Deadlocked lm-4

by Joel Goldman

  "You're lucky you caught me in the office," she told him. "I'm usually at the courthouse or the jail. Or I've got a waiting room full of clients. Sometimes this place is more popular than a public health clinic passing out free condoms."

  Mason liked Nancy. It was hard not to. She defended the worst of the worst, making less money in a year than he sometimes made on a single case, doing it because she loved it, giving Mason a hard time about what she called his limelight practice.

  "I'm on a tight schedule," Mason explained. "If I start making appointments to see people, I'll run out of daylight."

  "What's up?" she asked. "People magazine waiting for you back at the office?"

  "Yeah. They're doing a feature on lost causes. Mary Kowalczyk hired me to get a pardon for her son."

  "Ryan Kowalczyk? Isn't that a little late?"

  Mason shrugged. "Not for a mother who has nothing left but memories. She wants me to clear her son's name."

  "So what's the rush? Ryan's gone."

  "He's not pushing me. I'm also representing Nick Byrnes, the son of the murder victims. He was three when his parents were killed. He wants me to sue Whitney King for their wrongful death. His statute of limitations runs in less than two weeks."

  Nancy took a deep breath, letting it out like a slow leak, leaning back in her desk chair. Mason was certain her feet didn't touch the floor. "Okay," she said. "No pressure. Ryan was my first capital murder client. Not exactly what he or his mother wanted to hear, but like my first boyfriend said, who wants to go second anyway."

  "You were ready for trial," Mason told her. "I've never known you to be anything but ready."

  Nancy let her chair come forward, pulling herself up to her desk. "You don't have to suck up that much, Lou. Even if you're right. Ryan's mother-your client-was a royal pain in the ass. Second guessed everything I did at the trial. I was glad to turn the case over to our appellate guys."

  "She's convinced her son was innocent."

  "Lou, all mothers are convinced their sons are innocent. Daughters too."

  Mason laughed. "I know. Same with my clients. I've read the trial transcript. You didn't have much to work with. The alibis sounded like a bad idea for a TV movie."

  "Tell me about it. The other kid, Whitney King. He had Brandon Potter and Potter was still pretty good in those days. Potter sold the alibi to the jury and I didn't."

  "Was there anything in either kid's background that would explain why they did it?" Mason asked.

  "No child abuse or satanic cults, stuff like that," Nancy said, leaving it open.

  "But?"

  "But Whitney was a strange kid. Not jump-out-at-you strange. I picked up bits and pieces. There were rumors among some of the kids at school that he had hit on a few girls a little too hard, maybe even raped one. I could never substantiate anything."

  "What was Ryan doing hanging out with a kid like that?" Mason asked.

  "Ryan was a nice, geeky kid who wouldn't say shit if he had a mouthful. Whitney was practically his only friend. Whitney liked being worshiped."

  "Did you buy Ryan's alibi?" Mason asked.

  Nancy pursed her lips, nodding. "Enough to let him testify to it. I mean I had no reason to believe he was lying when I put him on the stand, but I couldn't corroborate it ei

  ther. It made sense in a funny kind of way."

  "Meaning?"

  "The coroner said that the first blow to both victims was to the face. That means they saw it coming. Neither one fought back; at least near as we could tell. Nothing on the victims or the defendants to show they fought. The cops couldn't come up with a murder weapon, but they assumed there was only one. I didn't argue because the one weapon theory was better for Ryan. Unless the boys took turns, it made sense that there was only one killer."

  Mason was relieved that someone else had picked up on the failure of the victims to resist. "If both boys were there when the murders took place, one of them would have said he saw the other one do it, and was too scared to try and stop him. Take a chance on a conviction for being an accessory, not a killer. That makes more sense than each one saying that he left and it was over when he came back."

  "Exactly," Nancy said. "I pressed Ryan about that. Gave him every chance to tell that story. The kid was consistent all the way through. Wasn't there. Didn't do it. Didn't know squat about any murder weapon."

  "Did you talk to the jury after the trial?"

  "You know," Nancy answered. "That was weird. They were deadlocked for two days. I would have settled for a hung jury. Then we could have tried the case again or made a deal."

  Mason asked, "What broke the deadlock?"

  "I never found out. The jury sent a note to the judge saying they didn't want to talk with the lawyers after the case was over. Only time that's ever happened to me. I tried talking to them anyway, just in case there was any jury misconduct that would get Ryan a new trial. I called some of them. Went to see some others. Nobody would say a word. It's like they made a secret pact."

  Chapter 12

  Eighteenth and Vine is an oasis on the east side of Kansas City, a part of town known more for being neglected than celebrated. The block had been restored to its 1930s heyday when it was a chamber in Kansas City's jazz heart. The refurbished Gem Theatre hosted new and old talent touring the country, reminiscent of the days when Basie, Ellington and their brethren blew sweet sounds and blue notes from its stage. Negro League Baseball, and Kansas City's jazz heritage split space in a museum across the street from the Gem. The strip is a stark contrast to the depleted blocks surrounding it, giving the whole place the feel of a Hollywood back lot.

  "A secret pact?" Rachel Firestone asked Mason, sitting across from him at Camille's, their corner table giving Rachel a view of the rest of the room while Mason's view was limited to Rachel.

  Mason preferred his view. Rachel was a redhead wonder, a beautiful woman whose flashing green eyes matched her effervescence. He felt better when he was with her. There was a time when he thought that meant he was in love. With Rachel, he'd learned that it meant she was a friend he could count on.

  Camille's was a down home soul food restaurant, drawing on another tradition of Kansas City's African American community. Fried chicken and chops, ribs, ham hocks and beans, collard greens and corn, potatoes fried and mashed. Cakes, pies, and ice cream, all homemade. No little red hearts on the menu for the healthy selections. Plenty of cold beer, iced tea, and lemonade. It was the perfect cure for heat that rose like the tide from the streets to the rooftops, swamping the city.

  "That's what Nancy Troy called it," Mason answered. "A secret pact."

  Rachel asked, "How long did the jury deliberate?"

  Mason said, "Three days. Both Harry and Nancy said the jury was deadlocked for the first two days. Then, something happened to break the logjam."

  "If the jury took a vow of silence, how do Harry and Nancy know they were deadlocked?" Rachel asked.

  Her question stumped Mason for a moment; the obvious contradiction had escaped him. He shrugged his shoulders. "It's an assumption, I guess. A jury doesn't deliberate for two days without being deadlocked."

  "Yeah, I understand that," Rachel said. "But how did they know the jury was deadlocked? And why did they both tell you it was two days and not three? How do they know the jury wasn't just taking their time going over the evidence until they finally reached a verdict?"

  Mason looked at her with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who'd just seen a magician pull a rabbit out of his ear but couldn't believe it even though he'd seen it with his own eyes.

  "Maybe," he conceded. "Here's one thing I know for certain. One of the jurors, Sonni Efron, was murdered the same day Ryan was executed. I hate coincidences," Mason said. "But that's the kind I really hate."

  Rachel's eyes switched from flashing to focused, her reporter's instinct boring in. "You think there's a connection?"

  Mason shrugged. "Don't know. I'm going to track down the rest of the jurors and find out if the secret pa
ct is still a secret. What did you dig up on Whitney King? I don't even know what the guy looks like."

  "He's good looking," Rachel said. "If you like the rugged, muscled look. Which, I admit, is my kind of woman," she added, handing Mason a clipping. "He likes triathlons, extreme sports, that kind of thing. And he likes to win."

  The clipping included a picture taken at a fund-raising triathlon, King holding his trophy in one hand and an oversize copy of his donation check in the other, the caption explaining that he'd come in first both as a competitor and a contributor.

  "Which came first? The check or the trophy?" Mason asked.

  "According to my friend who covers the society beat, he pays to win. The charities need the money. On this one, Whitney got help from a friendly stopwatch."

  "Women?"

  "He collects them. None of them last long. Word has it that he likes it rough. He's had a few complaints, but they always get settled quietly."

  "What's he do for a living?" Mason asked.

  "Runs the family business," Rachel said. "King Construction Company. Whitney's grandfather started it. Over the years, they've built everything from subdivisions to high-rise office buildings."

  "When did his father die?" Mason asked.

  Rachel slid another clipping across the table. "Week after the trial. Tragedy strikes again. Newspapers love stuff like that."

  Mason read Christopher King's obituary, a litany of private club memberships. "How did he die?"

  "Fell down the stairs," Rachel said. Mason's eyebrows bounced in astonishment. "No kidding," she said. "Number one cause of accidental deaths in the home. Falling down. I ever buy a house, it's gonna be a ranch. No two-story death traps for me."

  "What about Whitney's mother?"

  "The son's trial and the husband's death were too much for her. She fell apart. Whitney got her the penthouse at the loony bin. Golden Years Psychiatric Hospital in Lenexa. She's been there ever since."

  Lenexa was a suburb of Kansas City across the state line in Johnson County, Kansas.

  "Nice family," Mason said. "I can't wait to meet him."

  "From your lips to God's ears," Rachel said, looking past Mason. "He's on his way to our table."

  Mason took Rachel's word for it, resisting the temptation to turn around, catching Whitney's reflection off a parabolic mirror mounted in the corner of the ceiling, the distorted image squashing Whitney, doing the same to Sandra Connelly who followed a step behind.

  King was dressed in black, just like Father Steve, except for the collar and the build. Father Steve was soft rolls and paunch. King was bounce-a-quarter-off-his-pecs buff, his silk shirt stretched across his chest, short sleeves straining against his biceps. Sandra, her toned and sculpted arms rippling from linen sleeves, was the perfect accessory.

  "I understand you're looking for me," King said, standing at Mason's shoulder, forcing Mason to turn or stand. Mason did neither, leaving the newspaper clippings spread before him.

  "Nope," Mason answered, watching King's funhouse image in the elevated mirror. "If I want you, I know how to find you. That's what your lawyer is for."

  King glanced at the mirror. Mason ignored him, locked onto Rachel's green eyes, as Rachel bit her cheek. King flexed his fingers, wanting to make Mason turn and face him, the entire encounter all about who blinked first.

  "Let's go, Whitney," Sandra said, her hand on his arm. King shook it off, laughing lightly.

  "Mason," he said. "You sue me for those murders and I'll wipe your ass all over the courtroom."

  "If I don't sue you, will you wipe my ass anyway? I could use the help," Mason said, keeping his back to King.

  "Sandra told me all about you, Mason," King said, conceding the first skirmish, stepping between Mason and Rachel. Mason pushed back from the table, hands in his lap.

  "Like I said," Mason told him. "That's what your lawyer is for."

  "She said you were a smart-ass. Won't back down. Too stubborn to live. That sound about right?"

  "Close. She got the stubborn part wrong. That's too stubborn to die."

  King smiled, his perfect white teeth giving the grin its ice, his eyes narrowing. "On second thought, Mason, you go ahead and sue me. I'm going to enjoy cleaning your clock."

  "Gosh, Whitney," Mason said. "Do you think you'll have as much fun as when you murdered Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes?"

  King cut the short distance between him and Mason in half, his chest and neck swelling, the move a threat, not a plea. "You're forgetting the jury said I didn't do it."

  Mason finally stood, measuring himself against King's shorter frame, sensing that King's coiled power offset his own height advantage.

  "Then you can clean my clock and wipe my ass. Sandra is expensive, but at least you'll get your money's worth."

  King closed the distance between them again. Sandra slid in front of him, her back to Mason, her hands on King's shoulders.

  "Bell's rung, boys. Round one is over. No blood on the floor. Just lots of testosterone. Come on, Whitney," she told him. "You bought the most expensive table at the Jazz Museum fund-raiser tonight. Don't waste it trying to prove you've got a bigger dick than Lou. You probably do, but Lou doesn't think size matters."

  Sandra wrapped her arm around King's shoulder, pulling him to her breast. King smiled again, this time like a wolf, pointing his fingers at Mason like an imaginary gun, dropping the hammer.

  "Take my advice, Counselor. Stay away from windows," King said.

  Sandra rolled her eyes, pretending King and Mason were just little boys having a play date, all of them knowing that neither of them was playing. King gave Sandra a shove, leaving her a step behind.

  "You make friends so easily," Rachel told Mason after King and Sandra left.

  "Really," Mason said. "I didn't think he liked me that much."

  "Liked you?" Rachel said. "He wanted to kill you."

  "I guess old habits die hard," Mason said.

  "His or yours?" Rachel asked.

  Chapter 13

  Dinner ran long. Mason was in no hurry to go home, checking his voice mail while Rachel went to the bathroom. There was no message from Abby, though he had left one for her. Call when you can. He bet that she wouldn't.

  Mason lingered outside Camille's after Rachel left, eyeing the Jazz Museum across the street. A pack of valets hustled cars from the front of the museum to a vacant lot a block away, bringing them back when people began to leave. Young guys sprinted for the lot when a guest handed them a claim check like it was the baton in a relay and they were running the anchor leg. The owners pressed tips into the valets' hands when they returned with the cars, the valets palming the bills, checking them on the sly, grunting at the cheapskates, saluting the swells.

  He had no place to go and nothing to do when he got there, so he returned to Camille's, took a table in the front window, picked at a piece of pie, and waited for Whitney King to leave. Whitney had either admitted to the drive-by shooting at Mason's house or teased him with the knowledge that he knew about it. The shooting hadn't made the paper, but that didn't mean it was a secret.

  Sandra Connelly left before King did. Mason was glad they were traveling separately, having a hard enough time thinking of Sandra as King's lawyer. Not wanting to add consort to counselor. It wasn't jealousy. Sandra could ignite Mason's lust, but she couldn't sustain his romantic affection. He looked past her sharp-edged, hardball style and saw someone he didn't want taken down by her client. They'd been through enough together that he owed her that much.

  Summer light surrendered slowly, the heat sticking around, the valets dripping with each dash to the parking lot as the sky purpled, then blackened. The neon street lit up, the honkytonks honked though not with the wild abandon they must have had when Kansas City was a wide-open town in the days between the World Wars. The people on the street tonight were there to look at the past, not make the present.

  King left just after ten o'clock, the lucky valet clicking his heels when King tipped him,
turning to his mates before King pulled away, flashing a bill and a grin to match. King drove a BMW 7 series sedan, black, the windows tinted. Mason squinted, crunching his eyes to match the car with his memory of the one on his blacked-out street. It was a definite, tentative maybe.

  Mason had gotten lucky when he arrived at Camille's, finding a parking place on the street across from the restaurant, allowing him to fall in behind King, separated by a short string of cars creeping west on Eighteenth Street back to the donors' side of town. Mason didn't plan to follow King. It just happened that way, Mason having no reason other than curiosity, confident that King wouldn't spot him.

  King took Eighteenth Street west to Main, turned south on Main, then west on Forty-seventh, cutting through the Plaza, then south on Wornall and west onto Mason's street before it dawned on Mason that King had not only spotted him but was pimping him. King glided to a stop in front of Mason's house.

  Mason turned into his driveway, this time not able to ignore King. He parked, got out of his car and leaned against the passenger side, waiting. The driver's door on King's car swung open, King stepping out. They stood silently in the dark, King making his point. He knew where Mason lived.

  King broke the silence. "You're out of your league, Mason. Give it up."

  "Lucky for me, this is a neighborhood watch area," Mason said.

  "Then you better hope your neighbors are watching you all the time," King told him, pointing at Mason's house. "When you get that window fixed, I'd recommend bulletproof glass."

  Mason watched King drive away, looking too long at his house before heading for the garage. Mason wasn't hard to find. His address was in the phone book. King could have driven by out of the same curiosity that prompted Mason to follow him, unaware that Mason was behind him, taking advantage of Mason's arrival to jack with him. Or, he could have seen Mason in his rearview mirror, stringing Mason along just to play tough guy one more time. Mason wondered which scenario gave King too much credit.

  He wanted to dismiss King's threats, but couldn't. Not if he was going to prove that King murdered Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes, then let his boyhood best friend die for his crimes. King had emerged from the murders without blood on his hands, building a life on a foundation of money, the first floor of a penthouse he inherited. King wouldn't let go easily. He'd fight to keep that life, even if someone else had to die.