Free The Jury by Steve Martini Page B

not there, but I can see him through the windows down below in the dayroom, talking to some inmate, the guard waiting for them. The other man, some behemoth, has just come off the weight machine, covered with sweat and looking like some Nordic bad dream, cheekbones from a horror flick, a blond ponytail, with tattoos on both arms from the pits to the wrists. It could be worse; at least he is laughing with my client. I begin to wonder if Crone has been carrying out fiendish experiments here--Dr. Vikingstein, I presume.
    He breaks it up, and followed by the guard, Crone climbs the stairs. A couple of seconds later they unlock the door for him to enter from the jail side.
    As soon as he sees us all there, Crone is filled with bonhomie.
    "Aaron, I see you've met Mr. Madriani, and Harry Hinds. Harry's an interesting man. Personally, I think he has a way with words."
    "Oh, really. In what way?" asks Tash.
    "I think Harry should be writing lyrics for music."
    This gets a snarl from my partner.
    "Oh, you've written songs?"
    "No."
    "Oh." Tash looks sorry that he asked.
    Crone is looking back into the mirror at the other end of the room. I can see him laughing in the glass.
    "You have to watch what you say in here, Aaron. I am told they can read lips."
    He nods toward the mirror.
    "How's everything at the center?"
    "People are pulling for you," says Tash.
    "They know you didn't do it."
    "Gee. Maybe they should all talk to Harry."
    Crone is misjudging Harry badly. The man has a boiling point in the vicinity of liquid oxygen and can be just as explosive.
    "I'm glad for the support. It means a lot to me. Please tell them that." Perhaps Crone has a place to return to after all.
    "I will."
    "But you didn't come all this way to tell me that?"
    "No. You need to see these numbers," says Tash. He gestures with a finger, tapping the briefcase under his arm.
    Crone holds out a hand.
    Tash pulls a letter-sized folder from the briefcase, and from this he draws a single sheet of paper. It appears to be the entire contents of the briefcase. He hands the page to Crone, and the two men study it, Tash looking over his shoulder. Little musings under their breath, nothing said outright as they pore over the page.
    Why Crone was doing this, volunteering his time on a project from which he has been suspended without pay, no one could say. But I suspect it is a labor of love, and the fact that he is the ultimate optimist. In his mind at least, he is going back.
    Crone traces the page with one finger, his eyes following. He is two-thirds of the way down when he backtracks to the middle.
    "Here's the problem." He looks at Tash.
    "You see it?"
    Tash shakes his head, and Crone smiles, still master of the universe.
    "Give me your pencil," says Crone.
    Tash reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and comes out with a mechanical pencil.
    Crone takes it and presses the button on the end twice with his thumb to get some fresh lead. He places the sheet of paper against the wall and starts to write. From this distance it looks like he is scrawling numbers, computing in his head faster than his hand can commit the figures to paper. He scratches over some of the printed numbers, formulas from what I can make out, then writes in the margin, making large scrawled arrows pointing back to the printed text.
    "You see it?" Crone shoots a glance at Tash, who has a perplexed expression as he follows the pencil scratching on paper.
    Tash's eyes suddenly light up like some kid's who's just been given an electric train set for Christmas.
    "Oh. Of course." He slaps his forehead with one hand.
    "Then that means that down here we were off." He borrows the pencil back and makes his own contribution in the margin.
    "You got it," says Crone.
    "That's held us up for almost a week," says Tash.
    "Why didn't you come to me earlier?"
    "Ask him." Tash gestures toward me.
    "Mr. Madriani, I thought I made it clear. You cannot interfere with my work."
    "No, what you made clear is that you won't