by Nancy Moser
Bobby blinked, unsure. Could he go home? Was that possible?
Abigail touched Latisha’s knee. “He can’t go home. He’s a devoted citizen.” She nodded at him. “You get the prize for dedication to duty, that’s for sure.”
Bobby looked up and down the hall. How easy it would be to add, “At the hospital last night I saw Patti. She lost her baby. She’s the one who ought to get a prize for dedication to duty.”
The bailiff interrupted, calling them to return to session.
The chance was gone. Just as well. The main point was, if Patti could be here today, he could be here too.
***
It was the defense’s turn to lay their case on the line—not that they had much case to lay. Not that Stadler would have any talent in presenting it.
Ken knew he shouldn’t have such preconceived opinions, but he couldn’t help it. Presentation, if not everything, held a lot of weight in the world. He should know. He’d gotten his first job as a golf pro solely by presenting himself as a golf pro. He’d dressed the part, talked the talk, schmoozed the schmooze. Before that he’d tried to get golf jobs but had been repeatedly rejected. His ex, Ronnie, had been the one to point out that he might have lost the opportunities because he hadn’t fully played the part. She’d been the one who’d dressed him for his first successful interview. And he’d been dressing the part ever since.
Stadler could have used a session with Ronnie, to utilize her makeover expertise.
The lawyer sauntered toward the jury box, hitching his pants, then pushing his glasses up. His shoes needed polishing, and a tie tack would have kept his tie in place.
Where Cummings always spoke without notes, Stadler held a cheap spiral notebook that still held the remains of torn-out pages caught in the coil. Ken could see a bevy of blue chicken scratches on the page, with many cross-outs and arrows. The man hadn’t even taken the time to recopy his notes.
Stadler offered a smile but even missed in that regard, making it look like an afterthought. An I should smile now action.
He cleared his throat and began. “A man is dead. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a fact no one can contest. How did he die? He was struck over the head and drowned in his own hot tub. Neither party disputes that fact either. But who wielded the bottle? Who accosted him when he was most vulnerable and struck him down?”
Stadler paused. “The sad fact is, we don’t know. But after hearing what kind of man the victim was, it’s inevitable he had enemies. Suave users-of-others leave behind a wake of bad feelings. Obviously someone was hurt enough to enact the ultimate revenge. Until we find the guilty party we will never know whether Brett Lerner was killed through a premeditated act or in a fit of anger. But what we do know is that this woman—” he walked over to the defendant and looked at her with some version of compassion—“did not kill him. She would not. It’s against her nature and against her own best interests. She’s preg—” He cleared his throat. “She found out she was having his baby. She was thrilled with the prospect because she loved him. She wanted to be a family. She wanted to settle down and be happy. Isn’t that something we all desire?”
Yes, it was. If only Ken had realized it sooner.
His mind wandered to thoughts of Ronnie when they were first married. Wanting to be happy was a given, but had he really wanted to settle down at age twenty-five? He’d liked the idea of it. After all, who wouldn’t want to play house with a leggy redhead with brains and wit and the ability to make pasta from scratch including an Alfredo sauce that made him swoon?
So much about Ronnie had made him swoon. He’d been a lucky man.
Then why had he blown it?
Stadler’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Brett Lerner liked women. Lots of women. And as my colleague Mr. Cummings stated, hell hath no fury...but the defendant was not scorned by him. She was looking forward to telling him she was pregnant with their child. She went to his place anticipating a special evening.”
Ken remembered the night Ronnie had told him they were expecting. She’d made a birthday cake and met him at the door. “Happy birthday!”
“It’s not my birthday,” he’d said.
She’d just stood there, grinning at him.
“Come on, Ronnie,” he said, pushing past her to get inside and hang up his coat. He’d had a hard day selling copy machines. He hated his job. “It’s not your birthday either.”
“You’re right,” she said, moving by the closet, unrelenting with that stupid cake. “We’re celebrating a future birthday, the birth date of our child.”
He’d stopped hanging up his coat to see her grinning at him, the cake up near her chin in presentation style. He knew what he was supposed to say, what she wanted to hear, but other words had come out. “This isn’t what we planned.”
The cake moved from chin level to waist, her expression following the downward movement. “We haven’t planned anything about kids. You won’t discuss it.”
“So you decided to take matters into your own hands?”
She left the entry hall, heading to the kitchen. “I did no such thing. I wouldn’t do that. But it happened. And I’m glad.”
He shut the closet with extra emphasis. “I’m happy for you.”
Ronnie came back into view, the cake gone. “I’m happy for us. We’ll be a real family now. And baby makes three.”
Stadler’s words intruded on the memory. “Mr. Cummings’s three points of guilt can each be disputed. Means: Ms. McCoy did not have the means to kill Brett Lerner. She did not have the constitution for it. She’s a happy person, a good person. She tries hard to please. She is a nurturer. I will read to you from the psychologist’s testimony: ‘She’s generally a needy personality. But she’s also very giving and has a servant’s heart. She’d do anything for anybody. She’s meek, nonaggressive, and non-confrontational to the point of being a doormat. She’s not a leader but a follower. And she’s terribly naive.’” Stadler looked up and shoved the loose sheet of paper into his notebook, bending an edge. “Those are not the traits of a person who has the means to kill. Anyone.”
He walked away from the jury box enough for Ken to see that the back of his right pant leg was caught in the back of his shoe.
“Point two: motive,” Stadler said. “She was in love with him and he was in love with her. They’d been together three months. She was not a one-night stand. She had no reason to believe he would be anything but pleased about the baby. But she never had a chance to tell him because when she got to his house, she found him already dead.” He repeated the words. “She found him already dead.”
If only I’d acted pleased about the baby. I was pleased. Eventually. Once Philip had grown past the baby stage, Ken had enjoyed being a father. There was something irresistible about having another being on earth with a slightly large nose and dark, curly hair just like himself. Especially when that kid liked what he liked. Ken had first taken Philip golfing when he was six. It had been their thing. And no one had been prouder of Ken when he’d played the circuit than his son. Afterward, they discussed the games in great detail.
But then. But then…
Ken’s career had faltered and he’d lost his place in the tournaments. His ego had suffered greatly, and it had not been assuaged by Ronnie. At least not enough. And so he’d found women who would drool over him, who didn’t know what a mediocre putz he was, who bought into the package, who didn’t want to unwrap the pretty trappings and see who the real Ken Doolittle was.
As if Ken knew.
The affairs were just that. Brief flings meaning nothing beyond immediate gratification. If only Ronnie had understood and been able to forgive. If only Ken had been able to stop. He realized his insatiable need for adoration was off-kilter. He never felt as if he had enough of whatever he needed at any given moment to stop looking for it.
Philip had been thirteen when they’d divorced. And though Ken had tried to keep their golf pairing alive, Philip had been old enough to understand infidelity and had bee
n angry at his father for hurting his mother.
Ken didn’t blame him.
And so Philip had grown up pretty much without his father. They’d moved away from each other in so many ways. During the first semester at college Philip had discovered his own escape—drugs. School had been forgotten and his days had been spent in pursuit of the next fix. Ken hadn’t seen him in two years.
But now he was calling. Whatever he had to say couldn’t be good. Ken didn’t want to hear—
“I don’t want to hear any more about how Ms. McCoy had the opportunity to kill Brett Lerner,” Stadler said. “In that regard, who didn’t have the opportunity? He was home alone, soaking in a hot tub, vulnerable to anyone with a grudge. Ms. McCoy did not have a grudge. She loved him. She did not kill him, and no amount of wishful thinking by the prosecution can change that.” With a nod, Stadler walked back to his place.
Wishful thinking…
Ken wished he could turn back the years and stop Philip from taking drugs, remain faithful to Ronnie, not get cocky and think he was a better golfer than he was, be home more, and, and, and.
As the judge asked the prosecutor if he had anything else, Ken straightened in his chair.
“I only have one thing to say.” Cummings stood at his seat and looked at the jury. “No matter how much the defense tries to whitewash the events of January thirteenth, the evidence does not lie. People lie. People do things they never thought they’d do. But forensic evidence does not lie. Patti McCoy killed Brett Lerner. Period.”
With a nod, he sat down.
Great. Can we go home now?
Ken wanted this trial to be over. He was tired of hearing the same facts skewed in different ways. He was tired of not knowing what to believe and not trusting and not understanding what to do next.
The judge was speaking again. “We’ll take a lunch break. Afterward, I will give the jury their instructions. They can begin their deliberations at that time.”
Goodie.
***
Twelve of her peers? My big foot. I’m the oldest one here. By decades.
Although the realization was not a new one for Abigail, it still had the power to put a dent in her ego. She did not think of herself as seventy-six. Although her body often confirmed her age, her mind was sitting somewhere around fifty. Maybe even forty-five.
The other jurors—six men and five women—were certainly a cross section of society, and if Abigail made a list, she guessed she would have been able to say she’d played many of their types on the stage or screen. Couldn’t this fact be an advantage during deliberations? Insight into character (or pinpointing whether a person even had any) was never wasted.
As they settled around the large rectangular table in the windowless jury room, waiting to begin, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a pink polo shirt under a gray blazer, remained standing. “Excuse me,” he said, looking over the lot of them as if they were his subjects. “If no one else wants the job, I’ll be foreman.”
The man’s words caught Jack, the burley auto mechanic halfway to sitting. He aborted the movement and stood, making Mr. Pinky-pink look like a rosebud ready for squashing. “Well, that’s rich of you.” He looked around the table, possessing his own kingly air, albeit general might have been a more apt title. “We haven’t even gotten a cup of coffee and you want to take over?”
“I’m just volunteering.”
Jack looked around the room. “I want a real vote. A fair vote.”
Abigail raised her hand. “I do too.”
A pretty woman named Mary nodded. She had lovely chocolate brown eyes and had told Abigail she was a data processor. “For now I think we should go around and tell a little about ourselves. That way, when we vote, we can decide better.”
Deidre, the doctor’s wife, raised her hand. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Mr. Pinky spread his hands in surrender and sat down. “Fine. Who’d like to start?”
Jack also took his seat but with a wicked grin said, “On this, I defer to you. Go ahead.”
The man sat back in his chair. No… sat back wasn’t an apt description. The man leaned into the maroon vinyl until it tipped and rocked, as if he’d already broken it in, as if he was a pro at acting casual and relaxed.
“My name is Ken Doolittle, and I’m a professional golfer.”
Bingo.
“I won the John Deere Classic and the Valero Texas Open.”
Blank faces. By the look on his face he’d obviously expected oohs and aahs, or at least an impressed “Oh, really?” Abigail actually felt sorry for him.
“I’m a golf pro now, at the Marlborough Country Club.”
Jack snickered. “Those that can’t do, teach.”
“Hey!” said Bobby. “Be nice. We’re going to be together a long time.”
“I certainly hope not,” Abigail said. She hadn’t meant for that to come out so she defused it by saying, “I’m hoping for short and sweet so we can get back to our lives.”
Nods all around.
Jack nodded at Bobby. “You go next.”
Bobby reddened. “I’m Bobby Mann. And I can’t name a job that I haven’t had, nor one I can be proud of.”
“You a criminal or something?” asked a blonde across the table.
“No.” His grin was infectious. “But you might say I’m a jack-of-all-trades—as long as they pay that jack minimum wage.”
“He’s also an artist. He makes furniture,” Abigail said. Bobby shouldn’t dismiss his true calling.
Bobby shrugged. “I dabble.”
“Where do you work now?” the blonde asked.
“Guess.” He cleared his throat. “Would you like that giant-sized today?”
“Burger Madness?”
Bobby touched the end of his rather sharp nose. “That defendant out there? That Patti? A dishwasher? I probably have more in common with her than with any of you.”
“I think we’ve all had our share of nowhere jobs,” said a black man who’d previously told Abigail he was a fireman. “I’m just glad we can finally talk about the trial.”
“Amen to that,” Abigail said. “Your name’s Gus, right?”
“Gus Walters. Been a fireman twenty-one years.”
“Ever get hurt?” Deidre asked.
“Once or twice.”
Abigail hated waiting her turn. She raised her hand. “I’m Abigail Buchanan. I’m an actress.” She didn’t wait for them to respond, not wanting to suffer the same fate as the golf pro. “I was in the original Poseidon Adventure, and I was in one episode of Friends. I was the old, crotchety neighbor who—”
“Typecasting?” Ken asked.
“Absolutely, so watch out.” She took a fresh breath. “I’ve done dozens of commercials and also played with Gwen Verdon on Broadway.”
“Gwen who?” the blonde asked.
Gus spoke up. “One of the old people in the movie Cocoon.”
Abigail took offense on Gwen’s behalf. “She was an amazing dancer, singer, and all-around performer. She was nominated for six Tony awards and won four. She was very famous in her time.”
Blank stares. Her time was obviously not their time.
Deidre raised her hand. “I’m Deidre Kelly. My husband is Dr. Sigmund T. Kelly. He’s a pediatric orthopedic surgeon and runs the Kelly Pediatric Foundation.”
“Hey, I’ve heard of him,” Gus said. He eyed Deidre. “Have I seen your picture in the papers with him? All dressed up?”
“Probably. The foundation is involved in a lot of social events.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, but what do you do, honey?” asked Letisha, a hefty black woman with jewels on her long fingernails.
“I’m a mother. And I help Sig whenever I can.”
“You hold his scalpels for him?” asked a burly man with an unkempt ponytail. He had Joe on his name tag.
Deidre reddened. “Nothing like that.”
“Don’t be mean,” said a petite redhead. “I’m just a mother, and th
at’s saying plenty. Deidre and I shouldn’t have to defend ourselves.” She seemed to catch herself and added, “I’m Ann. Four kids. One husband. Two cats. And an accounting degree I haven’t used in ten years.”
The others filled in the blanks with their introductions. When they were done, Abigail decided a summary was in order. She went around the table, starting with herself. “So I’m Abigail, an amazingly talented actress; then we have Deidre, the wife of a pediatric surgeon who does not help with the actual surgery.” She took a fresh breath. “There is Ken, a golf pro who likes pastels.”
“Uh!” Ken said.
Abigail ignored him. “And Bobby, a Burger Madness aficionado, hold the mustard. Then Mary, a data processor with amazing brown eyes.”
“Thank you,” Mary said.
“Then we have our blondie, Susan, who’s a second grade teacher and will probably make us sit in the corner if we don’t behave; and Joe, a truck driver, who looks like he would eschew Susan’s tamer punishment and elicit his own in a more, shall we say, vigorous manner.”
“I don’t know about schew-anything, but you got the last part right,” Joe said.
Abigail extended a hand of introduction to the far end of the table. “We have Gus, a fireman, who I’d let save me anytime. Jason, a waiter, who will be in charge of taking our lunch orders.”
“I’m off duty,” said the twenty-something with mousse-spiked hair.
“A person with skills is never off duty, young man. And the final two include Ann, a busy mother who probably is very familiar with the go-to-the-corner technique.”
“You got that right.”
“And finally, on my right, Letisha, a beautiful beauty operator with scary nails.” Abigail took an exaggerated breath. “Quite the ensemble cast.”
“I suppose you want to be the star?” Ken asked.
Abigail shrugged.
“How did you remember all that?” Bobby asked. “You didn’t take a single note.”
“I can remember the order for a table of eight without writing anything down,” Jason said.
“So what’s my name?” Letisha asked.
Jason’s face went blank. “I can remember food, not people.”
