The Murder List

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Would money—the three hundred bucks that was stolen—be a big enough motive for murder? Or maybe it was personal? What if Davis loved Georgina Oreoso, or thought he did. And she didn’t love him? Love, or unreturned love, would be enough. I could easily imagine that. If you were passionate enough. Or disappointed enough. Or hurt enough.

  Martha Gardiner and her copycat associate, Lizann Wallace, today in sleek navy power suits, both sat elegantly straight-backed in their chairs, leather-bound law books and two dark red folders aligned perfectly in front of them.

  We’d argued all morning in the jury room, and finally sent our questions to the judge. At noon, Kurt had brought us lunch, wrapped in the white waxed paper of the Pietro Pan Deli. The Italian sandwiches had too much salami and too many onions, and I’d wondered if that was a sneaky way to encourage us to hurry. I wished the jury room had windows we could open. Even though it had started snowing again, being cold was better than being asphyxiated by garlic.

  Now, in jury seat one, I sneaked a look at my watch. One thirty. When I’d gotten back to the statehouse yesterday, Senator Rafferty had gone off on some unscheduled trip, this time to Williamstown, and I discovered Danielle Zander had gone with him. Again. In the past, he’d taken me. Dani would have no idea what to do or what he needed. I touched my neck. Five weeks had gone by, and I still felt the gold necklace. Its weight. Its promise. Its power. So unsettling to have a separate reality.

  The judge looked up from her papers as Juror Twelve, teacher Delia Tibbalt, took her seat, followed by the alternates. For a moment the only sound was the creaking of our chairs and the rustle of the few spectators shifting in their seats. I recognized Clea Rourke in the audience, and we locked eyes briefly. Did she remember me from the other night at Gallery? She’d seemed more interested in Senator Rafferty, naturally. That had been a strange worlds-colliding moment. And odd, it crossed my mind in the silence, that Jack Kirkland, in the midst of defending an accused murderer, was having a fancy restaurant dinner with a reporter. Either he was pretty confident or pretty—what? Unconcerned? Maybe knew his client did it.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” The judge’s voice sounded as if she might have a cold. Like everyone in Boston did, this time of year. “You had two questions. One, whether there was evidence that Mr. Davis had an ATM card.” She pursed her lips, then nodded twice as if confirming her own decisions. “For that, you will have to rely on your own collective memory.”

  I heard a snort from behind me, maybe Gil or Delia.

  “Secondly,” the judge went on, “as to your question about whether the defendant had a previous criminal record. Again, you are to only consider what is in evidence. Nothing else.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the jury room. In our exact same seats. And with the exact same level of sarcasm and discontent.

  “Thanks for nothing, Judge,” a voice from down the table said.

  “Which means he does have a record, doesn’t it? Or Kirkland would have said he doesn’t. Right?” Patriots-jerseyed Gil was not about to let go of this, even though that was a leap of logic worthy of Evel Knievel. “I mean, if there’s no previous record, you’d definitely say that. And they didn’t. So there is.”

  “Agreed.” Annette Hix held up one finger, signaling count me in.

  The jury was its own creature now, no longer a group of individuals, but a force, like a flock of soaring starlings careening across the sky, following the leader’s mysterious instructions. Whoever the leader was at the moment.

  It struck me about juries. How this one latched on to anything that reinforced what they already believed. How, in a place like this, you’re forced to consider murder in a different way. Did Deacon Davis know the surveillance cameras were broken? Did he just—snap? Rage into fury? Why? Why did any of us decide to do anything?

  My colleagues, sparring and debating, were not as philosophical.

  “And we know the guy doesn’t have an alibi for the time. They arrested him. Why’d they do that if he didn’t kill her?”

  “Poor thing,” Delia said.

  What if Davis didn’t do it? I could only vote based on the evidence that was presented. Which, certainly, was not everything the lawyers knew.

  “If he didn’t do it, who did? Some stranger?” Scientist Larry Rosenberg frowned. “Oreoso knew him.”

  “She knew a lot of people, for heaven’s sake,” Momo said.

  I felt the emotional tide pulling at all of us, the undertow of a guilty verdict tugging at our ankles. “We have to go by the evidence,” I said, standing in front of the blank whiteboard, black marker now in hand.

  I drew a line down the middle of the board. “Let’s list the pros and cons. See if we can decide. Beyond a reasonable doubt. A life is at stake here.”

  “And another one already taken,” Gil said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JACK KIRKLAND

  “Are you kidding me?” Deacon Davis’s anger almost levitated him out of his folding chair in the courthouse attorney-client room.

  Jack knew the feeling. He’d been close to hitting the ceiling himself. Or hitting almost anything. Or anyone. He tried to decide who he’d select as his first victim—the judge, or Martha Gardiner, or the court officer, or juror Anne Peretz herself, little old lady or not. Deke dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on the table propping him up.

  “She talked about me to the court officer? The knitting woman did? And now she’s excused?” Deke’s words tumbled out faster than Jack had ever heard him speak, his pale face gone red with confusion and certain fear. “Is that even fair?”

  In chambers earlier this morning, the pie-faced and obstinate court officer Grace O’Brien had related an admittedly believable story. That yesterday, when Peretz had been late for deliberations and forgotten her pills, she’d “babbled”—O’Brien’s word choice—to the officer something about her state of mind. She’d said she’d heard Deacon Davis had a criminal record, but that he’d changed his life and gone straight, and that she believed it. O’Brien had decided that meant Peretz had watched TV about the trial. Or had discussed deliberations with someone not on the jury. A violation of the judge’s orders.

  “I wrote it down, after. Exactly what she told me. That’s what I gave the judge this morning,” O’Brien had said.

  Judge Saunders had pulled out a sorry-looking piece of paper, maybe the back of a union flyer, on which the officer, presumably, had scrawled in pencil.

  Saunders offered it to Jack. Because Gardiner, no doubt, had already seen it. “Mr. Kirkland?” she said.

  It had taken Jack thirty seconds, less, to read it. And about zero seconds to go into the stratosphere.

  “She said she’d heard about a criminal record? And she’d heard he’d ‘gone straight’?” Jack’s eyes toggled between the note and the judge. His head might have exploded, except that it wouldn’t have done any good. He’d scoured his brain for legal precedents, any cases where such a thing had happened before, and whether he could muster any convincing arguments that this juror’s offhand remarks were meaningless when it came to the deliberations.

  “‘I believe he’s gone straight.’” He heard the robot tone in his own voice as he read it out loud. “‘I don’t care what the evidence is.’” He’d paused, trying to make a battle plan. “Officer O’Brien, what did you say to encourage this?”

  “Hey. No way.” A spot of red appeared on each of O’Brien’s cheeks. She turned to the judge, fists clenched at her sides. “You know me, Judge. I follow the rules, don’t I? I didn’t say a word. The woman’s a talker.”

  “And you didn’t stop her?” Jack had to turn this around.

  “Mr. Kirkland?” the judge interrupted. Her tone meant shut up.

  Martha Gardiner smoothed her perfectly pressed charcoal skirt. Didn’t look at Jack, didn’t look at the judge. Didn’t look at Officer O’Brien, the tattle-taling rat of the courthouse, who had set in motion the certain conviction of Jack’s clien
t.

  Jack paused, holding the silence. Tried another tack. “What did Mrs. Peretz herself say about this? Judge? She’s told you, every day, that she hasn’t watched television. Have you heard her side of the story?”

  Based on the look the court officer shot him, Grace O’Brien probably would never speak to Jack again. Yes, his questions were calling her veracity into account. But what the hell? Anne Peretz was a not-guilty vote. Jack felt confident of that. But because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about it, they’d lost her. And maybe lost everything.

  “Is it possible that Mrs. Peretz assumed talking to Officer O’Brien was not prohibited?”

  The judge gave him one of those judge looks, like defense attorneys are so pitiful. “If you remember my instructions, Mr. Kirkland, I had clearly told the jurors not to watch television news, and to speak to no one except fellow jurors about the deliberations. Wouldn’t that include Officer O’Brien?”

  “How is Mrs. Peretz supposed to know that?”

  “Shall we ask her?” Gardiner’s interruption was the first thing she’d said.

  Judge Saunders nodded at the court officer who exited via a back door. At the same time, she buzzed her damn buzzer again. The back door closed. The front door opened. Anne Peretz looked like a stray sparrow separated from her flock, but poised for battle. Shoulders square, lips thin. One of her wings began to flutter, but Jack sensed she’d get it under control.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Peretz.” The judge, pleasant as all get-out, stood as the juror entered. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Is everything all right?” Peretz, touching her gray hair with one hand, sat straight-backed on a chair next to the judge’s desk. Jack saw her only in profile, chin up, blue-veined hands folded in the lap of her plaid skirt.

  “I understand you had a chat with the court officer yesterday.” The judge sat, swiveling to face her. “Grace O’Brien?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Judge. Your Honor. I was late, and there was traffic, and I’d forgotten my pills, and I was a bit flustered. She was so lovely, allowed me to have my son bring them. So all’s well that ends well. I’m fine now, thank you so much. And I won’t drive myself anymore, I promise. My son will drive me. It’s no problem.”

  “Lovely,” the judge said. “What else did you say to Ms. O’Brien? If anything?”

  All Jack could do was wait, so he waited.

  “About what?” Peretz looked truly bewildered, her brow furrowing as if she’d tried to drag back a memory and failed.

  “You tell me,” Saunders said.

  Jack had been a lawyer for twenty-five years, never wanted to be anything else except for a brief flirtation with surfing, a difficult goal for a kid from Cleveland. His father was a lawyer, corporate, not criminal. And his mother was a lawyer, too, an administrative law judge for the city. But Jack had grown up on Perry Mason reruns, and though his father scorned his legal choice, he was the first to stand and applaud at Jack’s graduation. “Proud of you, son,” he’d said, his bear hug maybe the first he’d given since Jack almost drowned trying to surf on Lake Erie. “Couple words of advice. Never cross a judge. Never interrupt, never disrespect. Never let him see you worry.”

  Jack bit back his annoyance as he remembered that now, advice from back in the days when most judges were “him.” This was unfair to Mrs. Peretz. Toying with her. Jack supposed Saunders thought she was being objective.

  Mrs. Peretz shook her head again, twisted a gold ring on her left hand. “I was late. I forgot my pills, I was upset,” she said. “I supposed I asked if I could use the ladies’ room?” She half shrugged, then readjusted the silky scarf around her neck. “But that’s all.”

  “Did you discuss the deliberations, Mrs. Peretz? Or get outside information? Did you talk about something that wasn’t in evidence?”

  “With Grace? Or with the others?” The juror’s silvery eyebrows went up. “Why, no. Certainly not.”

  “Did you say anything, for instance, about the defendant? Anything you’d heard? Seen on TV?”

  “No.” Peretz shook her head no, several times.

  “And if she’d said you did?”

  “Then she’s mistaken.”

  “If she’d said you’d told her that nice young man could not be guilty, because you knew he’d gone straight?”

  Peretz’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Jack saw her marshal her wits. She half stood, then sat down again. Her mouth a hard line. “No,” she said. “I did not.”

  “Mrs. Peretz?” The judge laced her fingers on top of her desk. “May I ask what your pills are for?”

  Jack tried not to show any reaction. This was outrageous. But if he pushed any harder, it might make it worse.

  “My pills?” Peretz’s voice had gone shrill, probably as anyone’s would in this situation. But Jack comprehended, clearly as if some TV show had added suspenseful music as an underscore, that no matter what she said, Anne Peretz was not long for this jury.

  Martha Gardiner could hardly keep the sneer off her face as she’d sauntered out of the room afterward. She was a shitty winner.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it.” That’s what Jack had to tell Deacon Davis now. Problem was, a defendant had the right to be present in hearings like that, so Jack should have brought Deke with him to chambers. Jack tried to convince himself it wouldn’t have mattered, because Mrs. Peretz, her vote tainted, would have been excused no matter what. And Deke would never know Jack had cut that legal corner.

  “That’s the story, Deke.” Jack leaned across the table, trying to look calm. “There’s nothing we can do. The law says the jury must start over.”

  “Start over?” Deke shook his head. “I don’t like it, Mr. Kirkland.”

  This time Jack told him the whole truth. “I don’t like it either,” he said.

  RACHEL NORTH

  Marcantonio Fiandaca. I wrote the new juror’s name on the blank whiteboard. On Friday, we’d covered the shiny surface in my scrawly printing. On one side, listing points about the evidence of guilt: the money, the scalpel, the supposed crush Davis had on the doctor, the Skechers footprints, the lack of alibi. On the other side, the evidence of innocence: so few forensics. So many existing pairs of size-eleven Skechers. Broken surveillance camera. No witnesses.

  I’d erased all that from the board—hadn’t I?—before I left last night. Or someone had over the weekend. But now, as I turned back to my new jury, with the new guy in Momo’s seat, none of that mattered.

  Grace told us we were starting over. Starting over. My heart collapsed as the ramifications sank in. It’s Monday. This would last another week. I’d never get back to work. Deadlines would be missed, schedules screwed, legislation delayed, constituents frustrated. The senator would get even more upset. And, icing on the cake, Danielle Zander was with him on the road again. My life was falling apart. Yes, selfish, because the trial was not about me. But it was also not my fault.

  I’d listened to each of the lawyers. The imperious Martha Gardiner, the one with the power of law enforcement, and whose sworn job was to protect the public. She must have had enough confidence in Deacon Davis’s guilt to charge the guy. And the kinder, gentler Jack Kirkland, persuasive and eloquent, who reminded us that society protects the innocent and that we, the jury, had to do unto others as we would have them do unto us. How was I supposed to decide between them? When I believed them both?

  “Welcome, Marcantonio,” I lied. “And now, because Mrs. Peretz has been excused—”

  “Did she say why?” The scientist, Larry, interrupted me. “The judge? Did I miss something?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I have no idea. But because she was excused, we have to start our deliberations from the top. Because—and I’m only repeating what the court officer told me—if we simply summarized for Mr. Fiandaca—”

  “Call me Marco,” he said. The accountant’s white shirt was buttoned to the neck, his tie up as tight as it could be. Hollow cheeks, big glasses. A turtle. “An
d I don’t like this any more than you do. I thought you people would vote ‘guilty’ Friday, in fact, I made a bet with myself about it. And then we’d all go home.”

  “Hear, hear.” Gil, in yet a different Patriots jersey, put his arms up, like, touchdown. “My man.”

  I put both my arms up, too, but double stop signs. Barely ten in the morning and already I was the referee. “Look, I want my real life back as much as anyone. But we have to follow the rules. If we summarize for Marco, that’s not fair, because he wouldn’t have been able to participate along the way. We have to start over. Totally over.”

  Annette Hix, who wore her I’m-so-busy-and-important white doctor coat, raised her hand. As if she did not enjoy having to be called on.

  “Annette?” I said.

  She wheeled her swivel chair away from the table, came to the front of our little conference room, and selected a purple marker from the whiteboard tray. I was so surprised I didn’t even stop her.

  She drew a thick purple line down the middle of the board. At the top left, she wrote G. On the right, NG. I took a step back, waiting.

  “We have to start over, they say. And so we do. But listen.” She paused, and I saw every eye on her. “How are they going to know what we say or do in here? We’re alone. This room is private. Probably even soundproof. I say, let’s make a de—Well, put it this way. Not a deal. A pact. An agreement. We chat, we have lunch, we come back, we vote, we decide, we go home.”

  Larry shook his head. “That seems backward,” he said.

  “This is behind. Closed. Doors.” Teacher Delia Tibbalt pointed to the door as if we were her second-graders. “We can start over, sure. But we’ve already all said what we’re going to say. This time, for Marco, we’ll say it faster.”

  “I’m in.” Jeanette the bus driver gave a thumbs-up.

  “And Marco? You feel free to say whatever you want, whenever you want,” Delia continued.

  This was what I couldn’t get past, I thought, as I watched the group nodding in agreement. You could send lawyers to law school. And judges to judge school, or whatever they had. And those people were versed in all the rules. But at the end of all the rule-following and objections and legal procedures, when the gavel banged and the door closed, when you got into a jury room, it was regular people. Flawed people. Biased people. Who may or may not agree to those rules. Who can manipulate and pressure and influence. And, depending on the power of jurors’ consciences, no one would ever know.