Juror #3

by James Patterson

  He stood and picked up the black robe. “Let’s get back to court. Miss Bozarth, you can make your request on the record, but with all due respect, ma’am, I’m inclined to follow the DA’s recommendation. I believe I’ll declare a mistrial.”

  The disappointment might have knocked me over, had I not been seated. I ducked my head, picking up my fallen heel. By some miracle, I successfully jammed it into place.

  Sheriff Stark cleared his throat. “Judge, I impounded that car and did an inventory search of the vehicle. Like Tom told me.”

  I glanced at Lafayette. He wouldn’t look at me.

  “What did you find. Drugs? A million dollars? A dead body?” The judge pulled a face as he zipped up his robe.

  “No, sir, Your Honor. Didn’t expect to find nothing. But in the trunk, I looked under the tire well. Danged if I didn’t see something strange.”

  “What?”

  He held a small trash bag. I’d been so busy with my shoe, I hadn’t noticed it. Reaching inside, the sheriff pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag.

  “I think it’s one of those Mardi Gras masks.”

  I leaned forward to get a better look. It was smashed in places, the worse for wear. But it was a green Mardi Gras mask, with the remnant of a blood-stained feather.

  Just like the mask Jewel Shaw had worn at the Mardi Gras ball.

  Chapter 30

  IT WAS COLD outside the county jail. I pulled my suit jacket tightly around me as I lingered by the back door.

  When I’d initially arrived at the jailhouse exit, I stood alone; but a crowd shortly began to gather. TV news vans pulled up to the curb. A local reporter for the Rosedale weekly paper hurried across the street, waving his arm.

  I twisted my head his way, unable to discern whether the newsman was waving at me. A body slammed into me from the back, lifting me off the sidewalk and swinging me off the ground.

  I let out a shriek. But when he set me on my feet, I was relieved to see that the unexpected embrace came from Oscar Summers. He was beaming. Traces of tears tracked down his cheeks. “You did it. You kept your promise.”

  Oh, Lord—that promise. I’d never be so foolhardy again. But this time, I’d lucked out. I returned his hug, gasping as he nearly squeezed the wind out of me.

  In the doorway of the exit, Darrien appeared. TV cameras zoomed in, and photographers pushed toward him. He searched the faces in the crowd, then Oscar shouldered through the media crush and clutched his son to his chest.

  A reporter jostled me. “Can you give me your reaction to the judge’s decision?”

  I hadn’t prepared anything clever to say. “I’m delighted,” I said, smiling, as Darrien moved through the crowd of press and extended his hand. I grasped it; he put an arm around me and we grinned like crazy at each other.

  The reporter persisted. “Is that all?”

  My head was muddled by the crazy day, but I pulled it together sufficiently to add: “My client’s innocence has been established. Judge Baylor entered a judgment of acquittal. Darrien Summers has been cleared. Today, justice has been served in Mississippi.”

  They shouted more questions, begging Darrien for a statement, but he turned to his father and said, “I just want to go home, Dad.”

  Oscar Summers gave a decided nod. To me, he said, “Miss Bozarth, some friends and family are coming by the house. We’d be proud to have you join us.”

  I took his hand. “I’ll drop by later on, Mr. Summers. Y’all are so kind to include me. But a friend wants to meet me for supper first.”

  Minutes later, I was maneuvering my battered car up the private drive of the Williams County country club. I entered the club and walked up a flight of stairs into the dining room.

  The club manager, Bert Owens, was holding a whispered conversation with two men. When I walked into the room, he strode toward me.

  “Ma’am, this club is for members only.”

  My face flushed, but I met his eye without blinking. “I’m a guest. Meeting a friend for dinner.”

  Suzanne Greene was seated at a back table, near the doors to the patio. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Ruby!”

  With a grim face, Owens led me across the room to Suzanne’s table. It was the peak of the dinner hour, and many patrons’ heads turned to stare as I passed. I lifted my chin and made my victory lap with a swagger, thinking: Hey, Rosedale—knock this chip off my shoulder.

  As I set a napkin in my lap, Suzanne reached over to give my arm a squeeze. “You did it, darling. You’re the talk of Mississippi.”

  Glancing around, I said, “I’m the topic of conversation in this room, anyway.”

  “Baby, you made the evening news—all over the state. You’re on the screen in Jackson!” She gave a happy sigh and took a hearty swallow from a cocktail glass. “I always believed in you. Feel like you’re my own.”

  A white-haired waiter came up. I knew him: it was Anthony Phelps, one of my character witnesses. After we exchanged a friendly greeting, Suzanne ordered a round of mojitos. After several sips, I launched into a description of the furor created by the discovery of Jewel’s mask.

  “At first, Lafayette put up a fight. He said he wouldn’t withdraw the charges until the mask went through testing at the state lab, to ascertain that it was actually Jewel’s.”

  “And that would take time. Do you mean to tell me that Lafayette wanted to make that innocent young man languish in jail while they waited for test results?”

  “Uh-huh. And here’s the thing: both the DA and the judge wanted the final decision to be on the other one’s head. Baylor wanted Lafayette to withdraw the charge against Darrien, but Lafayette wanted it to be the judge’s call.”

  “So the friends and family of Jewel Shaw…”

  “Wouldn’t be unhappy with them. So I asked that they do some internet research on that juror—Troy Hampton—just to see how that might impact their decision. Oh, Lord, Suzanne—you can’t imagine all the stuff we uncovered.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’d just scratched the surface before. We found social media sites where he’d posted crazy rants about how Mississippi should criminalize black-and-white relations. And since the government won’t do it, he said vigilantes need to take it into their own hands. With the death penalty.”

  Suzanne drained her drink. “Just when you think things have changed in Mississippi, you encounter a nut job like that juror.”

  “Not only is he a murderer—he wanted Darrien to pay the price. When I think of what Darrien has suffered…” I’d already asked Suzanne for enough favors to last a lifetime, but I had one more request. “Suzanne, he should be back in school. I don’t have any contacts, but I wondered whether you might know how to pull a string.”

  “Enough said. I’ll get on it. I know some people in higher ed.”

  Our waiter came back to the table and announced the dinner special: fried catfish. I followed Suzanne’s lead and ordered it. As he walked away, Suzanne said, “So your professional life is golden; you’re walking on sunshine. How’s your love life?”

  If it hadn’t been for the cocktail, I’d have dodged the question. But it loosened my tongue. “Suzanne, begging your pardon—I have the shittiest taste in men. If it wasn’t so pitiful, it would be downright funny.”

  Anthony appeared and set down three plates of catfish. He bent to whisper in my ear, but he spoke so softly, I couldn’t catch what he was saying.

  “Anthony, can you speak up, please?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Owens says we’re not supposed to say anything. But you need to know, Ruby. He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “Him. You know. He’s in the men’s locker room.”

  He said more, his mouth close to my ear, but I couldn’t hear it. The sound of sirens rang through the room.

  Chapter 31

  I RAISED MY voice to a near shout. “Anthony! Are the police here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon so. Mr. Owens has him cornered in the
locker room.”

  “Who is cornered?” I asked, but on some level, I knew the answer.

  Anthony tapped his cheek. “The man with the red face.”

  Suzanne leaned over in her chair. “What is going on, Anthony?”

  “The cleaning staff found that man messing around in the locker room. He’d climbed up on top of the lockers.”

  “What on earth?” Suzanne demanded.

  The country club members were leaving their chairs, racing to the patio. The sirens stopped, so Anthony lowered his voice. “He was in the men’s locker room. He’s got no call to be in there. Only golf members are allowed.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Standing up on top of the lockers. Lifting up the ceiling tiles, feeling around under them.”

  “The ceiling tiles?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And when the cleaning lady said he wasn’t supposed to be up on those lockers, he jumped right down. But he was holding a knife. She seen it plain as day.”

  I reeled as the implications hit home. “He pulled a knife? From under the ceiling tiles?”

  “Big old straight-edge knife. She told me it was dirty. You reckon it had dried blood on it, maybe?”

  “Yeah. I bet it did.”

  Anthony said, “Cleaning lady about had a heart attack. Ran out in the hall, screaming for Mr. Owens. Security pinned the dude down before he could leave.”

  I jumped from my seat and joined the others who were rubbernecking at the patio doors. I got there in time to see the sheriff swing open the back door of his patrol car, place his hand on the dark head, and shove the handcuffed man inside. Through the car window, I saw his profile: it was juror number 3.

  I walked back to the table. Suzanne said, “Did you see him?”

  I nodded. She said, “Anthony filled me in. He hid the weapon in the locker room. Sounds like it’s been concealed in there since the night Jewel died.”

  So, I thought. All the pieces of the murder puzzle were in place. And with Troy Hampton in custody, it was really over. As I sat in my seat, I could feel my pulse racing. I made a silent vow: I would never again get involved in a homicide defense. It could eat me alive.

  Suzanne was staring at me. “Anthony, would you bring Ruby a fresh drink? Looks like she needs it.”

  “Yes, Miss Greene.”

  I looked down at the plate of catfish but had no appetite for it. Then I was struck by the presence of the third plate. Puzzled, I asked Suzanne whether someone was joining us.

  She craned her neck, checking out the dining room entrance. “I think he just walked in.” She stood and grabbed her purse. “I’m going to have a smoke on the patio. Be right back.”

  I watched her walk through the patio doors, then turned to the entrance and was appalled to see Shorty Morgan heading straight for our table, dressed in a sports coat and gray slacks.

  He sat down, cool as a cucumber. “Hey, stranger.”

  I’d have liked to knock him out of the chair, but I was in a formal setting. Instead, I jumped out of my seat and reached for my briefcase.

  Shorty rose and seized my elbow. “Why have you been giving me the cold shoulder? Ruby, we need to talk.”

  I jerked my arm from his grasp. “You’re a damned hypocrite.”

  He had the good grace to look abashed. “How did you find me out?”

  “On the internet, you idiot.” I grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him closer, so I wouldn’t have to raise my voice. “You were playing me. You’re a racist. What was your angle? Were you reporting my trial strategy to your buddies in the Aryan hate club?”

  He leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “Sit. Down.”

  I sat. But not because he told me to. I wanted to hear his flimsy explanation.

  Still speaking in a low voice, Shorty said, “I’m a political scientist, not a racist. And I was doing research, undercover.”

  That set me back. I studied his face. “What kind of research?”

  “I’m writing an article for an academic journal. I do have ambitions higher than frying a chicken. Did you know that?”

  He picked up his fork, took a bite of catfish, and dipped it in the tartar sauce. As he chewed, he screwed up his face in disgust. “That tartar sauce wasn’t made in-house. What kind of joint are they running here?”

  Settling into my chair, I watched him as he took another bite. He seemed sincere—and not just about the tartar sauce. My instincts said I should believe him, but, admittedly, my gut instincts were only right about half the time.

  He set his fork down, reached out, and placed his hand over mine. I liked his hands.

  Chapter 32

  I HAD A million questions about Shorty’s Aryan brotherhood research, but just then Suzanne came flying in from the patio, her lit cigarette between her teeth.

  She jerked the Marlboro from her mouth and extinguished it in the tartar sauce. “Good God almighty, kids. We have to go. Now.” She glanced at Shorty’s place setting; only the plate of fish and a water glass sat before him. “Thank goodness, Shorty, you haven’t been drinking. You can drive.”

  As she pulled her purse onto her shoulder, I rose from my seat. I would follow anywhere Suzanne led. Shorty was slower to react. “Miss Greene, may I ask where we’re headed?”

  “Vicksburg.” She waved at the waiter. “Anthony! Put it on my account. We’re out of here.”

  “What’s in Vicksburg?” I asked.

  She gripped my arm and whispered. “My brother just called. His boy Lee is in jail. He’s in terrible trouble—some charge of a partner dying during a sex act.”

  I backed away. The mention of my ex-fiancé set off alarms in my head. And I had sworn off a career in murder defense only moments before.

  “Suzanne, I’m awful sorry—for you and your family. But if Lee is in trouble, I don’t see what in the world it has to do with me.”

  She grasped my hand, pulling me forcibly from the table. “Ruby, he needs legal help. Now.”

  I resisted, leaning back in a game of tug-of-war. “Suzanne, Lee won’t want me there, I assure you.”

  She stopped in her tracks, turning to face me with a steely gaze over her spectacles. “Sugar. He asked for you by name.”

  As Suzanne strode from the dining room, I followed behind, moving on autopilot. Shorty caught up to me and took my hand again. I was grateful for the warm clasp of his fingers.

  So much for that vow.

  It looked like I was headed to Vicksburg on a new murder case.

  Chapter 33

  I SMOOTHED A wrinkle in my skirt as I sat beside Suzanne at the counsel table in the Warren County courtroom in Vicksburg, Mississippi. We were waiting for the Vicksburg police to escort Lee Greene over from the county jail for his arraignment.

  The wrinkle was stubborn. No matter how I tugged at it, the crease remained in the black fabric. Suzanne pinched me lightly on the arm.

  “Quit fidgeting,” she whispered.

  My hands stilled. Lee Greene always looked like a million bucks. When we were dating, he’d eye what I was wearing and shake his head. Walmart? Or Old Navy clearance rack?

  The door to the courtroom opened, and a man in an orange jumpsuit entered, escorted by two plainclothes police officers. The prisoner in orange shuffled with an uncertain gait, his hands cuffed in front of him.

  I blinked. It took a moment before my brain made the connection. The stumbling figure in orange was my old fiancé, Lee Greene Jr.

  As he neared the counsel table, Suzanne stood and placed an arm around his shoulders. “Sit in the middle, hon. Between Ruby and me.”

  Lee nodded, collapsing into the chair. I stared at his profile before looking away in embarrassment. His hair, always perfectly groomed and parted on one side, was a greasy tousle. His hands, spread before him in the handcuffs, were dirty. And he smelled to high heaven: stale booze and body odor.

  Suzanne was talking in a low tone. “We’re going to get you out of here, Lee. We’re taking you home. Your family
is here for you, sugar.”

  It was true. I stole a glance over my shoulder at Lee’s parents, who were sitting in the courtroom gallery. Lee Sr.’s face was frozen with shock. His wife was sobbing, her head bent low.

  The judge entered, and we rose. Suzanne and I had to help Lee to stand, each of us gripping him under an arm. When the judge began to read the charge against him, Lee turned to Suzanne and whispered.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Shush, honey. Just be quiet now.”

  The judge’s voice droned on, reading the legal language: Lee had committed the crime of capital murder by causing the death of Monae Prince during an unnatural sex act. Lee swayed on his feet. I grabbed his arm with both of mine to steady him. He looked down at me with unfocused eyes.

  “Ruby, I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Suzanne’s voice rang out. “Defendant pleads not guilty. We request that a reasonable bond amount be set.”

  The judge gave Lee a wary look, then turned to the DA’s table. “What does the prosecution recommend?”

  The assistant district attorney stood. I recognized him; he was a guy who’d been two years ahead of me at Ole Miss. Not the brightest dude in law school. Suzanne could tackle him with one hand tied behind her. He said, “We request that the defendant be held without bail.”

  Behind me, I heard a voice cry out: “No!” Then Lee’s mother wailed aloud.

  Suzanne proceeded as if she hadn’t heard the interruption. “My client has no criminal history—as the DA is perfectly aware. He is not at risk of absconding, and he poses no danger to the community.”

  “We contest both of those points,” the ADA said.

  But the judge waved a hand and the ADA fell silent. “I’m setting the bond at one million dollars.”

  I gasped. Who could make a million-dollar bond? Lee would be in lockup until trial, and that could take several months, maybe even longer.

  When the judge moved on to the next docket item, the ADA sidled over to our table. He didn’t acknowledge me and addressed Suzanne.