Tell Me No Secrets (25 page)

“Equally complicated.”

“What’s her name?”

“Susan.”

“And she’s remarried and a decorator and she lives in Springfield.”

“And we’re starting to cover familiar territory.” He paused. “Is this it? We get no further than surfaces?”

“You have something against surfaces? I thought that’s why you liked selling shoes.”

“Surfaces it is. So, tell me, Jess Koster, what’s your lucky number?”

Jess laughed, took another bite of her roast beef, chewed it well.

“I’m serious,” Adam said. “If we’re going to stick with surfaces, I want them all covered. Lucky number?”

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Pick a number from one to ten.”

“All right—four,” she said impulsively.

“Why four?”

Jess giggled, feeling like a small child. “I guess because it’s my nephew’s favorite number. He likes it because it’s Big Bird’s favorite. Big Bird is a character on
Sesame Street.”

“I know who Big Bird is.”

“Shoe salesmen watch
Sesame Street?”

“Shoe salesmen are an unpredictable lot. Favorite color?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought.”

“Think about it now.”

Jess lowered her fork to her plate, looked around the dark room for clues. “I’m not sure. Gray, I guess.”

“Gray?” He looked stunned.

“Something wrong with gray?”

“Jess, nobody’s favorite color is gray!”

“Oh? Well, it’s mine. And yours?”

“Red.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why not? Why aren’t you surprised?”

“Well, red’s a strong color. Forceful. Dynamic. Outgoing.”

“And you think that describes my personality?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Do you think gray describes yours?”

“This is getting more complicated than my divorce,” Jess said, and they both laughed. “What about favorite song?”

“I don’t have one. Honestly.”

“Nothing that you turn up the volume for when it comes on the radio?”

“Well, I like that aria from the opera
Turandot
. You know, the one where the tenor is out in the garden by himself. …”

“I’m afraid I’m very ignorant when it comes to opera.”

“Knows
Sesame Street
, but not opera,” Jess mused aloud.

“And what else do you like?”

“I like my job,” she told him, aware how adept he was at turning the discussion away from himself. “And I like to read when I have the time.”

“What do you like to read?”

“Novels.”

“What kind?”

“Murder mysteries mostly. Agatha Christie, Ed McBain, people like that.”

“What else do you like to do?”

“I like jigsaw puzzles. And I like to take long walks by the water. And I like to buy shoes.”

“For which I am eternally grateful,” he conceded, laughter in his eyes. “And you like movies.”

“And I like movies.”

“And you like an aisle seat.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Jess repeated, trying to hide her sudden discomfort. “Why does anybody like an aisle seat? More room, I guess.”

“The needle just went off the page again,” Adam said.

“What?”

“The lie detector. You failed.”

“Why would I lie about liking an aisle seat?”

“You didn’t lie about
liking
an aisle seat; you lied about
why
you like it. And I don’t know why you’d lie.
You
tell me.”

“This is silly.”

“So aisle seats join the list of forbidden topics.”

“There’s nothing to say about them.”

“Tell me why you insisted that you sit on an aisle.”

“I didn’t insist.”

His mouth formed a boyish pout. “Did too.”

“Did not.”

They both laughed, although a certain amount of tension remained.

“I don’t think I like being called a liar,” Jess said, fussing with the napkin on her lap, watching it fall to the floor.

“I really wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“A lawyer’s good word, after all, is the only currency she has.” Jess bent over to retrieve her napkin.

“You’re not in court now, Jess,” Adam told her. “And you’re not on trial. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped in any way.”

“If I tell you,” Jess said suddenly, surprising them both, “you’ll think I’m a total wacko.”

“I already think you’re a total wacko,” Adam said. “I mean, come on, Jess, anybody whose favorite color is gray. …”

“I was afraid I’d be sick,” Jess said.

“Sick? As in throw up?”

“I know it sounds silly.”

“Were you feeling queasy?”

“No. I felt fine.”

“But you were afraid you’d throw up if you didn’t sit on the aisle?”

“Don’t ask me why.”

“Have you
ever
thrown up when you didn’t have an aisle seat?” he asked, logically.

“No,” she admitted.

“Then why think you might start now?”

He waited. She said nothing.

“Do I make you that nervous?”

“You don’t make me nervous at all,” she lied, then immediately backtracked. “Well no, actually, you do make me a little nervous, but you had nothing to do with my thinking I might throw up.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Can we talk about something else?” She lowered her head guiltily, another topic eliminated. “It’s just that it doesn’t really seem like the right thing to be discussing when we’re trying to eat dinner.”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” he said, ignoring her plea. “You like an aisle seat because you think if you sit, say, in the middle of the theater, you might throw up, even though you’ve never thrown up in a movie theater before. Right?”

“Right.”

“How long have you had this phobia?”

“Who said I have a phobia?”

“What would you call it?”

“Define phobia,” she instructed.

“An irrational fear,” he suggested. “A fear that has no basis in reality.”

Jess listened, absorbing his words like a sponge. “Okay, I have a phobia.”

“What other phobias do you have—claustro, agora, arachna …?”

She shook her head. “None.”

“Other people are afraid of heights or snakes; you’re afraid of throwing up in a movie theater if you don’t have an aisle seat.”

“I know it’s ridiculous.”

“It isn’t ridiculous at all.”

“It isn’t?”

“It’s just not the whole story.”

“Still think I’m holding out on you?” Jess asked, hearing the quiver in her voice.

“What are you really afraid of, Jess?”

Jess pushed away her plate, fighting the urge to flee, her appetite gone. She forced herself to stay in her seat. “I get these panic attacks,” she said quietly, after a long pause. “I used to get them a lot a number of years ago. Eventually, they went away. A little while ago, they started coming back.”

“Any reason?”

“Could be any number of things,” Jess said, wondering whether her half-truth would send the needle of the invisible lie detector machine to which she was connected into orbit. “My heart starts to pound. I get short of breath. I can’t move. I feel sick to my stomach. I try to fight it. …”

“Why?”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Why fight it? Does it do any good?”

Jess conceded that it didn’t. “What am I
supposed
to do?”

“Why not just go with the attacks?”

“Go with them? I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Instead of wasting all that energy trying to fight the anxiety, why not just give in to it? Go with the flow, as they say. Look, you’re in the theater,” he continued, obviously sensing her confusion, “and you feel one of these attacks coming on, instead of holding your breath or counting to ten or jumping up from your seat, whatever it
is you do, just go with the panic, give in to the feeling. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I’ll be sick.”

“So, you’ll be sick.”

“What?”

“You’ll throw up. So what?”

“I hate throwing up.”

“That’s not what you’re afraid of.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

Jess looked around impatiently. “You’re right. Actually what I’m afraid of is not getting any work done tonight if I stay out much longer. I’m afraid I won’t get enough sleep if I stay out too late, and I’ll come down with this cold I’ve been fighting, and be a disaster in court tomorrow. I’m afraid I’ll lose this case and a cold-blooded killer will walk away with less than five years in jail. I’m afraid I really have to get going.” She checked her watch for emphasis, half rose in her seat. Once again, her napkin fell to the floor.

“I think you’re afraid of death,” Adam said.

Jess froze. “What?”

“I think what you’re afraid of is death,” he repeated as she slowly lowered herself back into her seat. “That’s all most phobias come down to, in the end. A fear of death.” He paused. “And, in your case, the fear is probably justifiable.”

“What do you mean?” How many times tonight had she asked that question?

“Well, I imagine you receive your fair share of threats from people you’ve put away. You probably get hate mail, obscene phone calls, standard stuff. You deal with death every day. With brutality and murder and man’s inhumanity to man.”

“More usually man’s inhumanity to women,” Jess qualified, wondering how he knew about all this “standard stuff.”

“It’s only natural for you to be afraid.”

Jess reached down to scoop up her napkin, tossing it carelessly over her plate, like a sheet over a corpse, she thought, watching the brown juices seep through the white cloth. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s what it all boils down to.”

Adam smiled. “So, I make you nervous, do I?”

“A little,” she said. “Actually, a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she said truthfully.

His smile turned shy, circumspect. “Isn’t it more interesting that way?”

Jess said nothing. “I really should get going,” she said finally. “I have a lot to do to get ready for tomorrow. I probably shouldn’t have gone out at all tonight.” Why was she babbling?

“I’ll take you home,” he said. But all Jess could hear was “I think what you’re afraid of is death.”

T
he following Saturday Jess enrolled in a self-defense course.

The week had been a strange one. Tuesday saw the wrap-up of the prosecution’s case against Terry Wales. A succession of witnesses—police officers, medical authorities, psychologists, eyewitnesses, friends and relatives of the deceased—had all testified. They had proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Terry Wales had murdered his wife. The only question remaining—the stubborn question that had been there from the beginning—was one of degree. Would Terry Wales be able to convince the jury that it had all been a tragic mistake?

He’d certainly made a successful start. Terry Wales had taken the stand Wednesday morning in his own defense and answered his lawyer’s careful questions slowly and thoughtfully. Yes, he had a temper. Yes, he and his wife had engaged in occasionally violent arguments. Yes, he had
once broken her nose and blackened her eyes. And yes, he had threatened to kill her if she tried to leave him.

But no, he never really meant it. No, he never meant to hurt her. No, he was not some unfeeling, cold-blooded killer.

He loved his wife, he’d said, his pale blue eyes focused on the jurors. He’d always loved her. Even when she verbally abused him in front of his friends. Even when she flew at him from across the room, determined to scratch his eyes out, forcing him to fight back in self-defense. Even when she threatened to take him for everything he had. Even when she threatened to turn his own children against him.

He’d only meant to scare her when he fired that arrow into the busy intersection. He’d had no idea his aim would prove so deadly. If he’d wanted to kill her, he would have used a gun. He had several, was an expert shot, whereas he hadn’t fired a bow and arrow since he was a kid at camp.

Terry Wales finished the day in tears, his voice hoarse, his skin mottled and pale. His lawyer had had to help him from the stand.

Jess and her two partners had stayed up half that night reviewing the testimony of each witness, poring over the police reports, searching for anything they might have overlooked, anything that might help in Jess’s cross-examination of Terry Wales the next morning. After Neil and Barbara went home, sneezing and wheezing their way down the hall, Jess had stayed up the rest of the night, returning to her apartment at six the next morning only to shower and change her clothes before heading right back to her office.

She appeared in court on Thursday only to find Judge Harris recessing the case till the following Monday. The defendant, it appeared, wasn’t feeling too well, and
the defense had requested a postponement of several days. Judge Harris coughed his agreement, and court was dismissed. Jess spent most of the day talking to police detectives, encouraging them to use this delay to ferret out additional evidence that might benefit the prosecution’s case.

Friday saw the arrival of her annual Christmas card from the federal penitentiary. WISHING YOU ALL THE BEST FOR THE HOLIDAY SEASON, it read in letters of bright gold decorated with sprigs of holly.
Thinking of you
, it said at the bottom, as if from a close friend, followed by the simple signature,
Jack
.

Jack had murdered his girlfriend in a drunken argument over where he’d put his car keys. Jess had sent him to prison for twelve years. Jack swore he’d come visit her when he got out, thank her in person for her generosity.

Thinking of you. Thinking of you
.

Jess had spent the rest of Friday researching self-defense classes in the city, found one on Clybourn Avenue, not too far from where she lived and right on a subway line. Two hours on Saturday afternoon for three consecutive weeks, the delicate Asian voice on the telephone informed her. One hundred and eighty dollars for the course. Something called Wen-Do. She’d be there, Jess told the woman, recalling what Adam had said. Was it really death she was afraid of? she wondered, unwittingly conjuring up her mother’s face, hearing her mother assure her she would be all right.