Juror #3

by James Patterson

  “You’re kidding.” Shorty barked a laugh. “You mean that guy? The Lee Greene Junior?”

  I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable. “Yeah. Him.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I didn’t know I was consorting with royalty.”

  I took a swallow from the beer can. “Well, you ain’t. Obviously.”

  He cocked his head and studied me. After a moment, he said, “It’s easy to see what Lee Greene liked about you. What did you see in him?”

  The question made me sit back in surprise. No one had ever questioned Lee’s appeal. He was the prince in the Cinderella story; I was the girl in rags, lucky to have him show up with a glass slipper.

  To avoid answering, I said, “I don’t know how it was that I caught his eye. I wasn’t his usual type, believe me. Maybe he was weary of sweet southern belles. Tired of plain vanilla, maybe—I dunno.”

  Shorty picked my hand up from the arm of the rocking chair. Turning it over, he kissed the palm of my hand. “Maybe he was in the mood for peppermint. Or cinnamon. Or chili powder.” His tongue touched the life line of my upturned palm, and I shivered.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m ready for the details of your relationship with Lee Greene Junior. Tell me something else. One of your youthful triumphs,” he said.

  I set my half-empty beer can on the floor beside my chair. “My adolescent stories are all kind of pitiful.”

  “No kidding? Well, good. Tell me a sad one.”

  “Actually, I went to sixth grade right here in Rosedale. And I was not anyone’s idea of a beauty queen. That title fell to Julie Shaw.”

  He blinked. After a moment, he said in a hushed voice, “You mean you knew Jewel Shaw?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I knew who she was. She was older.”

  He raised his beer can and chugged from it. “Did you like her?”

  “No.”

  Shorty shot me an appraising look. “That was a quick answer. For someone who didn’t know her.”

  I didn’t respond. He reached out and took my hand. “What is it? Did you have a run-in with Jewel?”

  I stared at him, wondering whether I should shut up and go home. But it might be a relief to confide in someone, and he seemed so trustworthy, looking at me with those gray eyes.

  I dove in. “When we lived in Rosedale, my mom worked on the cleaning staff at the Blue Top Motel, and money was tight. Rosedale Public Schools had a PTA clothing bank, and Mom took advantage of it. I wasn’t ashamed. I knew the value of a buck, even as a kid.

  “One day, my mom came home with a real prize: a beautiful pink sweater the color of cotton candy, in perfect shape, other than a small bleach stain—hardly noticeable. I wore it to middle school the next day, walking tall.”

  “Uh-oh. I’m afraid I can guess where this story is headed.”

  “Yep. I passed Jewel and her circle of friends in the hall on the way to my locker. One of Jewel’s friends pointed at me. She said, ‘Julie? Isn’t that your sweater?’”

  The memory made my chest tight. I arched my back, trying to stretch the muscles.

  Shorty was still holding my hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Jewel turned and stared—the first time she’d ever looked my way. Then she laughed. Said, ‘It was my sweater. Mom gave it away to the poor when she spilled Clorox on it.’”

  Telling the story took me back; I remembered standing by that locker like it was yesterday. Jewel and her cronies whispered. One of them laughed. That was all.

  But I threw the sweater in a dumpster after school.

  Shorty asked, “So is that why you’re defending him?”

  Startled, I jerked my hand away. How could he think that? “Hell, no. I’m defending him because I believe he’s innocent.”

  He tipped back in his rocker, nodding. “I get that. A defense attorney is obliged to represent a guy if she thinks he’s innocent.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not the extent of it. Even if the accused isn’t innocent, he is entitled to a defense.”

  “Now you’re mixing me up. Where do you stand, Ruby?”

  The conversation was making me tense; it was time to head home. I stood up, thanking him for his hospitality.

  “You’re not leaving already? It’s early.”

  Moving to the porch steps, I said, “I’d better call it a night. Big appointment tomorrow.”

  “Who you going to see?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. I was seeing Darrien’s father, at his house across town, to talk about defense witnesses.

  Shorty stood beside me and reached out to hold my arm in a gentle grip. “Ruby Bozarth. Don’t you trust me? After I fed you catfish and told you my life story?”

  It made me laugh, and dissolved the tension. When he gave me a quick kiss, it felt right.

  Chapter 14

  WHEN I DROVE across town the next day to meet with Darrien’s father, I wondered whether it would be tough to locate his home. Oscar Summers lived on the outskirts of Rosedale in a neighborhood where mobile homes were scattered between small frame houses.

  I needn’t have worried. A black man sat on the steps of a well-maintained house with an attached carport. He was a dead ringer for his son. I pulled up to the gravel curb and cut the engine.

  He nodded at my approach, and I lifted a hand in greeting. “Mr. Summers?” I called, though I knew it was Darrien’s home. “Have I got the right house?” He rose from the steps, extending a hand. Oscar Summers didn’t bother to smile; this was not a social call.

  “Miss Bozarth, I appreciate you coming out here today.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Can we go inside the house to talk? We’d probably like some privacy.” He turned and walked up the steps, holding the screen door open for me.

  Once inside, I looked around the living room. The fireplace mantel was crowded with trophies. A riot of ribbons hanging from the wall looked like blue and red streamers for a child’s birthday party, but the gold print on each revealed Darrien’s youthful accomplishments: first place, second place, All-District, All-State, soccer, track, MVP, Rosedale football.

  As I sat on the couch, I said, “Never saw so many honors, Mr. Summers. I never got a single ribbon at school.”

  “He was the best, always was. A hard worker. Darrien had natural talents, but he sure worked his tail off.” It struck me that he was talking about Darrien in the past tense. It sent a chill through me.

  “Mr. Summers, I hope to raise a character defense at Darrien’s trial. Can you help me with that?”

  He nodded, eager. “He was a good worker. His coach at Rosedale High knows that. Why, he started working at the body shop with me when he was a kid, too young to put on the payroll. Roy would pay him out of pocket.”

  It wasn’t what I needed. “Work ethic is a great quality, no question. But in a case like this, where your son is facing a murder charge, we need to talk about other aspects of character. Like, whether he was known to be a peaceful person.” His eyes didn’t leave my face. It was a good sign; he had no struggle with the image of Darrien as a peaceable man.

  “So tell me about Darrien. I’ve seen his criminal record; aside from the misdemeanor for marijuana possession, it’s clean, not even a speeding ticket. But we’re talking about reputation, not just arrest record. Did he stay out of fights?”

  “Darrien didn’t have to fight. Had nothing to prove.” He waved his arm at the awards on display. “Just look. Just look at them.”

  My eyes scanned the room once again. In a corner, his high school diploma hung behind glass. I walked over to inspect it. Under the diploma, a second certificate proclaimed: Darrien Summers, Principal’s Honor List: Top 10%.

  Turning back to face Oscar Summers, I tapped the certificate. “Good grades.”

  “Mighty good grades. Darrien wasn’t going to end up tinkering with cars in the body shop. He was studying criminology at Arkansas State. Planned to get himself a degree in it.”

  Making a notation on my legal pad, I said, �
��Darrien mentioned that to me.”

  “I used to think, maybe he’ll end up a detective or in the FBI, something like that. He could’ve done it, too. But he hurt his knee.” His face creased with pain. “Then he got stupid. Went to some damn party, got busted. Losing that scholarship over a joint. Come back home with his tail between his legs.”

  Scanning my notes, I drew a question mark. “So Darrien was a local sports hero. Hard worker. Good student. Why did he end up waiting tables at the country club? When he left from Arkansas State?”

  His face shuttered. “I got him back on with me at Roy’s shop. It was that knee. He couldn’t get under the cars to work; couldn’t squat, knee was too messed up. Roy let him go.” He looked away.

  “Did you know about his relationship with Jewel Shaw?”

  His head jerked back to face me. “He didn’t chase her; I’d swear to that on the Bible. It was the other way around. He was a worker, not a player.”

  “Darrien explained that to me. Just wondered whether you knew what was going on.”

  “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

  His voice shook when he asked the question. I backpedaled; spreading blame was not my intention. Moving back to safer ground, I asked for names and contact information on the character witnesses.

  He left the room and returned with a phone directory, its pages beginning to yellow. Together we made a list of people who would testify that Darrien had a peaceable reputation.

  As he thumbed the pages of the phone book, Oscar Summers asked a question. “Will my boy get a fair trial?”

  I looked up from my legal pad. Summers stared down at the phone book, turning the pages. With all the confidence I could muster, I said, “I’ll do everything I can to assure that he does.”

  “Who is gonna be on that jury?”

  He was still bent over the phone book, so I couldn’t read his face. “We don’t know yet, Mr. Summers. The jury is selected right before trial.”

  Then he looked up, his eyes piercing. “Will it be white?”

  I let a long breath escape. “Mr. Summers, we won’t know the makeup of the jury until trial. But the jury panel comes from registered voters of Williams County and forty percent of the population of the county is black. So it can’t be an all-white jury, can it? That’s just not possible.” In his eyes, I read skepticism.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

  Our list completed, I packed up to go. He led me to the door but lingered with his hand on the knob.

  With his head bowed, he said, “Promise me you won’t let them kill my boy.”

  The statement knocked the stuffing out of me, but I tried to keep my voice calm as I repeated my stock answer: “No lawyer can guarantee an outcome in any case, Mr. Summers, but I’ll do my best to see that your son is acquitted.”

  Looking up, he fixed his eyes on mine. “Not good enough.”

  I took a backward step. Though nothing about his demeanor was threatening, the tension that was building made me distance myself.

  “Mr. Summers—”

  “I want a promise.”

  “I promise I’ll do everything in my power.”

  “No.” He let go of the doorknob and leaned back against the door, as if he wanted to block my exit. “A guarantee. You tell me you’ll set my boy free.”

  My eyes jerked from his face to the doorknob. I wanted out of that house so bad, I considered making a run for the back door.

  “Tell me,” he said. And his eyes filled.

  When the tears rolled down his face, my resolve broke. I would have said anything to escape that moment.

  “Yes,” I said in a whisper.

  “What?”

  “Yes, he’ll be acquitted. Because he’s innocent.”

  After I spoke the words, I flew down the front steps to the safety of my car, absolutely horrified. How could I have done it? I’d broken the most basic rule of trial practice: Never guarantee victory.

  And even worse, I was a liar. Because there was every chance that we would lose.

  Oscar Summers’s beloved son might be on death row in less than two weeks.

  Chapter 15

  THAT PROMISE HAUNTED me over the course of the next week and a half. It hovered over me as I met with the character witnesses Darrien’s father had provided, and as I sat at my desk crafting cross-examination questions for the state’s witnesses.

  When I met with Darrien in the interview room at the jail, seeing the fear in his eyes increase with each passing day, I was reminded of the false promise I’d made to his father, a vow I couldn’t keep.

  On the Sunday night before trial, I sat in my storefront office, scratching notes onto my jury selection presentation with a pen. The ink grew faint and the pen stopped working altogether. I scratched hard on an old envelope to get it flowing again, but it had given up the ghost.

  I pulled open my desk drawer to grab a new one, but the box was empty. Ditto for my briefcase. I started to panic, my breath growing shallow as I sorted through piles of papers on my desk, trying to unearth a writing instrument. Stupid, a voice whispered in my ear, stupid, incompetent. What kind of lawyer doesn’t have a damned pen to her name?

  I heard a pounding sound and nearly peed my pants. It was past ten o’clock. No one would come calling at this time of night.

  Then a face peered through the storefront window and a hand knocked on the glass. “Ruby! Open up, I’ve got something for you.”

  When I saw Shorty’s face, I breathed out in relief and unbolted the door. He walked in, carrying a plate covered with aluminum foil.

  “Ruby, where were you tonight? Didn’t I tell you we have a fried chicken special on Sundays?”

  The aroma of freshly fried chicken drew me close. Leaning over the plate in his hands, I closed my eyes and inhaled.

  “Lord, Shorty, that smells like heaven.”

  Two chairs beside the door comprised my “waiting area” for clients. We took a seat. Lifting the foil, I spied the Sunday special in all its glory: fried chicken, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, green beans. Shorty handed me a fork and a knife wrapped in a paper napkin.

  As I dug into the potatoes, I said, “You be sure to put this on my tab.”

  “No way, baby. I was going to throw it away. Do you know what time it is?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. So what are you doing out and about so late?”

  “I was at a meeting. Came back to go over the books at the diner, and I saw your light on. Thought I’d check in on you.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  He looked away and picked up an ancient People from a rack of battered magazines I set out for my clients. “Nothing big. Just a local organization.”

  “Oh, you’re going to make me guess.” I looked him up and down, pretending I was trying to fit him in a box. “Lions Club? Rotary? Shrine?”

  He gave a half shrug, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. I laughed, enjoying the brief distraction from my trial preparation.

  “Church choir? Young Democrats? Republicans?”

  “Nope. You’re not such a good guesser.”

  I gasped in mock horror. “Square dancing? No!”

  “Quit deviling me and clean your plate.”

  I ate up, so glad to have a hot plate of food that I wasn’t even self-conscious as Shorty watched me gobble it down. When I paused to wipe gravy from the corner of my mouth, he said, “Can Lee Greene fry chicken that good?”

  I had to laugh. “Oh, Shorty, please. Lee never toiled over a frying pan for me, I promise.”

  My plate was almost clean, except for a chicken leg for tomorrow’s breakfast. “Thanks so much for dinner. I’m going to put this in the fridge for later.”

  Shorty followed me into the back room. As I set my prize in the fridge, he walked around the space with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “So this is home?” he said.

  Seeing my dwelling through his eyes was awkward. In a teasing vo
ice, I said, “Let me take you on a tour of House Beautiful. This is the state-of-the-art kitchen,” indicating my microwave and hot plate with a flourish of my arm.

  “The dressing room is on the right.” I had a particleboard dresser and a portable rod for hanging clothes.

  “And finally, the elegant bedroom.” I scooted to my sofa bed, still unmade from the night before.

  When he came closer and took my face in his hands, it didn’t take me by surprise. It was a blessed relief to escape from Darrien Summers and his fate, to block it out completely. I pulled Shorty onto the unmade bed, ready for a roll in the hay.

  After some much-needed distraction, Shorty didn’t suggest sleeping over, for which I was grateful; I still had work to do. As he buttoned up his shirt, he shot me a wink.

  “Anything else I can do for you tonight, Ruby?”

  “Well, you brought me supper and took my mind off my troubles. That should do it.”

  He was whistling as he shut the door behind him. Suddenly remembering, I followed.

  “Hey, Shorty! You got a pen on you?”

  Chapter 16

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I sat beside Darrien at the counsel table in Judge Baylor’s courtroom. I wore my Goodwill suit, the errant button sewn firmly into position. My client was better dressed than I was, in the navy wool suit that Suzanne Greene had provided. It looked sharp, though as we’d predicted when I’d picked it up, it was a tight fit.

  I looked around at the prospective jurors assembled in court. The racial makeup was not what I had hoped: roughly three-quarters of the panel was white, only a quarter black.

  Judge Baylor’s door swung open, and he emerged from his chambers in his robe. The bailiff called: “All rise!”

  “Be seated,” the judge said, as he settled into his seat behind the bench. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. “The following panelists are excused from their duty.”

  Leafing through the sheets of paper, he called out names; as he did, people left the courtroom. With each departure, my anxiety increased.

  He was excusing people of color. My black jurors.

  After a dozen or more prospective jurors departed, I jumped to my feet.