“Is she single?”
“That’s what she said at the voir dire.”
“What about a boyfriend?”
“She didn’t mention any. Why?”
“I’m wondering about her support system.”
“She said her mother’s dead and she doesn’t see her father. In terms of social life, she comes across a little like Miss Lonelyhearts. Defense guys probably loved that, too.”
“How come the prosecutors didn’t eliminate her?”
“I asked George Birdwell about that. He said they were running out of disqualifications and figured her for a fooler. Inner toughness that would make her do the right thing.”
“Do you sense that, too?”
“Yeah, I do. There’s a . . . solid core there. You know the old joke about a conservative being a liberal who’s been mugged? She impresses me as someone who’s been through rough times.”
“What does she do for a living?”
“Crunches numbers for one of those big accounting firms in Century City.”
“CPA?”
“Bookkeeper.”
“Did she mention any problems other than the dreams?”
“Nope. And the only reason the dreams came up is I told her she looked tired and she said she wasn’t sleeping well. So I took her out for a piece of pie and she told me about having them. Then she changed the subject fast, so I figured it was something personal and didn’t push. Next time she called, she still sounded wiped out so I suggested she see you. She said she’d think about it; then she said okay, she would.”
He took a cigar out of his pocket, held it up to the light, put it back.
“Are any of the other jurors having problems?” I said.
“She’s the only one I had any contact with.”
“How’d she hook up with you in the first place?”
“I was studying the jury the way I always do, and we happened to make eye contact. I’d noticed her before because she always seemed to be working real hard. Then, when I went up to testify, I saw her staring at me. Intense. After that, we kept making eye contact. The day the trial ended, the jury was being escorted out back and I was parked there, too. She waved at me. Really intense look. I felt she was asking me for something, so I gave her my card. Three weeks later she calls the station.”
He pressed one hand down on the bar and inspected his knuckles. “Now I’ve done my good deed for the year. I don’t know how much she can afford—”
“I don’t imagine bookkeepers are investing in bullion,” I said. “We’ll work something out.”
One hand pulled at his heavy jowls, knockwurst fingers tugging heavy flesh down toward his bull neck. In the ice-blue light of the lounge, his face was a pockmarked plaster cast and his black hair hung over his forehead, creating a hat-brim shadow.
“So,” he said. “Is a day at the beach really a day at the beach?”
“Bitchin’, dude. Wanna come by and catch some waves?”
He grunted. “You ever saw me in a bathing suit, you wouldn’t offer. How’s the house coming along?”
“Slowly. Very slowly.”
“More problems?”
“Each trade seems to have a sacred obligation to ruin the work of the previous one. This week, the drywallers covered over some electrical conduit and the plumbers damaged the flooring.”
“Sorry Binkle didn’t work out.”
“He was competent enough, just not available. We needed more than a moonlighter.”
“He’s not that good of a cop, either,” he said. “But other guys he did construction work for said it came out fine.”
“As far as he got, it was fine. With Robin taking over, it’s even better.”
“How’s she handling that?”
“Now that the workers are taking her seriously, she’s actually enjoying it. They’ve finally learned they can’t snow her—she gets up on the scaffold, takes their tools, and shows them how.”
He smiled. “So when do you think you’ll be finished?”
“Six months, minimum. Meanwhile, we’ll just have to suffer along in Malibu.”
“Tsk, tsk. How’s Mr. Dog?”
“He doesn’t like the water but he’s developed a taste for sand—literally. He eats it.”
“Charming. Maybe you can teach him to shit adobe bricks, cut your masonry costs.”
“Always the practical one, Milo.”