I should be dead.
There's a slight prick in my arm. I turn my head. Ryan pulls a needle out of my bicep, and says something to Paul. Paul lifts me into his arms and carries me down the hall to my bedroom. He lays me on the bed, and I roll over, grasping tightly to Alex's pillow, and inhaling deeply.
I miss him already.
I want him back.
I want to be dead.
Thirty-Five
My brain is fuzzy, and sloshing around inside my skull. I try to force my eyes open, and I wonder if my eyelids have been glued shut.
What the hell happened to me?
I roll over, and reach across the bed for Alex, my hand splaying against the cold, smooth sheet.
Alex. He's not here.
I curl into a ball, tuck my head to my chest, and attempt to block out the realization that he is sitting in prison because of me. My breath hitches, and a sob chokes me. Tears roll down my cheeks and onto the mattress.
He will never be here again.
My body quakes with sobs, I pull the blankets over my head, trapping the hot air from my exhales. I will never see Alex again. He has forbid me from visiting him at the prison.
Why did I promise him that I would stay away?
I envision him, on a metal cot, dressed in an orange jumpsuit with the county jail stamped in black on the back. He has no control over his life, or his daily activities any longer. For a man like Alex, who is used to controlling the fates of businesses and men worldwide, this is tantamount to torture.
He deserved so much better from me. I throw the covers off my head and roll onto my back. The sunlight streams in through the windows, promising a beautiful day.
What the hell am I doing? I have absolutely no right to lay here feeling sorry for myself. Nothing will change until I make it change. Alex has no way of getting himself out of this mess I have gotten him into—it's up to me.
I kick the covers to the bottom of the bed, and swing my legs over the side. Shower and coffee. Then I can formulate a plan. Turning the shower faucet on, I step under the scalding water. Something about the heat and the solitude allow me to think clearly. Alex has connections that would be able to help him get out of this. But who? Jack? Maybe. Although, he is so close to retiring, I'm not sure I want to get him mixed up in something that could potentially send him to prison.
Jake. Jake will know all of Alex's contacts that operate a step or two outside the law. If we can come up with a plan to get Alex during the prison transport, and get him outside the country, he has enough money to survive somewhere that doesn't have extradition with the U.S.
I wonder if he has a residence in any of those countries? I'll add that to the list of questions for Jake. He'll have a list of all of Alex's holdings, or know how to get me access to that information. After all, I'm Mrs. Alex Stone. What's his is now mine. And I plan to use it to get him free.
The idea of flipping the bird at the judicial system that I have believed in and loved for so long doesn't bother me as much as I thought it might. But the system failed me, and it has decimated the life Alex and I deserve to share for years to come. Fuck Lady Justice. She turned a blind eye on Alex's case, and has allowed an innocent man to be punished without committing the crime he is convicted of.
The only other option available to me is to appeal the conviction. This could take years, and is not an acceptable alternative. No, Alex should be free. Now. And if that makes us both fugitives—so be it.
Love is a powerful emotion. I used to love the law. That's over. I love Alex more, and I will do anything for him.
No matter what it means for me.
I dry off and dress in yoga pants and a t-shirt, and head to the kitchen for coffee. Jake, Ryan, Paul, and Lisa have their backs to me as I enter, and are watching the news. I lean against the counter and listen to the reporter talking about the verdict. Shots of Alex being taken from the courtroom in handcuffs play on a loop while the newscasters debate the case, and the defense I provided. Jake glances over at me, his eyes narrow, and frowns. He opens his mouth, probably to have Lisa turn off the news off, but I shake my head.
I need to see it. I can't run from this.
A young female reporter is walking toward a man getting out of a vehicle. I recognize him. He's one of the jurors.
"Was it difficult to come to a decision to convict such a prominent man in our community?" The young woman asks him.
He shakes his head, and closes the door to his sports car. "No, it was easy. The prosecution had a solid case. Alex Stone murdered his father."
"Some have argued that the prosecution failed to make a convincing case."
"Well, they weren't on the jury, now were they? We all agreed that he was guilty." He looks directly into the camera. "It doesn't matter that Alex Stone is a billionaire. Just goes to show that it doesn't matter who has the most money. Anyone can be sent to prison." He walks away from the reporter. She faces the camera, but I'm no longer paying attention to what she's saying.
Something is off about the juror. What, though? The clue is right there. Something about the scene just doesn't seem right.
Ryan turns around, and catches sight of me. "Hey, darlin'. You're awake." He walks around the breakfast bar, and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. "How are you feeling?"
I look back to the TV. The reporter is gone, and they have moved onto another news story. I can't get the interview out of my head.
"What is it, K?" Paul asks, leaning across the counter and squeezing my arm.
I stare at him for a long moment, and then look at Jake. "I need to go for a drive."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea—" Ryan says.
Jake nods. "You want the keys to the Porsche?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "The Maserati."
He tosses me the keys. "Be careful."
I grab my cell phone, slip on a pair of flip flops by the door leading to the garage, and escape as Jake runs interference for me with Ryan and Paul. Jake knows when my brains are scrambled, and I need to work out a problem, I drive.
Fast. Really fast.
I plug in my phone, and crank Linking Park through the speakers as I pull out of the estate and onto the long road leading to town. By the time I hit the on ramp to the interstate, I'm nearing one hundred miles an hour. Thankfully, this early on a Saturday morning, no one is on the roads. No commuter traffic. I glide around cars with ease.
What is it about the juror that bothers me? It can't be that he seems to have a general dislike of Alex's wealth. Was there something about his demeanor during the trial? I remember the two women that could barely look at Alex or me. What were they doing after the verdict was read?
I try to recall, but I was so overcome with disbelief, it was hard to focus on anything other than my own pain. Selfish. I should have taken notice of everything. Something that I can use to help get Alex out of this mess.
Was the man also unable to look at us? Did he look irritated with us? No, it's not what he said, or even the way he said it. It's something about the scene.
The car? What about it? It was a high-end sports car. A Jaguar. With temporary tags.
"Shit!"
I pull off at the next exit, and come to a stop in a McDonald's parking lot. Hitting the hands free button, I tell Siri to call Jake.
After one ring, Jake answers. "Do I need to bail you out of jail for excessive speeding?"
"No," I say, "But thanks for the vote of confidence. Is Lisa still there?"
"Yeah."
"Can you put me on speakerphone?"
"You're on," Jake says. "Go ahead."
"Lisa, are the files from jury selection at the house?"
"Yes, I brought all the trial boxes with me," Lisa say.
"Good, find out the name of the juror who was interviewed this morning, and pull his information. In fact, get all the jurors information. I'm on my way back."
* * *
Lisa has the file for every juror on the kitch
en table by the time I return.
"Where's the one for the juror who was interviewed?" I ask.
She hands it to me. The tab on the file reads Russell Irwin. I flip through his basic information. Fifty-five years old. Works as a maintenance engineer at a local high school. So, doesn't make much money. I grab my notes, and peruse them. "He tried to get out of serving, claiming unreliable transportation."
"I remember now," Lisa says. "He said he had a really old car and that it was prone to breaking down. There would be no way for him to pay the repair costs or buy a new one. Franklin told him to take the bus."
Jake narrows his gaze on me. "Last time I checked, the Jaguar XF was a fairly reliable vehicle."
"Especially brand new ones with temp tags. That is a new acquisition for Mr. Irwin."
"Okay," Paul says. "Let the non-lawyer, non-law enforcement among the group in on the joke. What does this prove?"
"It doesn't prove anything," says Jake.
A jolt excitement rips through my body. "But it strongly suggests someone paid for Mr. Irwin's guilty vote."
"Wouldn't you need more than one juror, though? It would take more than one person to convince eleven other people to change their vote to guilty," Lisa says.
"Haven't you ever seen Twelve Angry Men?" Paul directs toward Lisa.
I suck in a deep gulp of air that gets trapped in my lungs. "If my hunch is correct—there are three jurors."
"Okay, not to throw cold water on this, but a brand new Jaguar ain't cheap," Paul says. "Paying off three people with roughly what it costs for a Jag—that's going to take a substantial amount of capital."
Ryan leans his hip against the counter. "Who would have that much money available, and a vendetta against Alex?"
I glance at Jake, and watch his facial features fall. "Sysco."
"Fuck." The breath that was in my lungs rushes out as if I've been punched in the stomach. The room stills and is quiet for a moment. My brain quickly puts together a checklist of what needs to be done. "We need to see if any of our other jurors have come into large sums of money. Lisa, I need you to go through the jury list and alternates. See who looks like the most likely candidates, and put them at the top."
Lisa grabs a file off the table and starts flipping through it. Paul steps next to her. "I'll help."
"Jake, we need to pay a visit to Mr. Irwin, " I say. "Someone needs to visit Alex." Sadness washes over me like a cold wave. I hate that I can't visit him and tell him what I'm working on. But I promised. And, right now, he needs me to investigate.
Ryan places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "I'll go, darlin'."
I nod, choke back the sob building in my chest, and force away the tears. "Don't tell him about any of this. Not yet. It may turn into a big nothing, and I don't want him to get his hopes up just to disappoint him again."
Thirty-Six
Jake and I stand on the front porch of a double wide trailer that sits on an acre of land outside of town. The wood railing is pushed out from years of people leaning against it. I doubt it would take much to push it over. In fact, I'm not entirely confident the porch will hold our weight, the way the boards are creaking and moaning whenever one of us moves.
Pulling open the aluminum screen door that is actually missing the screen, Jake raps his knuckles on the hollow metal door. We listen for any footsteps from inside, but there is only silence. Unless Mr. Irwin has decided to drive his not-very-reliable car instead of the Jag, the man is somewhere on the property. Jake checked the back of the trailer when we pulled in, and confirmed Irwin's brand-spanking-new sports car was here.
Banging on the door a few more times, an interior door opens, and feet shuffle closer to the front door. "Jesus H Christ, I'm coming," says a male voice. Deep, rattling coughs come from the other side of the door as it opens. I recognize the sound from my years living with a smoker. My dad had the same lung rattling cough, and I wonder if Irwin is also an alcoholic.
I stay to the side of the door, not wanting the juror to see me right away. It's not really a problem, since Jake, and his linebacker size fills up the space in front of the door, blocking me from view.
"Yeah?" the man at the door asks.
"Are you Russell Irwin?" Jake asks, leaving his sunglasses on, and looking as intimidating as hell.
"Who wants to know?"
"I work for Kylie Stone," Jake says. "My team and I are visiting the jurors to inquire as to the reasons you and the other jurors voted the way you did. Sort of a post-mortem, if you will. You should have been informed that this was standard procedure. In fact, you may be approached by people from the District Attorney's office to discuss this, as well."
"What do you want to know?" Irwin says, his voice laced with wariness.
Jake lifts a legal pad. "I have a few questions for you. Would you mind if I came in?"
Irwin steps back, and I can see the door open wider. "Whatever," the man says, sighing heavily.
Jake steps inside, turning his back to Irwin, and I slip inside before Irwin figures out I'm there and has the chance to close the door on me.
"What the hell?" Irwin's voice raises an octave or two. "You didn't say she was here," he says, pointing his finger at me.
Jake stands straighter, and his chest widens. His gun is holstered at his side under his arm, and in clear view for Irwin to see. "Take a seat, Mr. Irwin."
Irwin glares at me, but then slinks to a chair when he swings his gaze over to Jake. "What do you want to know? And make it quick. I have an appointment this morning."
"Did anyone approach you prior to the start of the trial, and ask you questions about being a juror?" I ask.
Picking up a pack of cigarettes from the table beside him, Irwin pulls one from it, and places it between his lips. "Don't recall anything like that happening."
"No one asked you to vote guilty during deliberations?"
Irwin flicks his lighter, and places the flame against the end of the cigarette. Taking a long, deep draw, he holds the smoke in for a moment, and then slowly blows it out in my direction. "Nope. Like I told that reporter, your husband is guilty as sin."
"I did some checking on you, Mr. Irwin," Jake says, and glances at his legal pad. "You work as a janitor in a high school, making about twenty-four thousand dollars a year. You have an ex-wife and two kids, one still lives at home with your wife, and you pay child support."
"Yeah, so what of it?" Irwin asks, narrowing his eyes.
"I'm just wondering how a man, who seems to live pretty modestly—" Jake glances around the trailer, "—can afford a vehicle that costs more than you make in two years? I see from your bank records—"
Irwin flies from his chair, lunges towards Jake, and tries to grab the paper in his hand. "You son-of-a-bitch, you have no right—"
"Why do you have a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars into your account, Mr. Irwin?" Jake asks.
"I won the lottery," Irwin sneers.
"Checked," Jake says. "The state lottery has no record of you winning."
Irwin sucks on the end of his cigarette, and glares at Jake. "Inheritance."
"Try again, Mr. Irwin, but this is your last chance to tell the truth."
"Or what?" Irwin asks with a snort.
Jake lifts his arm where the gun rest.
Irwin's Adam's apple bobs up and down as he tries to swallow, his wide eyes staring at Jake's hands. "What do you want to know?"
"Who gave you the money?" I ask.
Irwin swings his gaze over to me. "I don't know who actually deposited the money. The woman said she was representing someone who had a lot of money and was willing to pay for a conviction."
"What did the woman look like?" Jake asks.
"Brunette, may have been wearing a wig or something. Older, but still a knock-out for her age."
"What is her name?"
Irwin shakes his head. "I don't know. She never gave it to me. Just said she was relaying a message from a friend. As soon as I left the courthouse yesterday,
there was a deposit in my account."
"You had to have given them more information than that," I say.
"Why? King Kong here was able to hack into my bank records," Irwin says, nodding his head toward Jake.
Good point.
"All right, start from the beginning." Jake sits in a chair across from the recliner Irwin drops into, leaving a couch that has seen better days. I didn't want to know what all the stains on the once beige material had come from.
I choose a spot that isn't completely covered with grime, and balance on the edge of the cushion.
Irwin takes another cigarette from the pack. "I got a call from a woman," he says, the cigarette clenched between his teeth as he lights it. "She said she needed help with a minor flood in her house."
"Why would you be getting a call like that?" Jake asks.
"I do odd jobs to supplement my income. Anyway, I made an appointment to meet with her and get the keys to her house. Apparently, she left water running in the bathtub, and flooded the bathroom, bedroom, and leaked through the ceiling to a couple of the rooms below. I guess, when the rich do stupid shit like that, they leave the house and stay at a five-star hotel until the mess is cleaned up."
"Where did you meet?"
"At some coffee shop downtown…the Coffee Bean, or something like that. Anyway, when I get there, she came clean about why I was really there."
"You agreed to get the other jurors to vote guilty, and sent an innocent man to prison for the rest of his life." I spat the words out, rage bubbling to the surface, nearly propelling me forward to punch the bastard square in the mouth.
"It wasn't just me. There were two other women who also must have been paid off. They were ranting and raving that Stone was guilty, too."
The women who wouldn't look at me during the trial. I knew something was off, but never in a million years did I think it was because they were tampering with the jury's decision.
Vindication: Of Demons & Stones: Tri-Stone Trilogy, Book Three Page 21
