Juror #3

by James Patterson

  I didn’t answer, but I was scrambling to remember: What did subsection B say?

  He chuckled. “Get ready for a smackdown, Ruby. You’re going to lose this round.”

  “Oh, so you’re a fortune teller and a district attorney.”

  As Lafayette walked to his counsel table, he made a parting shot over his shoulder. “Judge Baylor won’t be happy with you. Making trouble, stirring the pot.”

  Judge Baylor is a sneaky asshole.

  I shifted in my chair and leaned toward the DA. “I’ve been a troublemaker all my life. You better get used to it.”

  The door to Judge Baylor’s chambers opened and he entered, robed in black. I jumped to my feet. As the judge settled into his chair behind the bench, he said, “Miss Bozarth, I see you’ve filed two motions in State v. Summers.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He opened the file. “There’s a motion for continuance. Mr. Lafayette, what does the prosecution say to that?”

  Lafayette leaned against the bar behind his counsel table. “Judge, the state is ready to proceed. Our witnesses are under subpoena, and we’ve made arrangements for the forensic expert from the state crime lab to appear. It would work a hardship on us to cancel out at this point.”

  “Miss Bozarth?”

  “Your Honor, I need more time to prepare. The trial setting is only eleven days from now.”

  The DA pushed away from the bar. “Judge, this isn’t a complex case.”

  I turned on him. “What do you mean? It’s a capital murder case.”

  The judge raised a restraining hand. “Y’all settle down. Miss Bozarth, what do you need to accomplish that you can’t get done in eleven days?”

  I repeated, “Prepare. I need to prepare for trial.”

  The judge frowned at me like I was a misbehaving child. “Well then, get to work, ma’am. Miss Bozarth, I have access to the docket for Williams County, and you’ll forgive me for observing that you don’t have a wealth of cases eating up your time.”

  My blood started to boil. He turned a page. “There’s a motion to compel discovery here. Mr. Lafayette, have you provided Miss Bozarth with the prosecution’s file?”

  The DA was assuring the judge that he had handed it over when I interrupted.

  “I want to see it.”

  The judge said, “What’s that?”

  “I want to see the evidence in the property room. To inspect it personally.”

  Lafayette broke in. “Judge, the prosecution objects to this request. The evidence in this case involves sensitive and personal information—matters which may be protected from tampering by subsection B.”

  I leaned my damp palms on the surface of the counsel table as I faced the judge. “Judge Baylor, you’ve entrusted me with the defense of a man charged with capital murder. I want to see that evidence, and I want it today.”

  The judge adjusted his glasses and lifted a pen. “Miss Bozarth, Mr. Lafayette has a wealth of experience in these matters; whereas you are, as they say, new to the game. I’m inclined to trust his judgment.”

  “I’ll appeal.”

  Shocked silence followed my statement. It was a gamble, a desperate play.

  But I sure had their attention.

  The judge’s voice cut the air in the courtroom. “What do you mean, you’ll appeal?”

  I scrambled. What was it called, when an attorney in the midst of the trial process appealed the ruling? I sunk my teeth into the legal term I remembered for certain.

  “I intend to do an interlocutory appeal.” I paused for a moment; when no one jumped in, I knew I’d used the right term. I went on: “We’ll just see what the high court says about your refusal to permit me effective representation. And while we wait for their decision, well”—I shrugged philosophically—“I guess that will provide me the extra time I need.”

  In the silence that followed, I saw Baylor and Lafayette exchange a look. At length, the affronted look on the judge’s face disappeared, and was replaced with a genial smile. The judge said, “I think she’s outfoxed you, Tom.”

  The DA jumped in, “Your Honor, on behalf of the State of Mississippi, I repeat my objection—”

  But the judge hushed him with a wave of his hand. “Motion for continuance denied. Motion to compel discovery granted.” He signed his name with a flourish of the pen, and pointed at Lafayette. “Tom, let the little lady see your evidence.”

  The judge handed me a copy of the signed motion and departed abruptly. My knees suddenly weak, I dropped into my chair.

  Chapter 11

  WITH THE SIGNED motion gripped tightly in my hand, I pushed open the door of Shorty’s diner. I spied Shorty sitting alone in the back booth, near the kitchen. He was reading a magazine.

  “Shorty,” I said, waving the document. “I did it.”

  He looked up with a smile, and I headed down the aisle to join him. Jeb sat again on a stool at the counter. As I passed, he swiveled around.

  “Hey, Jailtime! How’s the case coming?”

  I turned to face him.

  “Why are you always parked on that stool? Isn’t there someplace you need to be?”

  “Better talk sweet to me, Jailtime. I got jury duty in a couple of weeks.”

  Shorty came to the rescue, slipping behind the counter. “Ruby’s right, Jeb; I ought to start charging you rent. Hey, Ruby—what can I get you?”

  “Are you really on the jury panel?” In my imagination, I could see Jeb calling me Jailtime Ruby in the jury room.

  Shorty said, “Ruby, he’s pulling your leg; you can’t take anything he says seriously. Let me get you a cup of coffee. Or would you like a cold Coke?”

  “Tea, please. I’d love a sweet tea.”

  While Shorty poured the tea over ice, Jeb thrust his thumb in the direction of the orange booths. “You lucked out this time; I didn’t get called. But Troy over there? He’s on the list.” Jeb called across the diner. “How about it, Troy? Did you manage to talk the judge into letting you out of jury duty?”

  The booths were full, but when I scanned the faces of the diners, the man with the birthmark was staring at me. “No. I’m still on the list.” His eyes flitted away.

  Shorty took me by the elbow and nodded in the direction of the table he’d just vacated. In the past few days, I’d become a regular at Shorty’s; I’d walked through that door three times. I’d refused to let Shorty give me dinner on the house the night before, but when he offered to let me order food and drink on credit and pay at the end of the month, I happily agreed to the arrangement. The knowledge that I would receive a government paycheck in the near future made me feel extravagant.

  I picked up the magazine he’d been reading and examined the cover. “Oh. My. Lord. The National Review? That William F. Buckley rag?”

  “It’s chock-full of interesting articles.” His mouth twitched when he said it.

  “Interesting to Newt Gingrich, maybe. Don’t you ever read anything fun?”

  He smoothed the cover, plucking off a stray crumb. “For an old political science guy, this is fun reading.”

  Swiveling his stool our way, Jeb interjected, “Your daddy said he was throwing money down the well when he sent you off to school.”

  Shorty rolled his eyes, but his voice remained good-natured. “Jeb, drink your coffee or I’ll make it even thinner tomorrow.” He pointed at my motion. “Can I see it?”

  I handed it to him; looking at it gave me a thrill of pride. “Absolutely. It’s public record.”

  While he read through it, I drained the tea and sent Suzanne a text, telling her about my success in court.

  Shorty looked up from the document. “You really scored. So what’s next?”

  I glanced over my shoulder, to make sure the prospective juror in the orange booth couldn’t overhear. The hum of conversation from the other customers provided cover. In a quiet voice, I told Shorty: “I’m going straight to the sheriff’s department, to get inside the property room and check out the evidence
.”

  “We ought to celebrate. Why don’t you come over to my place tonight? I’ll cook for you.”

  Unzipping my briefcase, I slipped the motion inside. I took a breath and chose my words carefully. “Shorty, that’s flattering, it really is. But I got out of a bad relationship in the past year. I’m still kind of gun-shy.”

  His face was a blank. “Why do you assume I’m asking you out on a date? Maybe it’s just a friendly gesture.”

  I could feel a blush work its way up my neck. Embarrassed, I scooted down the booth, anxious to make my getaway. “I apologize. God, I feel like an idiot. Excuse me for assuming—”

  He reached across the table and grasped my forearm. “Hey, I’m giving you a hard time. Yes, Ruby, I was asking you for a date. But it doesn’t have to be anything but a friendly evening. It’s food. You gotta eat, right?”

  In fact, I would need to eat tonight. And Shorty’s cooking was much better than mine. But I was also motivated by a case of loneliness. In the months I’d been living and working at the Ben Franklin, I had yet to make a real friend.

  We agreed on seven o’clock, and I got his address on a paper napkin.

  I was feeling pretty cocky as I walked out. But Jeb knew how to take the wind out of my sails. As I pulled the door open and the bell tinkled overhead, I heard him shout: “Give ’em hell, Jailtime!”

  Chapter 12

  I WALKED THE short distance to the sheriff’s department. A stern-faced woman wearing a tan uniform sat behind the counter in the lobby.

  “Hey! I’m Ruby Bozarth, defense counsel in State v. Summers. I need to get access to the state’s evidence, back in your property room.”

  “Excuse me?” Her expression turned downright forbidding. “Mr. Lafayette didn’t send any notice about somebody rummaging around in the property room.”

  I dropped my smile. And I slapped the signed motion onto the counter.

  “It’s not Lafayette’s call. Judge Baylor has ordered the room opened for me. That’s his signature, right there.”

  She made a show of reading the document from beginning to end, then picked up the phone. “Dusty, there’s a lawyer here, says you need to open up the evidence room for her.” To the voice on the other end of the line, she said, “Because the circuit judge says so. She’s got a court order.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “If you can’t get out here, then send somebody.” She hung up the phone and turned away from me.

  I thought they might make me cool my heels in the lobby, but within minutes, a uniformed deputy arrived. He approached the woman at the desk. “I’m supposed to watch somebody in the property room.”

  She nodded in my direction. “Her.”

  I approached the deputy with a determined step and stuck out my hand. “Ruby Bozarth, counsel for defendant Darrien Summers.”

  The deputy was a young man, so slight that his uniform hung loose on him, like a boy wearing his big brother’s clothes. He took my hand and smiled, a blush washing over his freckled face. “I’m Deputy Brockes. Sorry I didn’t know you, ma’am. I’m brand-new.”

  I waved off the apology. “Me, too, Deputy Brockes. Fresh as paint.”

  He led me down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the building, then unlocked the property room. I followed him inside. While he searched for the Summers evidence, I looked around. Locked behind a mesh cage marked CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES, I saw powdery substances in plastic bags; other bags looked like they held marijuana.

  The deputy returned, rolling a dolly that bore two boxes marked STATE V. SUMMERS. He pointed at a scarred wooden table in the corner. “You want to sit over there, ma’am?”

  Brockes’s voice was respectful, almost shy. I nodded. “Can we get a little more light in here, you think?”

  He squinted up at the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. “No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Hope I don’t get eyestrain,” I said as I scooted a metal chair beside the table. “Wouldn’t want to sue the county.”

  He looked frightened. I winked at him, so he’d know I was kidding.

  Settling into the chair, I opened the first box. Bloodstained clothes were piled inside. The deputy stood over my shoulder. I turned to him. “You know, this is going to take a while.”

  He coughed, then thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I’m supposed to leave you alone.”

  “Because I’m gonna steal y’all blind in here?” Deputy Brockes looked alarmed. I laughed, to reassure him. “Joke. It was a joke.”

  I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag, along with my cell phone; as I unearthed the evidence from the box, I photographed each item and took detailed notes. The deputy maintained his post beside the table for a while, but as I meticulously inspected each item and made my handwritten notations, he yawned.

  “I’m going to have a seat here.”

  “Sure,” I said, as I held up Jewel’s dress. It was sheathed in plastic, but the slashes in the fabric had been tagged. I counted them: thirteen.

  The deputy sat on the concrete floor, his back against the wall. I worked on in silence. When I completed my examination of the first box and lifted the lid from the second, I glanced his way. Sleeping like a baby. His head had fallen forward, and he snored softly.

  I set the box lid on the floor and looked inside. At the top of the items in the box, I beheld it: Jewel Shaw’s cell phone.

  At last, I might find something that could help my client. I wanted to dig into that phone.

  The problem was, it was bagged and tagged, sealed in protective plastic. There was no way to check the phone without shedding all that plastic. It had been marked with the initials of the officer who placed it inside, with a sticker sealing the bag.

  Bag or no bag, I had to get to that phone. I made a decision: to hell with the state’s chain of custody. I glanced over at my companion, who was still snoozing. Without making a sound, I shifted my chair so that my back faced the deputy. Then I reached into my briefcase and slipped on a pair of gloves with touchscreen tips that Suzanne had loaned to me for just this purpose. After another nervous look over my shoulder at Little Boy Blue, I eased up the custody tag without breaking the tape or tearing the plastic. Breathing out in relief, I removed the phone from the bag.

  I knew Jewel Shaw’s security code; it was listed in a report in the prosecution file. Working quickly, I accessed the phone. With my own cell phone, I took photos of Jewel’s call history, recent texts, and some photos. Though I didn’t pause to make a close inspection, it appeared that Suzanne’s calculations were on target; Jewel had a lot of “couple pics” with different men.

  I heard the deputy stir. My heart nearly stopped.

  “Ma’am? You still working on those boxes?”

  Scooping the phone and the plastic wrapping into my lap, I said, “It won’t be too much longer. You’re sure a good sport, Deputy Brockes.” I began to repackage the phone. My hands were unsteady as I slipped it back into the plastic evidence bag and replaced the chain-of-custody tape. Turning to face the young deputy, I gave him an apologetic smile.

  “No problem.” With a groan, he pushed away from the wall and rose, coming to stand over me at the table. I dropped the phone into the box and pulled out a stack of files that rested beneath it.

  Then I had a chilling thought. Had I remembered to turn the damned thing off?

  Chapter 13

  SITTING IN A wicker rocking chair on the front porch of Shorty’s house, I sipped cold beer from the can, glad I’d overcome my initial hesitation.

  “Shorty, that supper was incredible. Catfish just jumped to number one on my list of favorite foods.”

  “Old family recipe,” he said with mock solemnity. “My daddy knew his way around a catfish, I guarantee.”

  I rocked in the wicker chair. “And your father was the original Shorty?”

  “Yep.”

  “Because he was genuinely short?”

  “About five foot six. I got my height from my ma
ma’s side.” He stretched out his long legs; they nearly reached to the end of the porch.

  I asked, “So why’d you get stuck with the nickname?”

  He cut his eyes at me. “I’m a junior, named after my daddy. Clarence Palmer Morgan the Second.”

  I snickered. “Oh, Lord.”

  “So you get it?”

  I nodded in acknowledgment. It would be easier for a boy to be known as Shorty Jr. Living with the name Clarence Jr. would have made life tough on the school playground.

  A chilly breeze made the bare branches rattle in the yard. Shorty said, “Is it too cold for you out here?”

  “No. I like it. It beats being cooped up in the Ben Franklin.” I shifted my chair so I could see him better in the dim light that shone from the window. “So. You got your poli sci degree at Mississippi State. And what were you going to do with that?”

  “I wanted to be a journalist. Sound crazy?”

  “Why’d you go all the way up to Missouri after you graduated from Miss State?”

  “They have a really good J-school, first journalism school in the country. But Daddy had his stroke. I couldn’t stay up north while he was suffering in the hospital. Besides, somebody had to run the business. So I came back.” He swallowed beer from the can and fell silent. Then he turned to me and laughed, his good humor restored. “Never say you’ve kicked the dust of Rosedale off your sandals. Sure as you do, you’ll find yourself right back here.”

  Well, he was right about that. When my mother and I left Williams County over a decade ago, I hadn’t figured I’d ever return.

  “Come on, your turn. Tell me a story.”

  “Oh, my life isn’t particularly interesting.”

  “Now, come on. How about that big bad romance you mentioned today? Anybody I know?”

  I shrugged, but he persisted. “Come on—let me know the name of the competition. So I’ll be able to tell whether I can kick his ass.”

  I sighed. It wasn’t really a secret. In Jackson and Oxford, it was local legend. “His name was Greene. Lee Greene.”