“Your Honor! May we approach the bench?”
He looked up from the papers. “Now?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Lafayette joined me at the bench. The judge said, “What is it, Miss Bozarth?”
“Your Honor, I object to the elimination of these jurors. I demand an explanation.”
He leaned back, regarding me with surprise. “Demand? You demand?”
I was starting off on the wrong foot with the judge, I knew that, but this wasn’t an ice cream social. “The court is affecting the racial diversity of the panel. Of the thirteen people you excused, eleven were black.”
Lafayette shrugged, nonplussed. “The judge is just doing his job.”
“What?” I said, in a voice too loud for a bench discussion.
Baylor shook the sheets of paper he held. “You’re surely aware that Mississippi has a literacy requirement for jury service.”
Did I know that?
“And as the circuit judge, it’s my responsibility to remove any panelists whose ability to read or write doesn’t stand up to my scrutiny. The panelists filled out these questionnaires this morning. This is standard procedure.”
Lafayette’s mouth was twitching. My radar was buzzing like crazy.
“This is subjective, an abuse of power by the court.”
“Your objection is noted,” Baylor said. “Sit down.”
Once the preliminary panelists named by the judge had been excluded, Judge Baylor gave us a chance to ask the remaining prospective jurors questions. Lafayette went first. He asked whether any members of the panel were friends or acquaintances of the defendant, Darrien Summers. Only one woman raised her hand: a black woman in her twenties. She said she’d gone to school with Darrien. Lafayette approached the bench; I joined him as he whispered to Judge Baylor.
“I request that prospective juror number nine be struck for cause, Your Honor.”
The judge looked at me. “Miss Bozarth?”
“I object to her exclusion. She didn’t indicate that she would be biased.”
The judge picked up a pen and marked through her name on his master list. “I think it can be assumed.” He looked at the woman and raised his voice. “Ma’am, you are excused.”
I avoided my client’s eye as I walked back to the counsel table.
When it was my turn to address the panel, I seized the opportunity to address the elephant in the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my client is a black man; the evidence will show he was having an affair with a white woman, and the prosecution has accused him of causing her death. Is there anyone on the panel whose judgment would be affected because my client is black and the murder victim was white?”
I held my breath as I waited for the response. After a pause, hands came up; some were forthright, some hesitant. I made a beeline to the bench and asked Baylor to excuse them all from duty. The judge let them go.
I returned to the wooden podium and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, Jewel Shaw was a native of Williams County. How many of you were friends or acquaintances of the deceased? Or know her family?”
A score of hands were raised. I followed up and asked whether it might affect their ability to serve on the jury; all of them said it would. At my request, they were struck for cause.
I took to the podium again. “I need to know: Is anyone on this panel a member of the Williams County country club? Or have you eaten at the restaurant where my client was employed?”
Many more hands went up, including prospective juror number 18, a dark-haired man whom I recognized. He was the guy with the distinctive port-wine birthmark that I’d seen at Shorty’s diner. I worked hard to knock the country club members and patrons from the panel; but while other jurors were relieved to be released from jury service, he seemed resigned to remaining on the panel.
I zeroed in on him. “Sir, you realize that all jurors in this case must be fair and impartial.”
His face was impassive. “I do.”
“And there are many people today who feel that, because they are members of that club, and have been at that venue, they can’t be fair. You have said you’ve eaten at the club many times.”
He parroted my words. “Many times.”
“And you’re aware, sir—you are under oath.”
He gave a slow blink. “I know that.”
“But you’re telling us that the fact that you’ve been at the club many times won’t affect your impartiality?”
“No. It won’t.”
“And you will base your verdict on the evidence alone?”
“I will. Yes, ma’am.”
He said everything right. But there was something about number 18 that bothered me. He seemed so bloodless about the process; it was unnatural. And he had given me the creeps back when I’d first encountered him at Shorty’s diner. I walked to the counsel table, thinking: Who in his right mind would want to sit on a sequestered jury in a murder case? I bent down and whispered to Darrien.
“Do you know him?”
He turned his head to take a good look. “Don’t think so.”
Even so, I drew a circle around number 18’s name on my legal pad. When the time came, I would use a peremptory strike to get rid of him. Because he bugged me.
But Lafayette threw me a curve.
“Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”
When I caught up to him at the bench, the DA was rattling off another list of jurors. “Your Honor, I request that the following panelists be struck for cause: numbers 32, 41, 6, 18, and 14.”
I thought I’d misunderstood. “Did you say number 18?”
Lafayette checked over his notes. “Yes. He responded to Ms. Bozarth’s question about the country club. Despite his testimony, maybe he ought to go, due to his connection to the scene of the crime.”
Judge Baylor said, “Your strikes for cause are granted—except for number 18. He stated under oath that he will base his verdict on the evidence. And Mr. Lafayette, if we eliminate everyone in Williams County who’s ever had a bite of food at the club, there won’t be enough people left in the county to seat a jury of twelve.”
The DA conceded, “Reckon you’re right about that, Judge.”
Back at the counsel table, I was torn. My impulse was to strike number 18 from the panel, but I’d learned in my trial practice class that if a juror is bad for one side, it’s good for the other. If Lafayette wanted number 18 gone, then I shouldn’t waste one of my strikes on him. Lafayette would get rid of him.
After we made our final peremptory strikes, the judge called the names of the jurors selected to decide the case. I watched them with an eagle eye. The port-wine-marked man did have a spot on the jury—as juror number 3. Some jurors looked miserable when their names were called; some received the news with resignation. But I watched number 3 as he took his seat, and he made no overt reaction. Nothing at all.
I tried to reassure myself that there was nothing really wrong with number 3. We could do worse. But he gave me a bad feeling.
Chapter 17
THOMAS LAFAYETTE’S CHAIR scraped against the tile floor with a screech as he rose to make his opening statement. A woman in the front row of the jury box grimaced and covered one ear.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’d like to thank you in advance for your service in court. This will not be an easy task for any of you. The defendant, Darrien Summers,” he said, turning toward my client with a glare, “has been charged with the crime of murder in the first degree.”
Darrien twisted in his seat, shooting a desperate look at the jury. I reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
Lafayette swung back to face the jury. “This is what the evidence will show.”
In his opening statement, the DA began by setting up the facts: the date and location of offense, the Mardi Gras ball at the Williams County country club, where, he said pointedly, Jewel Shaw was a member and the defendant was an employee.
Then he launched into a eulogy on Jewel Sha
w’s behalf, detailing her background and accomplishments. When he had been talking for ten minutes straight and had only arrived at her sophomore year in college, I stood up.
“Objection.”
The judge looked down in surprise. “On what grounds?”
“Your Honor, this extended biography of the deceased is irrelevant. The purpose of opening statement is to tell the jury what the evidence will show…” I paused and added, “the evidence against my client, Mr. Summers.”
The judge glanced at Lafayette. “Sir?”
“I’ll tie it up, Judge.”
“All right, then. Overruled.”
He banged his gavel. I sat down.
Lafayette walked up to the jury box. “Funny thing, the defense trying to prevent me from talking to y’all about Jewel Shaw, the beautiful young woman who was brutally murdered that night. Jewel was found dead in a cabana at the country club, with thirteen stab wounds in her. A man was discovered, crouching over her in that cabana with Jewel Shaw’s blood on his hands and all over his clothes. Who was that man? Ladies and gentlemen, he’s sitting in this courtroom today: it’s the defendant.”
Then he pointed the finger of accusation at my client. I wanted to glance at Darrien, see how he was holding up, but I didn’t dare to look his way. It might look like we had something to hide.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be wondering—because I know what you’re thinking—what was a waiter doing with Miss Shaw in her daddy’s cabana at the club? The evidence will show that, too. The defendant had been sexually abusing her over and over again.”
“That’s a lie!”
Darrien was halfway out of his chair as he spoke the words. It took all my strength to grasp his arm with both hands and jerk him down into his seat. Then I jumped up.
“Objection! Your Honor, the prosecution is misstating the evidence. And the DA is making argumentative allegations in opening statement.…” I paused, hoping to frame a brilliant follow-up. Nothing came to mind.
“Overruled,” Judge Baylor said, his voice stern. “The defense will have the opportunity to speak in defendant’s opening.” Judge Baylor pointed his gavel at me. “And Miss Bozarth, inform your client that I will not tolerate any further outbursts.”
Returning to my seat, I leaned in to Darrien. “Darrien, you can’t do that. Don’t jump out of your chair, don’t say anything. Just talk through me.”
His eyes were frantic. “They’re lying about me.”
“We’ll fix it, when they see the pictures. Calm down, act cool. Shouting out like that doesn’t help. Think about what you learned in your criminology classes.”
After a long pause, he nodded and settled back into his chair. I turned my attention to the jury. As Lafayette continued his description of the evidence—the slashes in the dress, Darrien’s bloodstained jacket, the text sent from Jewel to Darrien, and the pictures of their sexual exploits—my spirits sank. The jurors were eyeing the defense table with increasing suspicion. When he described the coroner’s report, and said the medical examiner would show the location of all thirteen wounds, the suspicion turned to anger. The jurors only broke eye contact with the DA to glare at Darrien. Or to glare at me.
The oldsters on the panel, half a dozen men and women with gray hair, had already convicted Darrien in their minds. I scanned the faces of the younger jurors, searching for some holdouts upon whom I might focus my advocacy. A woman in her thirties looked distressed but uncertain; she might listen to me. The lone black juror’s face was solemn. And then, there was juror number 3, the man with the birthmark.
Maybe I stared at him too long; maybe I sent him a vibe. His eyes cut away from Lafayette and met mine.
He blinked twice, without expression.
Leaning forward in my seat, I tried to make a silent bid for his support.
His mouth twitched and he looked away, refocusing on the prosecutor.
I clenched the arms of my chair. Was he laughing at me?
“Miss Bozarth?”
I looked up. The judge was addressing me. Had I not heard him?
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“The district attorney has finished his opening. Do you wish to give your statement now, or reserve it for later?”
I stood and gazed at the closed and suspicious faces of our jurors. If I spoke now, I might be able to win some of them back. But to do so, I’d have to tip my hand, and reveal my trial strategy to Lafayette.
I swallowed. “Your Honor, we’ll reserve it. For later.”
The judge checked his watch. “We’ll recess. Court will reconvene in twenty minutes.” He struck the gavel.
Darrien tugged at my jacket. “Why didn’t you say anything for me? Speak up on my behalf?”
I whispered, “We’ll have our chance; I’ll do it later, at the end of the state’s evidence and the start of our case.”
I was ready to explain further when a hand reached from behind the counsel table and squeezed my shoulder with an iron grip.
Twisting around in my chair, I saw Oscar Summers, Darrien’s father. “Are you trying to hang my boy?”
Chapter 18
AFTER THE BAILIFF cuffed Darrien and escorted him to the holding cell, I made a beeline for the hallway. Oscar Summers followed.
As I dodged behind the Coke machine, he started in on me.
“What are you trying to do in there?”
“Mr. Summers, please keep your voice down.”
“I want to make sure you can hear me. Why aren’t you fighting for my boy?”
I beckoned for him to stand beside me, so that the soda machine could block our confrontation from curiosity seekers who were roaming the halls. He stepped in close to me, effectively trapping me between the humming red machine and the wall.
“Mr. Summers, you’ve got to understand how the process works. The state goes first; they have the burden of proof. They put on their case. Then we have our turn. I’ll make an opening statement and put on our evidence, call our witnesses.”
He moved in closer. I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“By the time you get around to defending Darrien, those twelve people gonna have their minds made up.” He pointed a finger at the courtroom. “Did you pick that jury? Eleven white people, only one black one, a woman. Why’d you do that?”
It wouldn’t calm him to hear that I shared his apprehensions.
“It’s Williams County citizens who have sworn they’ll base a verdict on the evidence. We just have to play the hand we’re dealt.”
A young woman walked up and slipped coins into the Coke machine. Oscar Summers started to speak, but I gave a quick shake of my head. After the woman’s can fell from the machine with a clunk and she wandered off, he spoke again, in a soft voice that held a hint of a warning.
“That talk about playing your hand? I don’t see that you’re risking anything. But my boy’s life is at stake. And you promised me.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “You said you’d set my boy free. I’m holding you to that.”
When he reminded me of my rash promise, I shut my eyes, a childish reflex. I tried to move away, but my back was literally against the wall.
Get a grip, I thought.
I raised my chin. “I was wrong to tell you that, Mr. Summers. I can only promise that I’ll do my best. But I shouldn’t have made any guarantee. There are no guarantees at trial.”
His face contorted. “You can’t take it back.”
He was getting loud again. I glanced down the hallway; people were turning to stare.
“You can’t tell me that, then take it back. My son’s life—we’re talking about Darrien’s life.”
I tried to ease around him, sliding my shoulders against the Coke machine, but he blocked me with his arm. “This conversation isn’t over.”
I heard change jingle in the Coke machine again. A head peered around the side; it was Shorty.
“Everything okay, Ruby?”
I took a deep breath and pasted a smile on my face.
>
“Hey, there! Shorty, this is Oscar Summers, Darrien’s dad. Mr. Summers, have you met Shorty Morgan? He has the diner on the square.”
Oscar Summers’s arm dropped back to his side. He gave a grudging nod. “I go there sometimes.”
Shorty held his hand out. “I appreciate your business, sir. And let me say: you’ve got a fine lawyer here. Ruby Bozarth is going to kick some ass in that courtroom.”
Summers suffered the handshake, but didn’t acknowledge the endorsement on my behalf. Shorty pushed a button and picked up a can of Coke from the dispenser. He held it out to me.
“You thirsty, Ruby?”
Gratefully, I popped the top and swigged from the can.
Oscar Summers remained at my side. I said, “Let’s talk later, okay? I’ll share my strategy with you as soon as I get a chance.”
He left us then, and I sagged against the side of the red machine, grateful for its support even though it buzzed like a beehive.
Shorty leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m a basket case. I want to run and hide.”
His fingers rubbed the back of my neck. “You’re going to be just fine. The diner will be overflowing when the judge breaks for lunch, so I’ll save a seat for you at the counter. I’ll put a Reserved sign on your favorite stool.”
It was nice to have someone looking out for me. I felt my eyes begin to sting. Covering my weakness with a smirk, I asked whether fried chicken was on the day’s menu.
“Oh, hell no. Good thing, too. I know what you’ll do for a plate of fried chicken.”
I gasped with mock outrage but didn’t have a chance to make a snappy comeback. The bailiff shouted down the hall, “Court back in session, Miss Bozarth.”
Chapter 19
THAT MORNING, PATRICK Stark, the sheriff of Williams County, sat on the witness stand. He was a squat figure of a man whose tan uniform barely covered his paunch, and his ginger hair was combed over with a pouf.
During direct examination by Lafayette, the state’s physical evidence had been introduced. Jewel Shaw’s bloody purple dress was admitted into evidence and circulated around the jury box. Some jurors were quick to pass it off. Others handled the plastic shroud reverently. Only juror number 3 seemed unmoved by the exhibit. I couldn’t tell whether his lack of reaction boded ill or well for Darrien.
Juror #3 Page 7
