“Daddy, I know Ruby. She’ll be fine. She’s a junkyard dog.”
I found the description oddly appealing.
Lee asked: “Ruby, have you met with Cary Reynolds? About what his testimony is going to be?”
Lee’s mother turned away from the elder Greene; she had been fumbling to tie the pink silk with shaking hands. In a high-pitched voice, she said, “The Reynolds boy? Was he the one you had dinner with that night?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Was he your fraternity brother? I don’t know him.” Her eyes were glassy, slightly unfocused.
“Of course you do, Mama. You’ve just forgotten. I was his pledge father in Sigma Nu.”
To Lee, I said, “We’ve talked on the phone, more than once. But I’m running him down tonight, in Vicksburg, if I have to. I won’t let Cary Reynolds get on the witness stand until we’ve met and talked in person. I’ll nail down everything, every detail he remembers about the night. He’s the last person who saw her alive, other than you.”
Lee nodded, silent. His shoulders slumped.
It was true; it was imperative that we nail down the facts about the night of the murder through Cary Reynolds. We had to be entirely clear about what Reynolds, Lee’s old frat brother, recalled.
Because Lee Greene Jr.—the former pride of Jackson, Mississippi’s social elite, the crown prince of southern gentility—still couldn’t remember a thing about the incident.
Not a damn thing.
Chapter 42
I KEPT A close eye on the clock.
Lee and his parents were walking across the street to the county courthouse, but I needed a quiet moment before I joined them in court.
I punched in Cary Reynolds’s number on my cell phone and waited. It went to voice mail after four rings. I dropped the phone into my bag, ignoring the invitation to leave a message. I’d try again later, when the court took a recess.
I locked up the office and pocketed the key. I knew I should head straight to court, but the blinking neon bulbs of Shorty’s diner, just around the corner on the town square, beckoned to me. Shorty could provide me with a powerful boost, and I needed one this morning.
I made my way to the diner at a trot. The brass bell hanging over the door jingled at my entry. I felt my tight shoulders relax at the powerful smell of coffee brewing and bacon grease.
And the sight of the proprietor.
Shorty looked up from the grill and beamed at me. “Ruby, darlin’! You got time for a bite of breakfast?”
Making my way to the counter, I shook my head. “I just have time for a sip of coffee.”
Shorty turned around and grasped the coffeepot by the handle. “Do you want me to pour a cup to go?”
“No—thanks, hon. Just give me a cup and I’ll chug it down right here.”
After he poured it, he leaned across the counter and gave me a quick kiss. “Don’t burn your mouth,” he said with a wink.
I took a swallow of the brew. It was just right: hot but not scalding.
He squeezed my hand and rested his elbows on the counter. “Will you come by the house tonight? I can have a plate of fried chicken waiting for you.”
Shorty’s fried chicken was a temptation. But I had another date.
“I have to drive to Vicksburg tonight. I’m determined to run down a witness.”
“Shoot. I’m hungry for a little piece of your valuable time.” He flashed a quick smile. “I’ve got something important to tell you. Well, to ask you, I guess.”
“Is it about your research? Did you get a nibble on your article?”
“It’s not that. It’s better.”
The clock was ticking. I took a final sip of coffee and grabbed my briefcase. “Later. Wish me luck.”
As I left the diner and strode to the courthouse, a thought hit me. What important matter did he want to ask me about? Was it the apartment? My apartment had a six-month lease, which Shorty knew was coming up for renewal. Did he want me to move in? I wasn’t ready. Didn’t want to go there.
The last time I’d rushed into a serious relationship, it had been a disaster. And now that I was representing Lee Greene, I was confronted with the reminder of my folly on a daily basis.
Chapter 43
AT THE COURTHOUSE entrance, there was a line to get through security, but I bypassed it. The courthouse buzzed with activity; murder trials were an uncommon occurrence in our little town. Once inside, I dodged through the crowded hallway to reach the courtroom.
I’d just turned the doorknob when my phone started to buzz. It took a protracted moment to unearth it, but when I looked at the screen I was glad I’d taken the trouble.
“Cary? Mr. Reynolds?”
“Who’s this?”
“Mr. Reynolds, it’s Ruby Bozarth—Lee Greene’s lawyer. We’ve talked before, about the murder trial. How you doing?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine, good. But I’m worried about my brother. How’s my boy Lee getting along?”
It was reassuring to hear him refer to Lee as “his brother.” “Lee’s pretty tense right now, I’d say. The evidence starts this morning. I’ll have to be in court in a minute.”
“That right? Damn.”
A moment’s silence hung on the line; I broke it.
“Mr. Reynolds—can I call you Cary? I need to see you, to talk again before you take the stand. How about tonight? Court will adjourn at five o’clock. I could be in Vicksburg at six, six thirty at the latest.”
“Yeah, sure. My business stays open till eight o’clock most nights. You want to meet me here? At my lot? Cary’s Used Cars and Trux in Vicksburg.”
“Perfect.”
“Good, then. Look forward to meeting you in person. Sure want to do anything I can to help my old frat brother.”
I peeked into the courtroom to check the time. The clock on the far wall said I had a few minutes to spare. “I’ll be asking you to tell me everything you remember about that night, when Lee was in Vicksburg for depositions and y’all got together for drinks and dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am. Two old buddies, just like old times.”
I stuck my head into the courtroom again. Lee shot me an impatient glare, but the DA’s counsel table was empty. I ducked back into the hallway.
“So Cary, do I have this right: after dinner, you joined Lee in his hotel room?”
The voice on the other end of the line was urgent, plaintive. “Just popped in to give him a present. Something special for Lee. The Scotch.”
I chose my next words with care. “And a woman joined y’all.”
He groaned into the phone. “Just another little surprise. I don’t mean no disrespect, but she walked in looking good enough to eat. Lacy shorts, fishnet hose, skin like brown sugar.”
In the glass panel of the courtroom door, I saw my face twist into a grimace. He was talking about a dead woman. I forced myself to relax my features. “And then the three of you drank the Scotch in the hotel room.”
His voice was hesitant. “Well, I poured a round. But when that little girl sat on Lee’s lap, I made myself scarce.”
“Okay.”
“I said—Lee, buddy, I’m gonna scoot on out of here and give y’all some privacy.”
I needed more detail. Cary Reynolds’s testimony was my only light into the events of that night. The next morning, Lee and the hooker were found in the room, and the girl was dead.
Chapter 44
STILL HOLDING THE phone to my ear, I glanced to my right. Two uniformed deputies lingered nearby. I knew one of them: a young guy, Deputy Brockes. I ran into him at the courthouse on a regular basis. Brockes was a sweet kid.
He stood beside a gray-haired deputy I didn’t know too well. Though I encountered most of the sheriff’s department personnel in my line of work, the older guy—Potts was his name—was a newcomer to Rosedale, and we had yet to come face-to-face in court. But as I stood in the courthouse hallway, it seemed that Potts was staring me down, right at that moment.
It
made me uncomfortable. Was he listening in to my side of the phone conversation? I turned my back to the deputy and lowered my voice.
“Cary, when I come up to see you tonight, we’ll need to nail down specifics.”
He paused. “Specifics?”
“Yeah. Like, about how much Lee had to drink that night. How much did he imbibe at dinner? And the bottle of Scotch was empty when the police searched the room—was it full when you brought it in? The hooker—when she arrived, did she appear to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol?”
Cary sighed into the phone. He didn’t answer right away. The uniformed deputies, Brockes and Potts, had edged closer. They were seriously intruding on my circle of private space.
Brockes said, “Hey, Miss Bozarth.”
I pointed at the phone in my hand. “On a call,” I said.
He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll be in the courtroom with you this week. The Vicksburg judge asked for extra security, since it’s a murder trial. Old Potts here is going to have to ride patrol without me.” Brockes was puffed up with importance, and his face shone with pride.
On the phone, Cary Reynolds said, “Are you talking to somebody?”
“Sorry.” I turned my back to the deputies. “What were we talking about? The hooker. Tell me more specifics.”
In a voice of concern, he said, “I want my testimony to be helpful, I surely do. But I don’t know if I can recall every minute of that night. It was a while back, you know? I do know about the Scotch. It was a new bottle. Is it okay if I testify to that?”
My reflection revealed that I was frowning again. If I didn’t stop it, I’d be a wrinkled-up crone at the age of twenty-seven. Cary needed to help me establish the plausibility of the defense. The hooker who came into Lee’s room that night died of an overdose of drugs and alcohol while she and Lee were in bed, and the DA intended to pin that death on Lee Greene. I needed to plant a reasonable doubt and convince the jury that the OD could have been a result of the woman’s own actions.
But I also played by the rules. “Cary, you have to tell the truth. You’ll be under oath.” The court reporter walked up to her seat near the witness stand, signaling that court would convene soon. I said again: “So we’ll meet tonight at your lot, and you’ll come to Rosedale to testify in the case—right?”
“Sure, I’ll be there. I owe him.”
Chapter 45
AS I SAT beside my client at the counsel table, I checked the time over my shoulder. The big courtroom wall clock read 9:08.
But the prosecution table was empty, the bailiff’s desk was unoccupied, and the judge’s seat at the bench was vacant. I pulled out my phone to ascertain whether the courthouse clock was running fast, but no. Nine past nine in the morning.
Lee Greene jabbed me with his elbow. “Where is everybody?”
“Dunno.”
I smelled it again: the cologne. It was my client. Seemed like the scent hovered around him in a cloud.
Lee’s parents were seated behind us, in the front row of the gallery. His father leaned over the railing that separated the spectators from the court. In a whisper, he said, “Doesn’t court start on time in your county?”
I peered into the hallway, where no court personnel could be seen. “Well, it usually does.”
Mr. Greene leaned in closer; I could feel his breath in my ear. “And where is my sister? Why isn’t Suzanne here?”
I’d been wondering the same thing. I sent up a silent entreaty: Suzanne, come and rescue me.
In the meantime, it fell to me to solve the mystery of the missing courtroom personnel. I left the counsel table and approached the court reporter, a gaunt woman with a helmet of hair dyed midnight black.
“Roseanne, have you seen the DA this morning? Isaac Keet—the guy from Vicksburg?”
She nodded as she inserted a roll of paper into her reporting device. “He’s been hanging around since eight o’clock. I saw him talking to the judge.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. The DA had no business conferring with Judge Ashley outside my presence. It was called ex parte communication, otherwise known as “woodshedding” the judge. It was not an ethical practice.
I felt like odd man out with Judge Ashley, anyway, since both he and Keet were from Vicksburg; they clearly enjoyed a private camaraderie. Thank goodness Ashley had agreed to let me try the case in my own backyard, in the Rosedale courthouse. It was a lucky break. I needed the hometown advantage.
The court reporter was staring at me over the top of her eyeglasses. I hoped it wasn’t because I was wearing yet another scary expression. I said, “Thanks for the info, Roseanne. Guess I’ll go crash that party.” I opened the door that led to the judge’s chambers.
I bumped into the Vicksburg DA—literally. Isaac Keet took a step back into the narrow passageway. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Snappish, I said: “I’m not hard to find, Isaac. My office is across the damned street.”
Yes, my nose was out of joint, but I also was attempting to cover for the fact that Isaac Keet intimidated the shit out of me.
I squared my shoulders and said, “So if you’re trying to justify your private communications with Judge Ashley on the basis that I’m out of pocket, let me set you straight: it won’t fly.”
He flashed a rare smile, startling in its intensity. “I get it. You’re showing me what a tough cookie you are. Showing me who’s boss.”
I glanced away, uncomfortable with his sharp eye. It took all the nerve I possessed to match Isaac Keet blow for blow in court. He had every advantage over me: age, maturity, experience. He was old enough to be my daddy (by Mississippi standards, anyway). He’d served overseas in the navy for eight years. And in the past fifteen years, he had risen in the ranks of the Vicksburg DA’s office.
In our conferences with the Greene family, I’d expressed my concern about being outmatched by Keet. Lee Sr. had seconded the emotion. Suzanne waved my concern away; she claimed that juries like a fresh, young warrior.
And my client’s mother had also brushed off my concerns—on a different basis. No one will take that prosecutor seriously, for goodness’ sake. I don’t think I need to explain why.
She didn’t. Her meaning was crystal clear: Mrs. Greene thought he would be disregarded because he was black. Every time that woman opened her mouth, I thanked the gods that I was not a member of the Greene family. I had dodged that silver bullet.
Facing Isaac Keet in the passageway, I said, “So what were you and the judge chatting about this morning? Do y’all run late like this in Vicksburg? We like to start on time here in Rosedale. Of course, we’re just a small town—”
He cut me off. “You’re right; I was talking with the judge. I had to share some news—shocking news—about a law enforcement associate. That’s why we’re running late.” He glanced up and stared at the overhead light in silence for a moment. When I opened my mouth, he spoke again before I had the chance.
“Before the start of evidence, I’ll give you another shot. Does your client want to plead guilty?”
I pulled a face of disbelief. “Are we back to this? How many times have I told you? This case is overcharged. Capital murder, for the accidental death of a sex worker with a drug history?”
Keet ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, which was starting to gray. “Yes, seems like you mentioned that.”
“I think it’s terrible, absolutely offensive, the way district attorneys abuse the capital murder charge. You file these death penalty cases to scare the defendant into a plea bargain. You use the charge as a club to beat them over the head. How do you sleep at night?”
The smile flashed again. “Like a baby.”
His taunt made me even more irate. “Has it occurred to you that the state can’t show a motive in this case?”
He shrugged. I went on, my voice rising.
“No motive. Why on earth would Lee Greene want to kill this woman? The Rosedale jury
is going to see right through your paper-thin case. I haven’t kept it a secret from you: I have a witness who will testify that the deceased prostitute was involved in drugs as well as the sex trade.”
He leaned back against the wall. In a voice that was not unkind, Keet said, “My last plea offer was a reduced charge: voluntary manslaughter. If Greene will plead to manslaughter, I’ll recommend five years. That’s the best I can do.”
I shook my head. “No way. My client didn’t kill her.”
Keet said, “Aren’t you going to communicate the offer to your client? In Vicksburg, the defense attorneys usually let their clients decide.” There was an edge in his voice. “But as you say—this isn’t Vicksburg.”
I frowned. He always made me feel like a kid. “I’ll tell him. But I know what he’ll say.”
“Good. Tell him pretty quick, Ruby. The offer is good today only.”
Keet held a folded sheet of paper; he opened it and stared at the sheet. It was upside down, from my angle, but I recognized it at a glance. It was the defense witness list, a disclosure that I had provided to Keet prior to trial.
In a quiet voice, he said, “Before we start with opening statements, I feel duty-bound to share some crucial information with you.”
I let out an impatient huff. I was sick of the delays; it was time to get moving.
“What?”
Keet examined my witness list for another moment. Running his finger under a name, he said in a grave voice, “One of your witnesses won’t be testifying.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because he’s dead.”
Chapter 46
HE WAS DEAD. Gone, just like that. Keet told me he’d been shot to death in his vehicle, the late-model Volvo I’d seen outside the sketchy bar. He was at the side of the road, just outside of Rosedale. Probably appearing in response to the pink subpoena that he had been served to testify for the defense.
Juror #3 Page 15
