is a small town. A juror who even thinks about holding out in this town knows that he or she will have to move. People may have short memories about where they eat, but personal vendettas can last a lifetime.”
“So we’ve got nothing?” Henry asked.
“Never say never,” Tom said. “We’ll go back in Monday and continue to slug it out. Who knows what may happen.”
Ron raised his glass. “Let’s have a toast,” he said. “To miracles.”
They all raised their glasses.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Henry rang the bell, barely touching it. He was reluctant to do it at first since it was not yet eight o’clock on Saturday morning. But Danni was an active woman. He figured she’d be up and about and he wanted to catch her before she left for the day. He had no idea what he was going to say.
He waited a few seconds. Nothing. He decided not to ring again. He’d try later. Just as he turned to walk away, the door opened. Danni appeared there wearing a pair of gym shorts and a pajama top. Her hair was everywhere and her eyes were squinting, telling Henry that he’d woken her up.
Danni spoke first, turning away from him and walking toward the living room.
“Come on in, Henry.”
Henry followed her in, closing the door behind him. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d be up.”
“Well, I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. Did you come here to thank me for doing my civic duty, or to crucify me? Let me see—I saved your life. I saved your daughter’s life. How could you do this to Jack?”
“Stop it, Danni. I’d never say that to you.”
“Why not? I say it to myself every hour or so.” She slumped into a big chair in the living room, curling her legs under her.
Henry sat on the couch across from her.
She looked him in the eye for just a minute. “Sam came over one day. He asked if Jack had visited that night after he was released from custody. He told me about the claims bill and the contingency fee agreement. I didn’t know who to believe so I told him what I knew. Then they subpoenaed me. End of story.”
“Not yet.”
“How’s it going?”
“Bad. Very bad.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Ronnie found out that Merton did exit polls for two days—the day you testified and yesterday when Jack testified.”
“Can they do that?”
“They disguised it as a news organization poll.”
“Bastards. And?”
“And Jack’s going down. It was eighty-five percent for conviction both days.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Henry. I really am. For what it’s worth, I think Sam’s off his rocker and he’s just out to get Jack. I wish I had never had that conversation with him. But there’s nothing I can do. I told the truth.”
Henry didn’t say anything for a long time. He just sat there on the couch apparently looking at the stitching.
“You know, Jack didn’t just get me out of prison,” he said finally. “He taught me something. It was something I was starting to learn on my own from reading and working by myself, but Jack made it real by doing it. He taught me that if you put your life on the line for somebody, then you are truly living. That in itself is truth. He does it all the time. When he believes in people, he never backs off. He believed in me.”
“Where are you going with this, Henry? I don’t need you to make me feel any worse. I’ve already had a headache for two days.”
“What was it that Thoreau said? ‘Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ Most men and women have acquaintances they call friends and lovers they say they would die for, but they don’t mean it. It’s all surface bullshit. Most times they walk away at the drop of a hat. Every once in a while, you might see an old woman in a hospital watching her husband die and you can tell by the look on her face she would gladly change places because she truly loves him like a mother loves her baby child—”
“Henry, if this is going where I think it is, stop right now. Jack and I were never in love. We had a fling, for Christ’s sake.”
She could tell that she had angered him with that remark but he didn’t move.
“You’re not getting it, Danni. I’m not talking about romance—maybe the couple was a bad example. I’m talking about real truth—not bullshit. When we were in that apartment in Miami, it was life and death—all the