Hit List - Lawrence Block [79]
He told her.
Her eyes widened. “Jury duty? You, Keller? You have to be on a jury?”
“I have to report,” he said. “Whether I actually get on a jury is something else again.”
“Many are called but few are chosen. But how on earth did you get called in the first place?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, the jury system isn’t supposed to make use of people like you, is it?”
“People like me?”
“People who do what you do.”
“Not if they get caught,” he said. “I don’t think you can serve on a jury if you’ve been convicted of a felony. But I’ve never even been charged with a felony, or with anything else. I’ve never been arrested, Dot.”
“And a good thing.”
“A very good thing,” he said. “As far as anybody knows, as far as any official records would indicate, I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Citizen Keller.”
“And I am,” he said. “I don’t shoplift, I don’t use or sell drugs, I don’t hold up liquor stores, I don’t mug people. I don’t stiff cabdrivers or vault subway turnstiles.”
“How about jaywalking?”
“That’s not even a misdemeanor. It’s a violation, and anyway I’ve never been cited for it. I have a profession that, well, we know what it is. But nobody else knows about it, so it’s not going to keep me off a jury.”
“You don’t vote, do you, Citizen Keller? Because I thought they drew jurors from the voter registration lists.”
“That used to be all they used,” he said, “and that’s probably why I never got called before now. But now they use other lists, too, from Motor Vehicles and the phone company and I don’t know what else.”
“You don’t own a car. And your phone’s unlisted.”
“But I’ve got a driver’s license. And they’d use the phone company’s billing records, not the phone book. Look, what’s the difference how they found me? I got a notice, and I have to report first thing Monday morning.”
“Today’s Friday.”
“Right.”
“Can’t you get a postponement?”
“I could have,” he said, “if I’d asked for one when I got the notice. But I figured I might as well get it out of the way, and things have been slow lately, and I missed my chance.”
“Won’t they let you off?”
“On what grounds? They used to let people off all the time. If you were a lawyer, or if you were in business for yourself. Now you just about have to tell them you’re pregnant, and I’m not even sure if that works.”
“They’d never believe you, Keller.”
“Nobody gets out of it these days,” he said. “The mayor was on a jury a couple of months ago. Remember?”
“I read something about it.”
“He probably could have gotten excused. He’s the mayor, for God’s sake, he can do anything he wants to. But I guess he decided it was good for his image. Imagine if you’re on trial and you look over in the jury box and there’s the mayor.”
“I’d plead guilty on the spot.”
“Might as well,” he said. “I wish I could take this job. I could use the work. You know what’s funny? I figured, well, I’ll show up for jury duty because it’ll give me something to do. And now I’ve got something to do, and I can’t do it.”
“It’s a good one, Keller.”
“Tell me about it.”
It was in Baltimore, so you could fly there in less than an hour or get there by train in under three. The train was more comfortable, and, when you factored in the cab rides to and from the airports, it was about as fast. And you didn’t have to show ID when you got on a train, and you could pay cash without drawing a raised eyebrow, let alone a crowd of security types. All things considered, Keller figured trains had a definite edge.
There was a section of Baltimore called Fells Point, a sort of funky ethnic neighborhood that was starting to draw tourists and people with something to sell them. And—
“You’re nodding,” Dot said. “You know the neighborhood? When did you ever go to Baltimore?”
“Once or twice years ago,” he said, “but just in and out. But I know about Fells Point from TV. There’s this cop show set in Baltimore.