Jury Town

by Stephen Frey

  She gestured at a young man in the back who’d been raising one hand politely as he clutched his tablet with the other.

  “Thank you for calling on me, Ms. Lewis.”

  She grinned ruefully at his tousled hair, jeans, and unironed, untucked shirt. Harry was wearing a neatly pressed, three-piece suit, and every hair on his head was in perfect position. Times had changed.

  “In your opening remarks, you spoke of leaving your office kicking and screaming when your term was over.”

  “I loved serving the people of the Commonwealth as their governor,” she said, looking out at the audience serenely. “It was my dream job.”

  “You also mentioned having to leave your bedroom in the Governor’s Mansion.”

  Victoria’s eyes flashed back to the young reporter. She’d caught something in his tone. “Yes?”

  “Would you care to use this forum to clarify your sexual orientation?”

  The room exploded with a collective groan.

  “You’re thirty-seven, and you’ve never been married, never been linked to anyone romantically in the last decade that I can find,” he went on, undeterred by the intensifying protest around him. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to clear up this issue. I don’t understand why you’d hesitate to make the admission one way or the other. Are you heterosexual or lesbian?”

  Victoria glared down from the dais. Judge Eldridge had warned her about this. No skeletal remains, real or imagined, would be off-limits from now on. Those nameless, faceless shadows Eldridge seemed so concerned with had made their first appearance. This question was proof.

  “Today is not about me,” she answered coolly. “Today is about Project Archer.” She detested the way the young reporter was looking back at her, as though he was enjoying himself immensely. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “How about your rumored cocaine problem?”

  “This is ridiculous,” she answered to another even louder groan from the audience, simultaneously motioning to security.

  “What about aspirations for higher office?” the young man continued as she tried calling on another reporter. “Is that on the table, too?”

  “Walter,” she said, pointing at another familiar reporter, “your question?”

  “And how about your late father?” the kid yelled as four members of the high-court security team closed in on him. “Any concerns about his legal troubles affecting you going forward?”

  “I was elected governor, wasn’t I?” Victoria muttered—under her breath and away from the microphone.

  “He was a thief! He stole money from his county in the Shenandoah—fifty thousand dollars!”

  She was about to engage, about to go at the young man with everything she had, about to explain to everyone in the audience how her father had been railroaded by a corrupt, small-town judge and a jury the judge had intimidated—the sort of intimidation her sequestered juries would never fall prey to. But she forced another serene expression to her face as the high-court security force rushed the young man from the lobby, all while he continued to shout fading questions.

  When he was gone and order had been restored, Victoria shook her head, gave the audience a smile that said, Now that we’ve enjoyed a moment of levity … and pointed again. “Next question, Walter.”

  CHAPTER 3

  DARIEN, CONNECTICUT

  JD Ware sank into his favorite wingback chair in the sprawling, beautifully furnished, and tastefully decorated study of Philip Rockwell’s mansion. This was the lap of luxury he’d always been obsessed with. And he’d driven a strange and winding road to get here. One he never could have predicted—even imagined.

  This luxury wasn’t actually his yet. But he was getting closer. Even Rockwell had no idea how close.

  He was exhausted but exhilarated. Virginia, then Los Angeles, and back here to Connecticut where everything always started. He’d sprinted almost seven thousand miles in the last few days.

  But he was young; he could handle it. And besides, all the flights had been aboard Rockwell’s personal G5, with a pretty female attendant at his beck and call. It wasn’t as if he’d been stuck in the middle seat of a jammed commercial flight.

  He’d come a long way from his mother’s trailer park outside Macon, Georgia. He was twenty-three, traveling in style, and making real money. Life was good.

  “Anything happen yet with the Keystone Systems trial?” he asked.

  “It went to the jury this afternoon,” Rockwell answered from behind his wide desk. He was smoking his favorite Cuban cigar—a Monte Cristo his gardener had smuggled through JFK from cousins at home. “So did the Bailey Energy trial.”

  Philip Rockwell owned and ran a small investment bank, which, until recently, had been struggling. But in the last few months, Rockwell & Company had exploded on Wall Street.

  “Keystone and Bailey went to their respective juries a few minutes after Victoria Lewis made her insidious announcement at the Supreme Court Building in Richmond,” Rockwell continued. “The symmetry was beautiful.”

  JD wasn’t sure how an announcement could be insidious or what “symmetry” even meant.

  “Will Wayne Bennett and Colin O’Hara vote our way?” Rockwell asked. “That’s the crucial question.”

  “We’re good to go with Bennett and the Keystone trial. That’s a lock.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Bennett sang the magic words.”

  “Which were?”

  “‘What the hell do I care?’”

  Rockwell blew a thick cloud of celebratory smoke into the upper reaches of the high-ceiling room. “I do so love those lyrics of indifference.”

  JD wasn’t fond of Rockwell. The silver-haired, middle-aged WASP had an arrogant air of entitlement about him. And he was always using big words, which JD suspected he did on purpose, to make him feel stupid. But he appreciated using the man’s toys, like the G5, and he loved the money they were paying him—thirty grand a month.

  “Like I told you, I’m not sure about Colin O’Hara and Bailey Energy. O’Hara actually ran away from me in the parking lot when I told him what I had on him. It’s the first time that’s happened since I joined your team nine months ago. And I’ve probably gone at fifty jurors by now.”

  “If Colin O’Hara votes the wrong way, and the Bailey trial blows up on us,” Rockwell said, “he’ll pay the price. It’s that simple. We’re all agreed.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  Rockwell always stonewalled about anyone or anything up on the next rung of the ladder. Rockwell was all into controlling that link in the chain, with keeping that connection very hush-hush.

  “Why go through all this, Mr. Rockwell?” JD asked.

  “Through what?”

  “Why bother blackmailing these people?”

  “Why not?”

  “Pulling all this information together takes time, and going at jurors like we do might attract attention someday. And you’ve got to keep the data around, so people might get their hands on it. Then they would have evidence.”

  “What’s your solution?”

  “I tell a guy like Colin O’Hara I’ll put a bullet through his mother’s head if he doesn’t do exactly what I want.” JD shrugged. “Seems like that’d be way simpler than blackmailing him for having a kid with another woman behind his wife’s back—and more effective.”

  Rockwell gave JD a condescending grimace. “The challenge with making death threats,” he replied, “is that sooner or later you must follow through on one.”

  “So you’re scared to take the ultimate step. Hey, I’m just saying,” JD added quickly when Rockwell leaned forward over the desk, frowning.

  “I have no problem taking the ultimate step,” Rockwell assured him. “But we don’t want to be egregious in our use of murder.”

  “Hey, look, I can do anybody without causing a—”

  “More importantly,” Rockwell interrupted, “ki
lling a family member isn’t always effective in terms of achieving the desired result. Some people need the threat aimed squarely at them in order to be manipulated.”

  “Give me a break. I tell somebody I’m gonna kill a family member and that person’s mine.”

  “Really?” Rockwell glanced into the early-evening darkness outside the window, then back at JD.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I could have your father dead inside the hour.”

  “Big deal. That man never gave a rat’s—”

  “You’re making my case.”

  “But I’m not like most—”

  “Or I could send you back to prison, this time for life.”

  JD laughed like Rockwell was reaching with this one. “How?”

  “I have a video of you murdering that young woman.”

  JD’s eyes flashed wide as Rockwell paused.

  “I doubt you’d be able to plead to manslaughter this time with the DA in possession of those seven minutes of riveting recording,” Rockwell went on. “You obviously take such grotesque pleasure in strangling her. Imagine what the jury would think of you after seeing that.”

  Perspiration broke out on JD’s forehead.

  “No,” Rockwell continued confidently, “I believe the charge this time will most certainly be murder in the first degree when we anonymously turn you and the video over to the authorities.” He pursed his lips and shook his head, apparently discouraged. “And after all that effort we had to go through to arrange your release from prison. Such a pity.” He lifted the cigar to his mouth and puffed. “Didn’t know I had that video, did you? Thought that recording was still locked away in the safe that’s buried in the dirt floor of that shed in Pennsylvania, huh?”

  “Yeah,” JD mumbled, defeated. “I did.”

  “Have I made my point?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The computer on Rockwell’s desk dinged with an alert. He frowned at the screen. “You were correct.”

  “About?”

  “The Bailey Energy trial,” Rockwell growled, picking up his phone. “It didn’t go our way. We must act. Hang on a second.”

  JD tapped the chair’s arm as Rockwell made the call, thinking about how carefully Rockwell controlled access to the people who were up the ladder, who were running all this. Rockwell was a middleman. And, eventually, middlemen were always cut out.

  “Next week,” Rockwell said when he’d finished the call, “you’ll fly to Chicago and Minneapolis to cement the votes of jurors in critical trials coming to a head in those cities. But, first, you’re going back to Virginia. You’re getting your wish.”

  JD sat up in the chair. “I’m finally getting to use my rifle?”

  He’d been a sniper in the United States Marine Corps before going to prison. One reason Rockwell had sprung him from prison was because he’d seen the astonishing scores—thirty-two out of thirty-five rounds or better, consistently inside the black, from amazing distances. And JD wasn’t just good on the range. He wasn’t just a practice player. He had nine confirmed kills in the field.

  “No. You’ll execute this mission from close range.” Rockwell took one last puff from the cigar and then snuffed it out in a big ashtray on the right side of his desk. “This one must look like an accident.”

  “Fine … as long as I get to kill.”

  “Yes … as long as you get to kill,” Rockwell repeated softly and slowly before gesturing toward the study door. “Get me another cigar, boy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go on, hurry up.”

  “Prick,” JD whispered as he headed out of the study and down the hall toward the humidor.

  “Make sure it’s another Monte Cristo,” Rockwell called, “and don’t leave the damn door open like you did last week. You almost ruined my entire stock, you little shit.”

  JD’s eyes narrowed as he reached the humidor. “We’ve all got it coming one day,” he whispered. “I just hope when your day comes, Mr. Rockwell, I’m the one who gives it to you.”

  NORTHERN VIRGINIA (LOUDOUN)

  Colin O’Hara smiled as he leaned back on the couch, cradling his baby boy, who was feeding greedily from the bottle. He’d come straight home from the courtroom after the verdict had been announced. Reporters had shoved cameras and microphones in his face, but he’d dodged them and bolted away.

  “Can you get that?” he called when the apartment doorbell rang. It was probably Mrs. Hardy, the apartment complex gossip, looking for inside details about the trial. He’d be lucky to get dinner by eight now. And Betsy was fixing his favorite—lasagna. “I’m still feeding CJ.”

  “Sure, honey,” Betsy called back as she headed for the front door. “Love you.”

  “You’re my little man,” Colin murmured as he gazed down at his young son, who lay securely in his arms, wrapped in his blue hospital blanket. “It’s crazy. You look just like me, just like everyone says you do. I didn’t believe it until just now, but it’s true. I missed you so much, but I won’t stay away that long again. I promise.”

  “Colin.”

  He glanced up. Betsy was standing across the living room, dishtowel draped over her shoulder. Out of nowhere, she seemed on the brink of an emotional abyss. “Yes?”

  She held up a large envelope, and Colin’s heart began to jackhammer, as it had in the Costco parking lot. He knew—instantly—even before she tilted the envelope, even before the photographs cascaded out and scattered across the floor.

  He didn’t need to see the pictures of Lydia and Haley—or the explanatory note he assumed accompanied the damning evidence. He knew exactly what had happened. He’d been delusional enough to believe that the thin young man with the short blond hair and the buckteeth was only a bad dream.

  So he’d voted his conscience in the jury deliberation room, convincing two other jurors who were on the fence with his impassioned speech. Bailey Energy should not be allowed to build the pipeline. It would be incredibly dangerous and provide little economic benefit to Loudoun County.

  Why had he cared so much? He didn’t live anywhere near the pipeline’s intended path. If it blew, it wasn’t going to kill him.

  “Give me my son,” Betsy hissed, rushing for the couch, tears of rage already spilling down her face. “You bastard!” she shrieked, taking the baby from him and heading for the bedrooms. “Get out of this house, Colin!” she screamed over her shoulder. “And don’t ever come back! I’m calling my father. He’ll get you out of here! He’ll kill you!”

  Colin had just made the worst mistake of his life. He’d never see his son again.

  CHAPTER 4

  GOOCHLAND, VIRGINIA

  “Compelling performance this afternoon,” Cameron Moore offered as he sat down before the big desk in Victoria’s home study. Picture windows looked out on the thick forest surrounding the bungalow, a calming sight after the noise of the press conference. “You were convincing and seemingly precise without actually giving away anything sensitive. You were … coy.”

  Victoria gazed at Cameron fondly. He was short and slight, belying the lion heart filling his chest. He kept his head shaved; sported stylish, black, rectangular-frame glasses she was pretty sure weren’t necessary; and always dressed sharply.

  “I was elected governor of Virginia,” she volleyed back, recognizing the sarcasm. His tone was usually laced with a hint of it—he was a bit of a twisted soul—but this time there’d been more than usual. “Why in God’s name wouldn’t I be political?”

  “First of all, you are no longer elected. Secondly, I said ‘coy’ not ‘political.’”

  “What’s the difference?” Twisted but very good at what he did and, most important of all, loyal beyond reproach. “You’re jealous, Cam,” she kidded. “It’s not becoming.”

  “You shouldn’t have all the fun. I want to be coy in front of all those hypocrites.”

  She smiled nostalgically. Five years ago, she and Cameron had shared a quiet, out-of-the-way dinner in Fredericksburg, arranged by
mutual friends. She hadn’t expected much going in, but she’d ended up offering him the post of campaign manager over dessert. She knew a good thing when she saw it.

  The next day he’d resigned from his high-octane lobbyist job on K Street and guided her gubernatorial run to a landslide victory.

  His personal transition from Washington to Richmond hadn’t been smooth. The cities were only a hundred miles apart, but in this bastion of southern conservatism, his sexuality wasn’t as readily accepted. So he’d gone celibate, ensuring that nothing tawdry that could be confirmed would ever appear in the press.

  After the campaign he’d taken the reins of her administration and helped her achieve huge successes in office.

  Now he was second in command on Project Archer.

  “In fact,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got an Oscar nomination.”

  “You can accept for me if I win. There.”

  “I’d be more deserving, given my body of work.”

  “By ‘anything sensitive,’ I assume you were referring to how much jurors will make to be cut off from family and friends for two years?”

  “That,” he agreed, “and you didn’t give away the real sizzle behind Project Archer.”

  “I couldn’t admit that Project Archer started with Judge Eldridge.” Victoria reached out and picked up a five-by-seven gold frame from amidst the battlefield-like clutter covering her desk. “That Eldridge was the one who approached me to start this project, not the other way around.”

  “No, but it would have been fun to see—”

  “I couldn’t admit to the jury tampering Eldridge believes has been going on for several years here in Virginia.” She gazed at the photograph inside the frame. It was a picture of a headstone. She’d taken the photograph a few days before announcing her gubernatorial campaign. “Every high-profile case tried in Virginia during the last decade would go under a legal microscope. The probability of massive mistrials would be staggering if the chief justice of the Supreme Court made that admission.”

  For a few moments, Victoria pictured the bedlam that admission would have evoked.