Juror #3

by James Patterson

  I should have figured he’d react in just this way.

  “Yes. A criminal case.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  If I thought I could get away with it, I’d have lied through my teeth. But he could easily check my veracity; all he had to do was go online. “Murder. A murder case.” Hastily, I added, “He’s innocent.”

  He laughed with genuine mirth. “Oh, they’re all innocent, definitely. Every inmate convicted in Mississippi swears he wouldn’t hurt a fly, it was someone else who ‘done it.’ What on earth are you doing with a murder case?”

  “I got appointed.”

  “Well, that’s a hoot. So tell me about this client of yours who doesn’t have a stitch of clothing.”

  I hesitated. It wouldn’t advance my cause with Lee to reveal Darrien Summers’s race. Lee and his family made no secret of their innate sense of superiority to others. The list of people who were beneath their notice was long. As I held the phone, I wondered yet again how I had ever been drawn to him.

  “Lee, you don’t really want to hear the details. I’d surely appreciate it if you’d do me a solid. It’s not so much to ask, right?”

  “Um, don’t think I can, Ruby. I really don’t relish the idea of a criminal trudging into court in chains, sporting my clothes.”

  I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the Nicorette box. Chewing down on the tablet, I thought: I tried to be nice. It’s time to play dirty.

  “Lee, I’ll make you a deal. You help me out, and I won’t tell your mama the real reason I broke off the engagement.”

  I could hear a sharp intake of breath on his end of the phone. “You know, you always had a mean streak, Ruby. Ruthless. I tried to ignore it, but it was always there, right under the surface.”

  I didn’t suppose that Lee had shared the real story with his mother, the incident that caused our relationship to end. But I certainly hadn’t forgotten it. At our engagement party, I’d walked in on him in a bathroom stall with a kneeling woman. So much for the fairy-tale romance.

  “You want to blackmail me. Well, you can’t play me. I’m not giving you a suit.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He exhaled. “How about a compromise? I’ve got someone who might be disposed to help you out. My aunt Suzanne practices in Barnes County. Aunt Suze has a soft spot for charity cases.”

  I frowned into the phone. He was making it complicated. “But I don’t even know her.”

  “Sure you do. You met her one Christmas. Six feet tall, silver hair, two hundred and fifty pounds. Never saw a buffet she didn’t like. She’ll probably lend you a hand with your clothing crisis.”

  “Why would your kinfolks want to help me, when you won’t do it? How am I supposed to beg a favor from your aunt?”

  His voice had regained its confident drawl. “Give her a call, you’ll see. Aunt Suzanne is the black sheep of the family. Because she has a taste for trash.”

  Chapter 8

  WITH TWELVE DAYS to go before trial, I should have been dealing with truly pressing matters. Evidence. Witnesses. Research. Trial strategy. Instead, I continued to obsess about getting Darrien into a decent suit for court. So I drove to the next county to meet with Suzanne Greene. Her secretary had said she had some time free before noon.

  I recognized Lee’s aunt Suzanne the moment I walked into her office and saw her behind her desk. We had shared a cigarette on the side porch of the Greene family homestead when I’d been invited for Christmas during the courtship. Aunt Suzanne had been the only member of Lee’s family who didn’t act like they should double-check the silver forks to make sure none were missing.

  She waved me into her office. “Sit on down, hon, and let me finish up this letter. It’ll just be a minute.”

  I sat, grateful that she hadn’t kicked off our meeting by mentioning the broken engagement. But despite Lee’s indication that she might help me out, I was nervous.

  While Suzanne worked at her computer, I stole a glance around her office. Her desk had piles of papers and files, scattered legal pads bearing handwritten scrawls. Her walls were adorned with certificates: her license to practice in Mississippi, her diploma from the University of Chicago Law School, and her certificate of membership in the ACLU.

  I did a double take, squinting to ensure my eyes didn’t deceive me. When I ascertained that the certificate did in fact declare Suzanne Greene to be a member of the American Civil Liberties Union, I felt such a rush of relief that my shoulders sagged.

  She turned away from the computer screen and faced me. “All righty, then, Ruby. Tell me what’s cooking.”

  I said, “I have a predicament. Just this week, Judge Baylor appointed me to represent Darrien Summers on a capital murder charge in Williams County.”

  She rubbed the end of her nose. “The Jewel Shaw murder. It’s been all the talk around here for weeks.”

  “They wanted him to plead guilty, but he wouldn’t. Mrs. Greene, he swears he didn’t do it.”

  “That’s Ms. Greene, hon. I kept my maiden name. Burned my bra, too, back in the 1970s.” Her face lit up with a grin. “But it’s a more important source of support these days. Now, Ruby, I do recall hearing some scuttlebutt about your client. Wasn’t a story going around that Summers beat up the public defender?”

  I grimaced, though it didn’t surprise me to learn that the story had made the rounds of courthouse talk.

  “He didn’t hit him. Just swung at him.”

  Suzanne folded her arms on her desk and took a long look at me. “So the public defender pulled out, and Baylor appointed a little old girl who’s fresh out of school and green as grass.” She made an impatient noise with her tongue and shook her head. Pointing a finger at me, she said, “You watch out for Baylor. I went to undergrad with him at Ole Miss. He was a sneaky asshole then, and he hasn’t changed a bit.”

  Here was a new wrinkle. This case was my worst nightmare. “Okay. Thanks, Ms. Greene; I’ll be careful. I called you because there’s something I need to get for my client. He doesn’t have—”

  She cut me off. “Tell me about their evidence. Give me the state’s case—nutshell version.”

  I laid it out for her: the text; Jewel Shaw in the cabana with thirteen stab wounds; my client discovered by her side, covered in her blood.

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  “No weapon was found, but Jewel’s phone was in the cabana, containing a variety of photos depicting a sexual relationship between Darrien and the deceased.”

  “How bad are they?”

  “The selfies? Pretty shocking, I’m afraid.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  I was glad I’d brought the file along. I fished out the photocopies for her inspection. She lifted the reading glasses that dangled from a chain around her neck and held them like a magnifying glass.

  Suzanne held up the picture from the billiard room. “Look at this. Jewel looks like she just won a blue ribbon at the county fair.”

  It was true. Jewel was grinning from ear to ear.

  She waved the picture at me. “Now, you know these pictures are trouble. The prosecutor is going to use them to rile the jury up, try to prejudice folks against your client. But the fact is, it looks like Jewel took those pictures herself, at a number of different times—and always looked like she was having a good time. A real good time. You can use that.” She set the photocopy back down on her desk, in the midst of a pile of documents.

  I gave her an earnest smile. “Ms. Greene, the reason I’m here…”

  She winked at me. “Don’t let’s stand on ceremony. Call me Suzanne, hon.” She reached into the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Golds. “Do you mind? It helps me to think.”

  “Go right ahead.” I popped a nugget of Nicorette and chewed down hard. “Suzanne, when I bring Darrien into court, he needs to look presentable.”

  She blew a plume of smoke up toward an antique light fixture. “Have you gone through the phone?”r />
  “Beg pardon?”

  “The phone—Jewel Shaw’s cell phone. Have you looked through it? Contacts, call history, all that?”

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t know I could do that.”

  She unearthed a crystal ashtray from its hiding place under a legal pad. Suzanne took another pull on the cigarette, surveying me over the glasses that now rested on her nose. “Hon, have you gone over to the sheriff’s department yet? Have you examined the physical evidence?”

  “No,” I said, as a new wave of panic gripped me. “I didn’t think they’d let me touch it.”

  She tapped an ash into the ashtray. “Oh, baby girl. Get into that evidence room.”

  “What if they won’t let me in?”

  She stubbed out the cigarette. “If you’re going to be a defense attorney, Ruby, you’re going to have to carry a big stick. I’ll send you the form: Motion to Compel.” She turned to her computer keyboard and said, “Jewel Shaw was kind of a legend in these parts—and not for doing the work of the Lord, if you catch my meaning.”

  I nodded, wondering again why the name “Jewel Shaw” rang a distant bell.

  “That phone should be full of revelations. Why, she likely had a double handful of lovers.”

  I was in no position to doubt Suzanne, but at this, I had to speak up. “You mean I should slut-shame her?”

  Suzanne picked up the Jewel Shaw selfies that were scattered on her desk and stacked them together, then raised her brow.

  I ventured, “I think it’s bad practice, in general, to demean women. And really disrespectful when a person is dead.”

  Suzanne smiled at me. “I was a feminist before you were born, Ruby. Second wave, I think they call me. But you have agreed to defend a man who has been charged with murder. To act as his advocate.”

  She reached across the desk and dropped the selfies in front of me. “Jewel Shaw is dead. You can’t hurt her feelings. If you don’t do everything in your power to fight on Darrien Summers’s behalf, your client may end up dead, too.”

  I couldn’t muster an argument to that.

  In a brisk voice, Suzanne said, “Did you say you were looking for a suit?”

  I offered a weak smile; it had occurred to me that we might never address the purpose of my visit. “Yes. Suzanne, Darrien doesn’t have anything fit to wear to court.”

  “I’ve got you covered. My late husband’s closet is still full of his suits. I haven’t had the heart to throw them out.”

  A grandfather clock in her office began to toll; it was noon. I put the photocopies back into my briefcase. “You’ve been such a help, Suzanne. When can I come by and pick up the suit?”

  “When will you need it?”

  “We are set for trial in twelve days,” I said. I closed my bag and took a step toward the door.

  “Stop right there.”

  I froze.

  “You are set for trial in less than two weeks, and you haven’t even looked at the evidence yet? Girl, how many felony cases have you tried?”

  My armpits began to grow damp. “I’ve never tried one. I don’t have any felony experience. None at all.”

  Suzanne’s reading glasses slipped off her nose. “No felony jury trial experience? And you’re defending a black man on a murder charge in Williams County, where they have a monument to the Glorious Confederate Dead on the courthouse lawn?”

  When I answered, I was ashamed to hear the quaver in my voice. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Don’t have a damned clue.”

  “Y’all are getting railroaded.” Suzanne rose from her seat and shouted through the door to her secretary. “Marlene! Lunchtime! I’m taking Ruby to the Dixie Buffet!”

  Chapter 9

  THE WAITRESS AT the Dixie Buffet gave Suzanne a friendly wave as she approached our booth. “All-you-can-eat shrimp special today, Miss Greene.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Suzanne said. “I’ll take a big glass of sweet tea with that, please.”

  “Two shrimp buffets?” the waitress asked, glancing at me.

  I raised a restraining hand. “No, thank you. Just iced tea for me. Sweet.”

  As the waitress walked off, Suzanne looked at me with pity. “You’re not anorexic, I hope.”

  That made me laugh. “Suzanne, I’m broke.” My wallet held one worn five-dollar bill, and I might need to pump a gallon of gas into the tank to get my car back to Williams County.

  She scooted out of the booth. “Let’s get over to the buffet line. My treat.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, lifting my chin. “You’ve done too much for me already. I can’t add to the debt.”

  Frowning down at me, she paused at the table side, but I was adamant. “You go on. I’m going to drink my tea.”

  Suzanne returned with a loaded plate. As she peeled the shell off a pink shrimp, she asked how I was liking Rosedale.

  “Just fine. No one knows this, but I’m not strictly new to town. My mom and I lived in Rosedale for a while, back when I was in sixth grade.”

  As I took a sip of tea, my brain finally made the connection. It hit me with such force that I nearly spit a mouthful of liquid across the table.

  “Oh. My. Lord. That’s it: Jewel Shaw, at Rosedale Middle School. I was in sixth, she was an eighth grader.”

  “You just this minute figured that out?”

  I picked up the damp napkin under my drink and wiped it across my forehead. “She didn’t go by ‘Jewel’ back then. They called her something else—like Julie, maybe. And we moved around a lot. I changed schools so many times, it’s kind of a blur. But Julie—Jewel Shaw. Good God.”

  A thought struck me. “Does this mean I can’t be Darrien’s lawyer? Because I went to school with the deceased?”

  Suzanne dipped a fried nugget of shrimp into a pool of cocktail sauce. “Well, that depends. Were you and Jewel friends? Were y’all close?”

  My laugh sounded bitter. “I didn’t run in the same circles as Jewel Shaw.”

  “Because she was older?”

  “Because she was the ‘It Girl.’ I was the new girl, a tough kid from the wrong side of the tracks.”

  Maybe that was the most compelling reason I’d returned to Rosedale after the broken engagement. I left that town as a girl just one step up from trash; I would return as a professional, with my head held high.

  Suzanne shot a reassuring glance over her glasses. “Good. You can act as Darrien Summers’s lawyer, unless you believe your recollection of Jewel Shaw diminishes your capacity to represent the defendant to the best of your ability.”

  Only the day before, I might have seized upon an opportunity to remove myself from the case. But the more I sunk my teeth in, the more determined I was to hang on. “It’s not a problem. I don’t have fond memories of Julie Shaw.”

  The waitress paused at our table. “Miss Greene, they just put out a red velvet cake.”

  “Honey, would you bring me over a piece? We’re brainstorming here.”

  When Suzanne returned her attention to me, I said, “When I get the chance to see Jewel’s phone, I’ll be looking for other lurid pictures, right?”

  “Oh, yes.” The cake arrived. She picked up her fork.

  “But how does that help my case, exactly? Is it just about smearing the victim?”

  Suzanne was chewing. I had to wait for the answer.

  “Honey, you need the pictures to broaden the playing field. The prosecution is framing the case as a love affair gone bad. So you’ll want to show that there were other affairs, other lovers who might have wanted to plunge the knife.” She plunged the fork back into the cake. “Muddy the waters. Blow smoke. Jump up and down about the missing murder weapon. Yell about other lovers.”

  “How will that help me to prove that my client is innocent?”

  She dropped the fork.

  “Whoa, darling. That’s not your job. What you have to do is raise a reasonable doubt. That’s all. If you can create a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury, they have to find him
not guilty. Hell—raise that doubt in the mind of just one juror with a backbone, and you’ll hang it up. There’s a unanimous jury requirement in criminal cases. All twelve have to vote Guilty to convict.”

  “Or acquit. I can’t get him off unless all twelve agree on Not Guilty.”

  “So start your treasure hunt. Go looking for that nugget of reasonable doubt, and beat it like a drum. ‘If the gloves don’t fit, you must acquit.’”

  Chapter 10

  I HAD MY dukes up—figuratively speaking, anyway—as I waited for Tom Lafayette to appear in Judge Baylor’s courtroom.

  The copies of my motions lay before me on the counsel table, with handwritten notes jotted in the margins. I’d filed the original with the court that morning, and dropped a copy off at the DA’s office.

  The door to the courtroom flew open. Tom Lafayette stormed in, gripping sheets of paper in his fist.

  Trying to look cool, I tipped my chair back against the railing and rocked back and forth. Lafayette advanced on me, rattling the papers he held. “What’s up with this motion for discovery?”

  I sat the chair back on all four legs, afraid that it might tip over, which would endanger my appearance of self-possession. “I want to see the evidence.”

  “You have it. I provided it to you. You have the contents of the state’s file.”

  “I want to inspect it, in the evidence room. I want to see the evidence with my own eyes. I owe it to my client to know exactly what you’re presenting at trial.”

  He huffed. “You can forget about digging around in the evidence room.”

  I stole a glance at the handwritten notes on my motion. “I’m entitled to inspect the evidence. It’s a right guaranteed by Mississippi Uniform Circuit Court Rule 9.04.”

  He reached into the breast pocket of his gray pinstriped suit jacket and pulled out a pair of glasses. I was glad I’d worn my black graduation dress, the newest article of clothing in my wardrobe.

  Lafayette looked up from the motion I’d prepared. “You’ve cited subsection A of rule 9.04.”

  “Yep.”

  He smiled. “I guess you didn’t get around to reading subsection B.”