by Lee Hollis
Judge Linscott wasn’t wholly convinced and decided to give the defense team one last chance. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Mr. Calloway?”
“One hundred percent, Your Honor,” Mr. Calloway said with a wolfish smile. “We believe the jury has far more than just reasonable doubt.”
Poppy was repulsed by the lawyer’s cocky and sleazy demeanor. She didn’t like his tone or his attitude or his dismissiveness of the female prosecutor by addressing her as “this woman.” She wanted to pop him one right in the kisser.
Judge Linscott shrugged. “Okay, then. We shall proceed to jury instructions.”
The judge droned on for about twenty minutes, and as much as Poppy tried to pay attention, it got boring very quickly. She was still stunned by the fact that Mr. Molina would risk not making a case after the prosecutor’s argument appeared to be pretty much open and shut. Was this some kind of psychological ploy? Were they trying to convince the jury that the case was a sham by pretending to be unconcerned and uninterested in refuting any of the testimony and evidence? It made absolutely no sense.
Poppy noticed the pudgy man next to her still writing furiously until his pen finally ran out of ink. He shook it and tried again to no avail. He looked up at Poppy in a panic. She gently patted his hand. “I’m sure they have more pens in the deliberation room.”
That did not calm him down. He wanted to write everything he was hearing down on paper. Mercifully the judge was just wrapping up his instructions to the jury and asked the bailiff to escort them out of the courtroom. They were led down a hall and filed into a stuffy conference room with a coffeemaker and large round table. Pens and paper were set out in the center. The pudgy man was the first to grab a pen before sitting down. Poppy looked around at the eleven men surrounding her of various ages and types. She guessed the oldest was around sixty-seven and the youngest about twenty-five.
“I feel like Dolly Levi at the Harmonia Gardens. One woman surrounded by all the handsome dancing waiters.”
Only one man, a fiftyish man in a bright blue tracksuit, probably gay, got the joke and chuckled. The others just stared at her, dumbfounded.
They sat in silence for a few moments. No one wanted to speak. It was starting to get a little awkward so Poppy decided to take the lead. “I suppose our first order of business should be selecting a jury foreman.”
The gay one in the tracksuit nodded in agreement. “I nominate you.”
Poppy quickly moved to squelch that idea. “No, I really don’t want—”
The pudgy one practically stroking his new pen then piped in, “I second it.”
Before Poppy could stop them they were voting.
It was eleven to zero, with Poppy abstaining.
She was going to be the jury foreman for this trial whether she liked it or not.
Chapter 5
“Perhaps we should take an initial vote to see where we all stand,” Poppy suggested before picking up a piece of paper and tearing it into twelve pieces and handing one to each of the jurors. Everyone reached for a pen to scribble down their verdict. Once Poppy retrieved all eleven folded pieces of paper and wrote down her own opinion, she began reading the various verdicts.
“Guilty,” she said, setting down the piece of paper on the table. She picked up another piece and read it aloud. “Guilty.” She set the paper down on top of the other guilty verdict. She unfolded a third verdict. “Not guilty.” She started a new pile. When she was done, it was six “guilty” and six “not guilty.”
“Split right down the middle,” said one of the jurors who hadn’t spoken before. He was small and spindly with thick glasses and a perpetual puzzled look on his face, like he was constantly confused. “What do we do now?”
“I say we break for lunch,” another juror with a pronounced paunch suggested. “I’m starving.”
“It’s not even noon yet, so why don’t we spend an hour going over the evidence before we take a break?” Poppy advised with a smile.
The big-bellied juror sighed loudly, annoyed, and threw up his thick, chubby hands. “Whatever!”
Poppy picked up a sealed manila envelope and tore it open. She took out a stack of papers and set them down in the middle of the table for everyone to look at. The juror in the blue tracksuit was the first to reach for some of the papers. “I’m not sure why we have to go over the evidence again. It’s crystal clear to me that Tony Molina is guilty.”
The big-bellied juror nodded in agreement. “I mean, come on, there were eye witnesses who saw him crack the poor chef’s head with the frying pan! Who here voted not guilty?”
A young juror, no more than thirty years old, with curly blond hair, a handsome face, and wearing a shirt and tie that seemed too big for his lean frame, shot a hand in the air. “I think the defense has a very good point about those kitchen workers! They’re employed by the chef. They’re loyal to him. They could be lying, which gives me reasonable doubt!”
An older professorial type in a tweed jacket rolled his eyes, irked. “Oh, please, are you seriously going to buy their argument that the worker was an illegal immigrant who was so scared of being deported that he was willing to lie for his boss? That’s preposterous, not to mention downright racist!”
An African American man with a round face and friendly demeanor leaned forward. “How come there were no security cameras in the kitchen?”
The juror in the blue tracksuit shrugged. “Who knows? If there were, it would make our job a whole lot easier.”
The young blond man in the oversized shirt, who was sitting next to Poppy, reached over and suggestively placed his hand over hers. “This could be a remake of that old movie with Henry Fonda except we would have to call it Eleven Angry Men and One Very Sexy Woman.”
Poppy quickly extricated her hand out from under his. The kid made her skin crawl. He was obviously trying to flatter her, perhaps in some vain attempt to get her to change her vote from guilty to not guilty. It was condescending and sexist, and she was not going to fall for it. “Let’s stay focused on the evidence.”
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing? It smells really nice,” the blond kid commented, flashing a megawatt smile.
“Vera Wang,” Poppy answered, picking up a piece of paper with some testimony and reading it over.
“It’s borderline hypnotic,” the blond man said. “By the way, I’m Alden. Alden Kenny. If we’re going to be spending some time together, we might as well get to know each other.”
“Poppy Harmon,” Poppy said brusquely. “Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves?”
Everyone took turns. Big belly was Bart. Blue tracksuit was Chuck. There were two Johns and a Luther. A Max. One Jerry. A Phil, a Jesus, and a Rodrigo.
Alden didn’t seem at all interested in the other male jurors. He was laser focused on Poppy, and it made her supremely uncomfortable. He was blatantly pouring on the charm, not stopping at her perfume, but also complimenting her outfit, her shoes, her hairstyle. At one point, she had to scold him for distracting the other jurors from the task at hand. He shut up for a little while as Poppy and the other jurors discussed the overwhelming amount of evidence against the defendant. Max, who admitted he was an unabashed fan of Tony Molina and had earlier voted not guilty was finally swayed over to the other side. He was joined by Rodrigo, who initially had been reticent to convict, and eventually another holdout, one of the Johns, also changed his vote.
“Okay, instead of doing another anonymous vote, let’s just have a show of hands. Guilty?” Poppy said, raising her hand.
She was joined by Chuck, Bart, Luther, Max, Phil, the two Johns, Rodrigo, and Jesus.
Poppy nodded. “Not guilty?”
Alden leaned back, smiling seductively at Poppy and raised his hand.
He was joined by Jerry.
Chuck folded his arms, annoyed. “Come on, people. We could be out of here before lunchtime. It’s so obvious he’s guilty. Why are you holding out?”
Jerry, who was so
ft spoken, whispered. “My wife will kill me if I vote to toss her favorite singer, Tony Molina, in jail.”
“Your wife did not take a sworn oath to be an impartial juror,” Poppy fired back, glaring at Jerry. “But you did.”
Jerry was easy to convince after that. He didn’t want trouble and, after some coaxing, admitted that deep down he believed Tony was guilty of the assault. Another quick show of hands and Jerry was a “guilty” vote.
That left Alden Kenny.
And he made it very clear to everyone in the room that he was not going to budge.
Poppy called the bailiff and requested that the jury be released from deliberations until after lunch. She hoped that by then, with some time to consider the mountain of evidence, Alden Kenny might ultimately join the majority in voting to convict.
She was dead wrong.
Once the jury reconvened at the conference table an hour and a half later, Poppy turned to Alden. “Have you reconsidered your vote, Alden?”
Alden shook his head. “Sorry, I’m still a ‘not guilty,’ and I’m afraid it’s going to stay that way.”
Bart looked as if he was going to lunge across the table at Alden and strangle him. “You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s so obvious he did it! Why can’t you see that?”
“I have reasonable doubt,” Alden answered calmly, with an irritating smirk on his face.
“And there is absolutely nothing we can do to convince you otherwise?” Poppy asked as a looming sense of hopelessness began to settle over the deliberation room.
Alden pursed his lips. “Nope.”
He was acting so smug and superior and smarmy.
Poppy found him repulsive.
“So going over the overabundance of evidence one more time will not change your mind?” Poppy asked, sighing.
“As much as I would love to spend more time with you, Poppy, I’m afraid it would be pointless if your goal is to switch my vote. However, once this is over, I would be happy to spend as much time together as your heart desires.”
God, he was such a little creep.
“No thank you,” Poppy said curtly. “I’m good.”
“Can I ask why you’re being so stubborn?” Phil barked. He was around Poppy’s age and scowled a lot and seemed deeply miffed all the time.
Alden smiled. “I grew up in Abilene, Texas. My whole family were huge fans of Tony Molina. He was so suave and cool and had such a soothing voice that would melt butter. He was so different from what we were used to, and he had such an impact on me, and I just wouldn’t feel right ruining his life because of a small scuffle over a steak.”
“So the fact that Chef Carmine was hospitalized with a very serious concussion doesn’t affect you at all?” Poppy asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not particularly,” Alden said. “He looked fine to me in the courtroom. Let’s be honest. It’s not like he suffered any brain damage.”
“So it’s okay to assault someone as long as they manage to recover? Is that your opinion?” Rodrigo asked, shaking his head, disgusted.
Alden folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “We’re talking about the Tony Molina.”
Poppy knew there was no convincing him.
The jury was hopelessly deadlocked.
Chapter 6
“Who is the jury foreman?” Judge Linscott asked, a weary look on his face.
Poppy reluctantly raised her hand, as if the deadlocked jury would somehow be perceived as being her fault.
Judge Linscott unexpectedly brightened. “Ah, Ms. Harmon, it’s a pleasure to see you in my courtroom, so actively embracing your civic duty.”
Poppy was utterly confused. The judge was acting as if they had met before. But she was fairly confident their paths had never crossed. And during jury selection, he had shown no signs of recognizing her.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Poppy said.
“I thought you looked familiar when the jury was first assembled, but I couldn’t quite place you,” Judge Linscott said, beaming. “But last night, my wife was watching the Nostalgia Network. . . .”
Poppy silently groaned. She hadn’t expected this moment and was not looking forward to it. Her past always seemed to be a distraction.
“And what should come on but an old episode of Jack Colt, PI,” Judge Linscott said excitedly, leaning forward, hands clasped together.
Max, who was sitting directly behind Poppy, shouted, “Of course! That’s where I’ve seen you before! You played Daphne, Jack’s loyal secretary!”
Poppy wanted to shrink and disappear, but she knew that was impossible in the moment so she just nodded and forced a smile.
The judge, who was oblivious to just how uncomfortable he was making her feel, continued to carry on. “You were quite good in the show. In the episode my wife saw, you went to deposit your paycheck at your local bank and walked right into a holdup, and you were taken hostage by the robbers, and Jack had to race against time to rescue you before they escaped with you across the Mexican border! Do you remember that one?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Honor. We did over seventy episodes so I don’t really remember a lot of the story lines. . . .” Poppy said, shifting in her seat, silently praying this would be over soon.
“It must have been around nineteen eighty-six or eighty-seven. You looked so young,” the judge said before quickly catching himself and attempting to recover. “And, may I add, you have aged beautifully.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Poppy sighed.
“Now,” the judge said, clearing his throat. “Let’s get back to the business at hand.”
Alden, who was sitting next to Poppy, leaned in and whispered in her ear, “I didn’t realize I was on the jury with a celebrity!”
She had no desire to answer him and so she didn’t.
The judge returned to his professional, stoic demeanor. “It has been brought to my attention that the jury is deadlocked. Is that correct, Ms. Harmon?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And if I send you back to deliberate some more, you believe it would be a waste of time and impossible to reach a unanimous verdict?”
“I believe so, yes, Your Honor,” Poppy said with a frown.
“And what was the final vote?” Judge Linscott inquired, glancing over at Poppy.
“Eleven to one to convict,” Poppy said, glaring at Alden, sitting next to her.
Alden began playing footsie with Poppy, bumping his shoe into hers like a little kid who was smitten with the girl sitting next to him in church. Poppy was having none of that. She raised her foot and drove the sharp heel of her Steve Madden block heel sandal down on top of Alden’s scuffed dress shoe. He had to suppress a yelp at the pain shooting through his toe.
The judge took time shuffling through some paperwork before looking up and nodding to the jury. “Very well, then, since the jury is hung and no verdict can be reached, I have no choice but to declare a mistrial on the assault charge against Mr. Molina.”
Tony Molina slammed his fist down on the desk triumphantly and broke into a wide smile before excitedly shaking hands with his three lawyers. His son, Dominick, jumped up from his seat in the gallery and raced over to hug his father. Father and son then high-fived each other.
“It will be up to the district attorney’s office whether or not the charges will be refiled for another trial,” the judge said, eyes fixed on the redheaded prosecutor.
Frustrated, she stood up to address the judge. “They certainly will, Your Honor.”
“That’s up to you,” Judge Linscott said with a shrug. He then turned to the jury box. “Lady and gentlemen of the jury, I thank you on behalf of the Riverside County district court for your service. I hereby excuse you. You are free to go.”
Poppy and the eleven men of the jury all stood up and began filing out. Alden Kenny was in front of her, and as they passed Tony Molina, who was now hugging the older attorney, she saw the singer give a slight nod to Alden as he walked by him. She could not be 100 percent
sure, but she thought she saw Alden nod back as if the two men knew each other. Molina could not have known Alden Kenny was the lone holdout, the one juror who had resolutely refused to find him guilty despite the clear evidence in front of him.
Was Alden a plant?
Did they have some kind of secret pact?
Perhaps she should go to the judge and tell him what she had just witnessed. But again, she wasn’t confident enough to make any kind of fact-based accusation. It was just a nod, a half smile; it might have meant nothing. And the trial was over. It was time to get back to her life and start focusing on the search for Rod Harper’s AWOL daughter. She decided in that moment to just let it go, blissfully unaware that forgetting about it would be far easier said than done.
Chapter 7
Poppy was halfway to her car when she noticed Tony Molina and his son, Dominick, along with the small entourage of slick lawyers outside, slapping each other on the back, laughing uproariously, truly enjoying their victorious moment. The sight made her slightly nauseous. She knew in her gut that Molina had indeed physically assaulted Chef Carmine Cicci, and watching him now, cracking jokes, well, it just didn’t sit well with her. She had half a mind to march right up and give him a piece of her mind and remind him just how close he came to serving jail time, and that perhaps in the future he should think twice before going off half cocked and indulging in a childish temper tantrum by whacking a poor man in the head with a cast-iron frying pan. Just because he was famous and had a lot of money didn’t give him a license to break the law. But she refrained from causing any kind of scene. The only thing she would probably do going forward was to ban Iris from playing any of his CDs at the Desert Flowers Detective Agency office. At least when she was present.