defense table, turned to see Ruth burying her face in her hands.

“Oh God. Oh God, no.”

“And on the charge of manslaughter, are you all agreed upon a verdict?”

“We are.”

“How do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty of manslaughter in the first degree.”

There was a moment where time seemed to stand still. And then he heard a high-pitched wail that grew in volume and intensity.

Ruth stood and faced the judge. “You don’t give a damn who killed my kids! Nobody gives a damn!”

He banged his gavel and Ruth collapsed into Scott’s arms, weeping. Pete could only stare helplessly as her face dissolved into a red wet mass, as that neat figure crumpled over, as she gave in completely to her grief.

A bubble of conversation rose in the courtroom. Doors were flung open, crashed against the walls. Reporters rushed out, heading for the phones.

Pete looked over at Frank, who was slumped in his seat, his head in his hands.

The judge banged his gavel again and raised his voice to be heard.

“This case is adjourned for sentencing. The jury is free to go. Court dismissed.”

Two guards approached Ruth. They took hold of her upper arms and pulled her away from Scott, turning her toward the door.

Pete staggered to his feet, reached for her.

“Ruth. I’m here.”

One arm outstretched as though he could touch her.

She swayed in their grip, her eyes unfocused.

“I’m here, Ruth. I’ll get you out. I’ll find a way, I swear.”

The door closed behind them and he had no idea if she had even heard.

The court was emptying rapidly now that the entertainment was over. Pete made his way to the front of the public benches, against the tide of people, and sank into a seat, numb.

Then he heard laughter and looked up to see Hirsch over by a crowd of cops, clapping Devlin on the shoulder. Hirsch’s face was shining with success. Pete dragged his unwilling gaze over to Devlin, expecting to see the same triumph reflected there. Instead, Devlin was staring up at the photographs of the children that had dominated the courtroom throughout the trial.

As Pete watched, he turned to Hirsch, then looked down at the other man’s hand on his arm with something like distaste.

Devlin’s face was expressionless and his voice subdued as he spoke.

“I can’t take any pleasure from this, Mr. Hirsch. Two children are still dead, and a lot of lives have been ruined.”

Then he nodded. “But we did at least get justice. And we got that bitch. We got her.”

And he turned toward the door, Quinn scurrying behind him.





20


In a lot of ways, the obvious ways, Pete has moved on.

Two months after the trial, he’d applied to a master’s program to study history, and then he took a job as a teacher in a private school. The bookstore wasn’t enough—he needed to do something more than earn a living. And sometimes, showing the kids the mistakes of the past, he feels like he is making a small difference.

On his days off, he goes to the movies. He takes long walks at night and needs three or four fingers of Scotch before he can sleep.

But Ruth Malone is still the first thing he thinks of when he wakes every morning. He tried dating a few girls, but he felt like he was being unfaithful to everyone, so he stopped. Sometimes he sees a certain type of woman in a bar, with a certain way of moving, and although he knows it can’t be her, he always has to make sure.

The date of her parole hearing is marked on his kitchen calendar, winking at him as he fixes dinner. Two weeks before, he cracks and writes her a letter, telling her he’ll be there afterward.


The date of her parole hearing is circled on her calendar, hanging above her bed so it’s the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. She has tried not to get her hopes up, but hope is all she has. Hope and time to think.

She has tried not to imagine the outside world going on without her. For almost four years she has tried to think only of the day to day in here: the library, the cleaning rota, the line for the bathroom. The feel of her mattress under her back at night and the lines crossed through each day on her calendar before she goes to sleep.