‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Never better.’
‘This was smart of you,’ he said. ‘Nice work.’
She didn’t say anything, but he knew she appreciated the compliment.
‘You coming to bed?’ she asked him.
‘Soon.’
‘I’ll probably be asleep.’
‘That’s okay.’ He added: ‘You know I took you seriously about this guy, right?’
‘No, I wasn’t sure of that, but it’s nice to hear.’
He kept holding her hand.
‘The trial’s winding down,’ he said. ‘Dan rested the prosecution case today. Unless Janine testifies, they’ll probably wrap up the case tomorrow.’
‘Do you think she’ll testify?’
Stride shook his head. ‘No, Dan doesn’t think Gale will give him a shot at cross-examining her.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we wait for the jury.’
Cindy frowned. Her eyes were on the man at the marathon. ‘I wish you could find this guy first.’
27
Maggie ate a Sausage McMuffin in her Avalanche near the harbor on the Point. It was barely past dawn, but the July day promised to be hot and bright. As usual, she’d only slept for about four hours, and then she’d gone to the drive-through for breakfast. If there was one part of American culture to which Maggie was addicted, it was McDonald’s. She couldn’t get enough French fries and quarter-pounders, and somehow, none of it ever padded her girly frame.
Through her binoculars, Maggie spied Troy Grange on a Zodiac heading back to the harbor.
Everyone in Duluth law enforcement knew Troy. He was solid. Good values. Hard worker. People liked him. He could have been a cop, but he liked working on and near the water, so he signed on as a health and safety inspector with the company that handled security for the Duluth Port. Sooner or later, Maggie figured, he’d be running the whole department.
Thanks to his reputation, Troy also had an annual part-time job coordinating safety issues during Grandma’s Marathon. As a result, he knew everyone who worked security along the twenty-six--mile course.
She crumpled her paper wrappers into a ball and climbed down from her truck. Troy, docking the Zodiac, saw her and waved, and she waved back. He was a couple years older than she was and only a few inches taller. He was a weightlifter in his spare time, with a beefy, muscular frame. His skull was shaved smooth, and he had a face that wouldn’t win him a cover spread in GQ: an oversized, lumpy nose; a couple of broad chins; and florid cheekbones that pushed out from his face like a pair of red jawbreakers.
Troy wasn’t anyone’s idea of cute, but Maggie had a little bit of a thing for him. She liked nice guys. Stride. Troy. Apparently, she also liked married guys, because Troy and his wife Trisha had been married for five years and had recently had their first child, Emma. He was off-limits. Maggie didn’t spend a lot of time on self-reflection, but sometimes she wondered if she was doomed to have crushes on men she couldn’t have.
‘Sergeant,’ Troy announced as he bounded onto dry land. ‘I don’t usually get a welcoming committee.’
‘Hey, Troy.’
Troy, like Maggie, was an early riser, and he toured the dock areas from the water several mornings a week. His philosophy of security was that the best way to stop trouble was to make sure it never happened. He also liked seeing things with his own eyes, which was why he didn’t delegate basic tasks like reviewing the port facilities.
‘So what’s the McPoison this morning?’ he asked with a grin. ‘Hotcakes? One of those new McGriddle things?’
Maggie shook her head. People in Duluth knew way too much about her daily routines. ‘Sausage McMuffin with Egg, thank you very much.’
‘I don’t suppose you brought me one,’ Troy said.
‘And ruin your organic body? I wouldn’t dream of it.’
Troy chuckled. ‘Well, it doesn’t seem to hurt yours, Sergeant.’
She’d told him for two years to call her Maggie, but Troy stayed formal around cops. For him, it was a respect thing, even though they were friends. Part of her also wondered whether it was his way of keeping extra distance between them. She liked to think that her sex appeal didn’t go completely unnoticed.
‘How are Trisha and Emma?’ she asked.
‘Neither one getting much sleep.’
‘Well, sleep is overrated.’
‘I told Trisha that,’ Troy said, ‘and then I had to duck when she threw a shoe at me.’
Maggie laughed. She slid a copy of the photograph that Stride had given her from a back pocket, then passed it to Troy. ‘Listen, I’m hoping you can help us. This is a crowd pic from Grandma’s. See the redhead in the security uniform? I was hoping you know who she is.’
Troy glanced at it and handed the page back. ‘Sure. Jessie Klayman.’
‘What about the guy she’s standing next to? The hard case in the camo jacket?’
He took another look at the photograph. ‘No, sorry, him I don’t know.’
‘What’s the story with Jessie?’ Maggie asked.
‘She’s a temp. Moved to Duluth from Fargo about a year ago. She did mall security there. I’ve brought her in a few times on low-priority overflow work. Nothing sensitive. Between you and me, I don’t see her as full-time material. She’s not particularly reliable, and if I had to guess, there’s an alcohol issue.’
‘She looks about forty,’ Maggie said.
‘Yeah, that sounds right. I haven’t spent a lot of time with her. She’s nice enough, but I get tired of hearing about guns.’
‘Guns?’
‘Oh, yeah, she’s a bad-to-the-bone gun collector. Always going to shows around the country. She must have an armory at home by now.’
Maggie frowned. ‘Including assault rifles?’
‘Definitely. She brags about the hardware. No anti-government or militia crap. I wouldn’t hire her if I got a whiff of that. I think she’s just your run-of-the-mill gun nut.’
‘Where does she live?’ Maggie asked.
‘She’s got a little place in Gary. I’m sure I have her address.’ Troy dug a notebook from his pocket and riffled through the pages. ‘Here you go,’ he said, rattling off the number and street.
Maggie wrote it down. ‘Thanks. And you’re sure you don’t know the guy with her?’
Troy looked at the photograph again, taking more time. ‘He’s not familiar to me, but I know that Jessie’s got a kid. If you ask me, there’s some resemblance in the faces. The eyes and nose look similar. Maybe that’s her son.’
28
By noon, the case was theirs.
Closing statements were done, and for Howard, they were no more than a regurgitation of what he’d already heard. The judge read them instructions on the law and gave them verdict forms. One count of murder in the second degree – guilty or not guilty. There were no more witnesses, no more attorneys, no more exhibits, just the twelve of them together in the jury room. Twelve strangers.
Howard sat nervously at the conference table. The room was no more than a drab meeting space immediately behind the courtroom. Twelve chairs barely fit around the table. There was a leather sofa and a cabinet with a mini-refrigerator, microwave, and coffee maker. An old-fashioned clock ticked off the minutes above the microwave.
He realized they didn’t want the jury getting too comfortable. Do your work, make a decision, and go home.
The black woman who’d sat next to him throughout the trial chose a seat next to him again. Every day, she wore a different pants suit; today it was cream-colored, with lace stitching on the collar. She spoke first. ‘Let’s go around the table and introduce ourselves, okay?’
So they did. Some gave just their names. Some talked about what they did for a living. The woman in the pants suit said that her name was Eleanor
and that she worked as a secretary in a small accountant’s office and had three children. She had a calmness about her, friendly but direct. Her dark skin was mottled. Her hair was short and neat.
‘We need to pick a foreman,’ a man at the other end of the table announced when they’d finished introductions. Howard tried to remember the man’s name and thought that it was Bruce. He was the only juror in a tie, and he’d made a point of bragging that he managed a downtown hotel. He was in his sixties, with a gray mustache and a comb-over.
Eleanor said, ‘Well, who among us would be willing to be the foreman? Maybe we should start there.’
Bruce raised his hand immediately. Eleanor stared at the man thoughtfully, and then she raised her hand, too. It was just the two of them. No one else volunteered. Eleanor suggested they each talk about how the foreman could help the group, and when they did, Bruce talked about his management experience, and Eleanor simply said she wanted to respect the process and deliver a fair result.
They passed notepaper around the conference table, and when they’d voted, Eleanor was named foreman by a vote of 10 to 2. Bruce didn’t look happy with the outcome.
‘We have four questions to answer,’ Eleanor reminded them as they began their deliberations. ‘I think we can decide three of them easily enough. Can we take a vote as to whether the state proved that Jay Ferris was dead?’
They did. All agreed.
‘And let’s also vote as to whether the death took place in St. Louis County in the state of Minnesota?’
The same result.
‘Finally – and if any of you disagree, we can postpone this question – can we vote that whoever killed Jay Ferris did so with an intent to murder him? My own opinion is that if you point a gun at someone’s head and pull the trigger, your intent is pretty clear. But that’s just me.’
They voted, and they agreed that intent had been established.
‘That’s progress,’ Eleanor announced with a smile. ‘That leaves us with one question, and it’s the big one. We have to decide whether the state proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Janine Snow caused the death of Jay Ferris. I think it’s important that we review all the evidence carefully regardless of what any of us is thinking at this particular moment. Right? But I also think it would be useful for each of us to share our preliminary opinion, recognizing that our opinion might change as we look at the facts. Okay?’
Howard felt his body tense. Sweat gathered on his neck. This was the moment he’d anticipated, but he had no idea what to say.
Reasonable doubt. The judge had told them: Reasonable doubt is just what it sounds like. It’s doubt based in reason and common sense. The state does not have to prove its case beyond all doubt. Some doubt always exists about most things in life.
‘Let’s go around the room,’ Eleanor said.
Answer yes or no, she told them. Answer yes if you think the state proved its case. Yes if you’re ready to declare Janine Snow guilty of murder.
The juror on the other side of Eleanor answered first. ‘Yes.’
And another. ‘Yes.’
One juror declined to answer. So did the next. And then:
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
Howard stared at their faces. They made it look so easy. They’d sat in the same courtroom as him, and the case was already clear in their minds. They’d looked into Janine’s face and seen a killer there.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
Don’t be influenced by emotion or passion, the judge had said. The only thing you should look at are the facts of the case.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
The vote around the table reached Howard. There hadn’t been a single person to vote no. Not a single person with doubt. Only two jurors had declined to vote openly, and the rest had made up their minds.
Guilty.
‘I – I’m not sure,’ Howard said. ‘I guess I have to say no.’
There was silence in the room. Howard felt their eyes on him, and his skin burned with embarrassment. Did they know? Did they know how he felt about Janine? Don’t be influenced by emotion or passion.
‘Fine,’ Eleanor said. ‘My own vote is yes. Howard, could you tell us about the doubts you have? That may help us think through the evidence.’
Howard tried to organize his thoughts. Yes, he had doubt. Was it reasonable doubt? He didn’t know. Part of him wanted to believe there was no way that Janine could have pulled the trigger. Part of him wanted to rescue her. Another part of him, the cold part, heard Carol’s voice from months earlier. She did it.
‘They didn’t prove that Janine fired a gun,’ Howard pointed out. ‘Or that she even had a gun.’
The hotel manager Bruce said acidly: ‘Janine?’
Howard flushed. ‘The defendant.’
‘I think we should call her Dr. Snow,’ Eleanor suggested. ‘She’s the defendant, but she’s also a human being, and we’re deciding how she’s going to spend the rest of her life. Let’s not forget that.’
‘They couldn’t prove Dr. Snow fired a gun because she took a shower,’ Bruce retorted. ‘How convenient is that? She just happened to be doing the one thing that would erase evidence of her firing a gun.’
Several jurors grumbled their agreement.
Another woman spoke up. ‘Plus, we saw a photograph of her firing a gun. For me, that’s a big thing. You’re either a gun person, or you’re not. I wouldn’t have a clue how to fire a gun. Dr. Snow knew.’
‘Nathan Skinner also testified that Dr. Snow asked him how to get a gun,’ Bruce pointed out. ‘On the QT.’
‘That’s true, but do we believe Nathan Skinner?’ Eleanor asked. ‘He’s an important witness, but I’m not sure I find him credible.’
‘Maybe Skinner killed Ferris,’ Howard suggested. ‘Maybe he’s trying to frame Dr. Snow.’
Bruce shook his head. ‘That’s crazy.’
‘Why?’ Howard asked. ‘Skinner has no alibi for the time of the murder.’
‘We saw phone records,’ Bruce replied. ‘From early December to January 28, Skinner didn’t call Snow. He didn’t call Ferris. They didn’t call him. There was no contact at all. So all of a sudden, seven weeks after she breaks off the affair, Skinner goes over there with a gun? I don’t think so. Plus, we heard testimony from the pizza girl who said Ferris was in his apartment the night of the murder, sick as a dog, watching a hockey game. The game started at 9:00 p.m. What do you think? Before the third period, he suddenly got it in his head to drive to Ferris’s place and shoot him? Sorry, I don’t buy it.’
Howard said nothing. The other jurors nodded their heads.
‘All right, but what about Skinner’s testimony that Dr. Snow asked him about getting a gun?’ Eleanor said. ‘I just don’t think I believe him about that. They were lovers. Frankly, if she wanted a gun, he would have gotten her one. And he didn’t do that.’
Bruce pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I guess I’m with you on that.’
‘Let’s focus on what we do know,’ Eleanor went on. ‘In her statement to the police, Dr. Snow admitted that she was home when the murder occurred. She admitted arguing with her husband, which was confirmed by testimony from Cindy Stride. Mrs. Stride also testified that Dr. Snow wanted to get a divorce, but she couldn’t because she felt trapped.’
‘Feeling trapped doesn’t mean she killed her husband,’ Howard insisted.
‘She’s a pill junkie!’ Bruce barked. ‘Ferris was holding it over her head. You bet she was trapped. And she only had one way out. Bang!’
There was silence again. The twelve of them looked at each other, and Howard felt all of them looking at him. The man with doubt. The only man who wasn’t ready to throw Janine into the fire.
29
Stride pulled up to the gravel driveway of Jessie Klayman’s house i
n the town of Gary. It was on Dickson Street, near where the road dead-ended. The house was single-level, with a detached garage and wooden steps leading to the front door. The large yard was mostly scrub grass and weeds, and in back, the lot butted up to a line of trees. He saw two cars in the driveway, a green Dodge Neon and a rusted Pontiac Firebird.
He got out on one side of his Bronco, and Maggie got out on the other.
‘Know where we are?’ she asked, pointing down the street to 108th. ‘Turn left there and left again on Becks—’
‘Ely’s Peak,’ Stride said.
‘Yeah.’
He studied the small house. He’d walked up ordinary driveways to ordinary houses too many times to take it lightly. The outside never told him what was happening inside. ‘Stay alert,’ he said.
They headed for the front door, where he pressed the doorbell and heard the chime. Thirty seconds passed before a woman answered. She pushed the storm door open and smiled, but her eyes were wary. If this woman worked security, she knew how to recognize cops.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Her voice had the overexcited trill of a bird at dawn.
‘Are you Jessie Klayman?’ Stride asked. When the woman nodded, he said, ‘My name’s Jonathan Stride, and this is Maggie Bei. We’re with the Duluth Police.’ He showed her his badge, but she hardly looked at it.
‘Yeah, I figured,’ the woman replied, smoothing her dyed-red hair with dyed-red fingernails. She was pudgy and short, and she wore a form-fitting Twins T-shirt with jean shorts. ‘What’s up?’
‘We just have a couple questions for you. May we come inside?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
She waved them into her living room. A game show blared from the television. The room smelled of beer. So did Jessie’s breath. Stride saw the kitchen adjacent to the living room, where dirty dishes mingled with empty Budweiser cans. There was no air conditioning, and the shadowy interior was warm with stale air that hung in the room.
‘You were on the security team during the marathon last month, weren’t you?’ Maggie asked her.
Goodbye to the Dead (Jonathan Stride Book 7) Page 18
