Juror #3

by James Patterson

  His eyes cut away from me. “She had a lot of pictures.”

  “That’s true. And isn’t it also true, Sheriff, that a number of those shots depict Ms. Shaw in the company of men other than Darrien Summers?”

  “They might have. I don’t know.”

  I walked close to the witness stand. He was clamming up, afraid to give an answer that would hurt the state. “Oh, come on, Sheriff. Did you or did you not see pictures of Jewel Shaw with a variety of male companions on her cell phone?”

  “I can’t remember every picture on her phone.”

  He didn’t want to play ball with me. With a nod at the jury box, I walked to the DA’s counsel table and picked up State’s Exhibit 5, the phone that belonged to Jewel Shaw.

  Lafayette demanded in a whisper, “What are you doing?”

  I didn’t answer, just ripped the plastic cocoon off Jewel Shaw’s phone.

  Lafayette jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense is tampering with the state’s exhibit!”

  I held it up so that the judge—and the jury—could see it. “Your Honor, I’m not harming the exhibit in any way.”

  Lafayette moved toward the bench with a full head of steam. “I want to know what Miss Bozarth intends to do with the state’s exhibit.”

  Gonna make the sheriff eat his words.

  “Use it to cross-examine this witness, Judge.”

  In the days prior to trial, I had studied Jewel’s phone history; I knew the pictures on that phone. I had determined in advance precisely which ones I intended for the jury to see. Jewel Shaw hanging off a blond surfer type. Jewel Shaw in the nude, riding piggyback on a suntanned Hispanic man. Jewel Shaw lifting her shirt on Bourbon Street, with the caption “Begging for beads!”

  At Lafayette’s insistence we approached the bench, and after a whispered consultation, Judge Baylor said I could proceed. With a cocky air, I walked the short distance to the podium. My excitement mounted; I was going to make headway with the phone information and initiate a tangible contribution to Darrien’s defense. I’d start taking charge—just as soon as I turned on Jewel’s phone and revealed its contents.

  Holding the phone in my hand, I tried to turn it on.

  The phone was dead.

  As I stared at the dark screen, a voice in my head whispered: Karma. Or the ghost of Jewel Shaw.

  Chapter 23

  THAT DAY, COURT ran so long that the sun was setting when the state called its last witness. A shaft of light shining through the windows on the west side of the courtroom illuminated the faces of the jurors as they sat in the box. They looked strained, weary.

  So was I.

  Lafayette approached his final witness. “State your name, sir.”

  “Stanley Forsythe.”

  “And what is your occupation?”

  “I’m a photographer. I have a studio here in Rosedale.”

  “What kind of photography do you do, sir?”

  “Weddings, graduation portraits, family portraits. My clients can have traditional sittings in my studio, but I also go out on location, take photos in natural settings.”

  Lafayette grinned at him. “Like my daughter’s graduation picture? You went to the high school stadium as a background for her in her cheerleading uniform, ain’t that right?”

  From my seat, I said: “Objection. Irrelevant.”

  The judge adjusted his glasses. “Sustained.”

  The DA glanced at me with a careless shrug of his shoulders. He’d made his point. He was a local baron, firmly woven into the tapestry of the community. I was the outsider.

  Turning back to his witness, Lafayette said, “Sir, in February of this year, did you have occasion to be present at the Mardi Gras ball at the Williams County country club?”

  “I did.”

  “For what purpose were you there?”

  “The club hired me to take photographs of the event. It’s an annual tradition.”

  “Posed photos?”

  “No. Candids. For the club newsletter.”

  As he testified, I was doing a slow burn. I’d seen the photographer’s name on the state’s witness list, and tried to contact him half a dozen times, even going to his studio the Saturday before trial began. He wouldn’t talk to me.

  The DA set up two easels near the witness stand, then picked up a large mounted exhibit from his counsel table.

  Lafayette placed the exhibit on one of the easels. “Mr. Forsythe, I show you what’s been marked for identification as State’s Exhibit Thirty-three. Can you identify it for the jury, sir?”

  Looking at the exhibit as Forsythe responded, I clutched the pen in my hand so hard that I cracked the plastic casing. The exhibit was a blown-up photograph of Jewel Shaw, taken at the ball. It was a full-length shot in a glorious riot of color: her purple dress, her shining golden hair, her laughing face behind the glittery green Mardi Gras mask. The image seemed to vibrate with life and vitality.

  I cut my eyes at the jury, to measure the impact the photo had on them. They looked like mourners at the funeral service. My lone black juror was fumbling with a packet of Kleenex tissues. She wiped her eyes.

  Lord help us.

  Lafayette said, “Mr. Forsythe, what time was this photograph taken?”

  “Ten fifteen p.m. My equipment records the times of each photograph.”

  In a voice of deep solemnity, he asked, “Is State’s Exhibit Thirty-three a fair and accurate representation of Jewel Shaw at 10:15 on the night of her death?”

  “It is.”

  The DA turned to the bench. “Your Honor, the state offers State’s Exhibit Thirty-three into evidence.”

  “Miss Bozarth?”

  I didn’t huddle in conference with Darrien. I wanted the moment to pass as quickly as possible. “No objection.”

  Lafayette walked back to the prosecution table and hefted a second exhibit, identical in size.

  He placed the exhibit on the second easel. It was an image that had been admitted into evidence earlier: State’s Exhibit 10. Jewel Shaw lay dead in her bloodstained dress in cabana 6, her arm dangling off the chaise. Her sightless eyes were open. Blood matted the golden hair and the green and gold beads at her neck.

  Lafayette bowed his head, like a man preparing to launch into prayer.

  “No further questions.”

  Chapter 24

  “YOUR HONOR, THE state rests.”

  Lafayette’s voice rang with self-satisfaction.

  Judge Baylor said, “It’s been a long day. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll recess until tomorrow morning.”

  When he stood to leave the bench, I rose, and remained standing as the sequestered jury passed by my counsel table. Keeping my posture rigidly erect, I tried to make eye contact with the jurors, but they all avoided my gaze—with one exception: juror number 3. He smiled, showing his teeth. I narrowed my eyes, thinking: I know all about you, Mr. Aryan Citizen.

  As the courtroom emptied out, Darrien slumped down in his chair. “Ruby, it looks bad.”

  I dropped into my chair beside him and spoke in a whisper. “It’s not over. We get our chance tomorrow.”

  He wiped his face with a hand that trembled. “I’ve been watching that jury. They hate me.”

  “We’ll turn it around. We have ten witnesses coming in tomorrow morning who will testify about your character.”

  His hand left his face and he looked at me. “Will it help?”

  “You bet it will. The jury has only heard one side. And there’s something else.”

  I was so deep in conversation that I didn’t see Lafayette approach. “Ruby.”

  My head jerked up. He was standing a foot away. “What do you want?”

  He pulled a face. “Don’t bite my head off. I have a disclosure to make. A witness I may call.”

  I wanted to tear out my hair. “You just rested.”

  “I’ll call him as a rebuttal witness. After the defense rests.”

  The bailiff was shackling Darrien, preparing to take him back
to jail. “Ruby?” he said as the cuffs clicked shut.

  To Darrien, I whispered, “I’ll be in to see you tomorrow morning, before court. I found out something that can help our case, something major. But we need to talk privately.”

  He nodded an acknowledgment, but as he walked away, I sensed fear radiating from him.

  Lafayette rested a hip on my table. He held out a sheet of paper. It read: “State’s rebuttal witness: Phillip Nelson, Assistant Public Defender.”

  I looked up. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  The DA was smug. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “Phillip Nelson was the public defender who represented Darrien before I was appointed. He can’t testify against his former client. That’s not ethical.”

  With mock patience, Lafayette said, “I’m anticipating a character defense. I contacted a couple of those names on your witness list. They told me you’ll be calling them to swear to Mr. Summers’s peaceable reputation.”

  “So?”

  “You think I’ll be sitting on my hands, doing nothing to combat it? Girl, you’ve got a lot to learn. ‘Mr. So-and-so, would it affect your opinion if you knew that Darrien Summers attacked his attorney in a court of law?’ I’ll get to ask that question in cross-ex.”

  A flush crawled up my neck. I should have anticipated that.

  “And then, when you’re done, I’ll need to call the victim of the assault. To show the jury that, once again, I’m telling them the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “I’ll object. It’s not proper,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

  He slipped off the counsel table, knocking my pen to the floor as he did so. I bent down to pick it up; Lord knows I didn’t have a wealth of writing implements.

  “Make all the noise you want. It builds such trust with the jury when you try to conceal the facts.”

  He actually chuckled as he walked over to his own table and packed up his exhibits. I should have known he would attack my character defense. My inexperience had caused me to fail my client yet again.

  I wanted to lay my head on the counsel table and howl. I shook with the effort to retain control.

  An arm slipped around my shoulder. I smelled a whiff of tobacco.

  With a start, I twisted around in my chair. Suzanne Greene was leaning over the wooden bar that separated the public gallery from the lawyers and judge.

  Behind her reading glasses, her eyes twinkled. “Pack up your stuff and meet me at my office in forty-five minutes. I’ve got something for you.”

  I searched her face. She looked like a bearer of good news, but my spirits were down too low to try to guess what it might be.

  “What is it?”

  She patted my shoulder.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Is it a cyanide tablet? Because I’d like to swallow one right about now.”

  Her hand, still on my shoulder, gave me a firm shake. “I don’t like that talk. Don’t you dare give up. The cavalry has arrived.”

  Chapter 25

  AFTER I PARKED my car behind Suzanne’s office building, I pulled out my phone to see whether any new catastrophe had occurred. There was a text from Shorty.

  Hey darling! Should I drop by tonite with covered dish? It was followed by a winky face emoji.

  Staring at the phone, I considered angry replies or accusations.

  Instead, I deleted the message. As I walked to Suzanne’s office, I berated myself once again. When it came to men, I didn’t have a lick of sense.

  The door was unlocked. I walked into the lobby and called out: “Suzanne?” Then I saw a sight that made me trip over my own feet.

  Lee Greene Jr. My ex-fiancé. Standing in front of an antique mirrored hat rack in the lobby, admiring his reflection.

  “Lee,” I blurted.

  He was straightening a striped bow tie at his neck. Glancing my way, his face broke into a smile. A sardonic smile.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. If it’s not my old heartthrob, Ruby Bozarth.”

  I clutched the briefcase he’d given me behind my back, hoping to hide it from view. “I’m here to see Suzanne. She’s helping me.”

  “That’s what I hear. Sounds like you’re chasing my aunt all over the state, begging for her favors.”

  I flushed. Had Suzanne characterized me in that fashion?

  Lee gave himself a final once-over in the mirror, and said, “I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were hungry for the Greene family legacy.”

  I took a step in his direction. “The hell you say. Seems like I told you to take your legacy and shove it up your snobby—”

  He cut me off with a laugh. “There’s that junkyard dog I used to adore. You never change, Ruby. Awful glad I found out in time.”

  A sheaf of papers sat on the empty receptionist’s desk. He picked them up, and called out to the back of the office. “Aunt Suze, I’m heading out. Thanks for letting me use your printer.”

  Suzanne’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Glad to help. Is Ruby out there?”

  “She is, ma’am.” Lee tucked the papers into a leather portfolio. “I’m off to Vicksburg. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Ruby! Back here! In the library!”

  Entering the book-lined room, I was taken aback to see the man sitting beside Suzanne at the conference table.

  It was Stanley Forsythe, the Rosedale photographer. And he didn’t look happy.

  Dropping my briefcase to the floor, I said, “Well, this is a surprise.”

  Suzanne was puffing on a Marlboro Gold. “Y’all haven’t been properly introduced. Stanley, this is Ruby Bozarth. She’s a friend of mine. My protégé, you might say.”

  I slid into a chair at Suzanne’s right. “Mr. Forsythe and I met over the phone last week. I wanted to get together with him, but he was too busy.”

  “Well, he’s got some free time now. All righty, Stan—let’s see those Mardi Gras pictures.”

  Stanley Forsythe had a laptop computer in front of him. His hand made a damp print on the black surface. “I don’t know about this, Suzanne. The DA said that my images are state’s evidence.”

  I was wild to see the pictures he had withheld from me. I popped a piece of Nicorette and said, “Mr. Forsythe, if it’s regarded as state’s evidence, then I’m legally entitled to inspect it. Judge Baylor signed an order saying so.”

  He wiped his sweaty hands on the legs of his pants. “Maybe I should ask Lafayette first.”

  Suzanne flicked an ash. “Open the damn computer and pull up those shots. You’re acting like a kid stealing candy at the Piggly Wiggly.”

  “I don’t know, Suzanne. It doesn’t feel right.”

  She peered at him over her reading glasses. “Since when did you start doubting my legal judgment? You know, Stanley, you wouldn’t be in business today if I hadn’t won your divorce case three years back.”

  That did the trick. He opened the laptop and pulled up the file containing the photographs he’d shot at the Mardi Gras ball. I left my chair and walked closer to look over his shoulder.

  We surveyed the images on the screen one by one. Jewel Shaw appeared in many of the shots. The camera captured her at dinner with her parents, laughing with young people in party clothes, dancing to the band.

  The time that the photos were taken appeared on the screen, as he had explained in his testimony. We studied pictures of Jewel taken later in the evening.

  “Look there,” Suzanne said, tapping the screen. “Something’s wrong.”

  I’d seen it, too. Jewel appeared in two pictures taken after eleven that night. Her party girl smile had disappeared. In the final image she looked angry, and her feathered mask didn’t hide the indignant scowl on her face.

  “Jewel’s not having fun,” I said.

  I leaned in to examine the final shot of Jewel. Her angry face was not the only one captured: other masked people were snapped, including a dark-haired man. He appeared to be trying to lean out of the shot. I pointed at his figure
on the screen.

  “This guy doesn’t like having his picture taken.”

  His masked face was turned away from the camera, but a red mark showed up outside the black mask’s coverage.

  My heart rattled in my chest. “Mr. Forsythe, can you enlarge the image on the screen?”

  He tapped at the computer. Jewel’s scowl was life-size on the screen, and I could see that the red mark on the black-haired man was a birthmark. A port-wine stain birthmark.

  Chapter 26

  IT WAS A gamble.

  Back in court the next morning, I heard the courthouse clock strike nine. Judge Baylor was seated at his bench. I stood beside my counsel table with my back to the jury. I couldn’t face them, not yet. What if I couldn’t keep a poker face?

  Looking down at Darrien, I raised my brow. We had spent the past hour in the holding cell, conferring in whispers.

  He glanced at the jury box behind me, then met my eye. He nodded twice, a bare movement of his head.

  Time to roll the dice. In reality, I was a stranger to games of chance. But Suzanne, a regular patron of the casinos in Tunica, Mississippi, had given me the counsel of a seasoned player: go all in.

  My dallying apparently made the judge impatient. “Miss Bozarth, is the defense ready to proceed or not?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” I cut a glance at Lafayette. He held a notebook; on its cover, in bold black ink, he’d written: Character Evidence Cross-Examination. Apparently, the DA had seen our witnesses lined up in the hall outside the courtroom.

  I had been nauseated all morning and had even tried to vomit before I left my office. But when I saw the DA’s pad, a tiny thrill of pleasure shot through me. Lafayette was in for a surprise.

  When the judge invited me to make my opening statement, I hesitated. I had no intention of revealing our evidence before it unfolded. So I marched to the jury box and launched into an oratory on the legal presumption of innocence.

  Lafayette jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor; this is argument.”

  “Sustained. Miss Bozarth, confine your statements to the evidence.”