The woman peeked up at Charlie for a moment. “No problem,” she said, closing her book. “I’m Lucille. Lucy.”
“Funny, how you can see people every day for a week and not know their names.”
“I know. Rich said your name was Charlie.”
“Rich?”
“Mr. Fletcher. He said you’re a private investigator.”
“That’s right. It’s Charlene, but everyone calls me Charlie.”
“Is it interesting work?” Lucy asked, dipping into the cup of Kisses. She took out two pieces and unwrapped the first one.
“Some days it can be very interesting, but mostly it’s a lot of sitting around.”
“Like what we’ve been doing the last week?”
“Oh no. This is much worse,” Charlie laughed, grabbing a Kiss.
“Jury duty is a pain. They call me every two years like clockwork,” Lucy said.
“Didn’t I hear you work at the Blues?”
“Uh-huh. My office is right up the street. The good thing is, I have a parking space in the building. So I can just park and walk over.”
“Oh, that is lucky. How long have you worked there?”
“Twenty years, and I’m just about burned out.”
The bearded white man came in next, stopping abruptly when he saw Charlie and Lucy chatting.
“Good morning,” Charlie said. “I brought candy to share.”
“Morning,” he mumbled, walking quickly past the table to one of the chairs in the back of the room.
Charlie smirked. “I guess he doesn’t like candy.”
Two more jurors—youngish professional guys—arrived. They had apparently struck up a kinship, because they always sat together in the jury room discussing sports and a video game they both played. One of them was a pure ginger, the other a slight man with salon-cut hair who always wore a pullover sweater atop a collared shirt. Charlie hung her coat over the back of her chair. She hadn’t ever said more than hello to the two, but she leaned across the table toward them now.
“I brought in some candy to stave off the boredom.”
“And you’re sharing?” the man with the curly red hair and wisp of a mustache asked.
“Help yourself,” Charlie said, pushing the candy in their direction.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, picking up a cup, and shaking a few Kisses into his hand. He offered the cup to his friend, and it was the first time Charlie realized that the two might be gay. His friend shook his head to the offer and pulled a thermos out of his backpack instead.
“You bring in your own coffee?” Charlie asked.
“The stuff in that machine is horrid,” the dark-haired guy said dramatically. “This is a special blend I order online.”
“Yeah, I’ve been bringing mine in, too,” Charlie said. “But it’s probably not as fancy as yours.”
“You think the trial will be over by Friday?” the ginger guy asked Charlie while chewing the chocolate.
“God, I hope so. The defense should introduce their witnesses today.”
“I hope so too. This twenty-five dollars a day is cramping my style.”
“Doesn’t your company make up your wages?” Charlie asked nonchalantly.
“Nah. I work for myself. I’m a courier. I’m losing money sitting here.”
The jury foreperson and four other jurors, including Clint the law student, the fashion woman, one of the alternates, and the knitting lady entered the jury room within seconds of each other. Almost everyone had accepted the candy, and by ten after eight only a few Twizzlers were left.
“I wonder what this stuff is made of?” Clint asked, putting another one of the gummy, cherry-flavored coils in his mouth.
“You probably don’t want to know,” the knitting lady said.
Ten minutes later the clerk came into the jury room and did a count. When she didn’t like the count, she began a roll call. It was the only one she’d done since the first day of the trial. Richard Franklin was absent, along with the second alternate. The clerk left the room and Charlie casually reached into her backpack to pull out a paperback. She turned to the last page and jotted all the names she could remember from the roll call.
The knitting lady was Andrews. One of the alternates was called Liss, and the fashion lady was Trina Bradley. Clint’s surname was Lakeside, and the curly-haired ginger man answered to Kelly. His gaming pal was Durrell. She hadn’t caught the Blue Cross lady’s last name, so Lucy would do for now. Add Fletcher and her own name, and she had all but five juror names. She looked around the room determining where to do more snooping. She decided to start with the bearded man who’d been arguing with Fletcher the day before. He was in the corner, in one of the stuffed chairs.
Suddenly, Fletcher rushed into the room like the Kramer character on Seinfeld. “I hear I’ve been holding things up,” he said, grinning broadly.
Charlie noted the reaction in the room. A couple of people laughed, but most ignored him. The knitting lady rolled her eyes.
“I brought in candy this morning,” Charlie said to Fletcher, gesturing toward the table.
“Ah. Sweets from the sweet.”
Mrs. Andrews rolled her eyes again.
In one of their previous conversations, Fletcher had told Charlie he was married. She’d already categorized him as an old-school ladies’ man who still thought he had what it took to make a woman’s heart flutter. Charlie shot him a fake smile.
The court clerk returned.
“Okay, we’re all here now. One of your alternates has called in sick. The judge isn’t quite ready for you yet. We’re waiting for a witness to arrive. It might be up to an hour wait.”
Groans went up around the room. Jurors adjusted themselves for the wait by adding or taking off coats; pulling out crossword puzzles, books and snacks; or moving to one of the wall chairs to have their own company. One of the Kisses cups was being passed around, and the last of the Twizzlers was taken. Charlie grabbed her business card holder from her backpack and approached the bearded man in the corner. He was reading. Charlie caught a glimpse of the cover, a Tom Clancy book.
“Hello. I wanted to give you my card.”
The man looked up from his book, annoyed by the interruption. He took the card from Charlie’s hand and read it.
“You think I need a private investigator?”
“Not necessarily. But since I’m stuck on jury duty, I’m making the time productive and giving my card to everyone,” Charlie lied. “Did you answer to the name Prizzi?”
“Pizzimente. Carl.”
“Well, I don’t want to interrupt you any further, Mr. Pizzimente. That’s a good book. I’ve read it.”
“You like thrillers?”
“I do. I guess it’s natural for my line of business. I read thrillers, suspense, crime, and mystery books quite a bit.”
“You like Patterson?”
“I’ve read him. He writes so many I can’t keep up.”
“I tell you one thing,” Pizzimente said with a hint of a smile. “Patterson’s legal novels are a lot more interesting than this trial.”
“I agree with you there.”
“But you’re a lawyer, I hear, so this must be familiar to you. The waiting and all.”
“I don’t practice now, but I do know a lot about waiting.”
Charlie noticed Fletcher watching them with interest. She excused herself, and returned to her seat at the table. She pulled out her book, turned to the back, and added another name to the list Judy would start checking tomorrow.
# # #
Gil arrived in Grand Rapids at ten-thirty in the morning. He located the bar and squared the block once before deciding on a metered space a block away. The Apartment was discreetly decorated, blending in well with the cultural environment of the neighborhood. He knocked at both doors and got no answer. It was a long shot, hoping a bar would be open this early, but he had to be in Kalamazoo this afternoon, and this was his only time to check out this club.
&nbs
p; Across the street was a park, and Gil found a bench with a view of the two doors. Sometimes a bar owner or manager would show up early for a liquor delivery, or to start cleaning for the day. Maybe he’d be lucky. Gil was startled when someone he hadn’t seen approaching sat down next to him.
“They don’t open until two.”
His bench companion was a kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His blond hair stuck out in a variety of angles, and his blue eyes were the color of ice caps. Although it was cold, he wore sneakers with no socks, and his corduroy coat was only half-buttoned.
“What?”
“The bar. I saw you knocking on the door.”
“Where’d you come from?”
The kid nodded over his shoulder toward the other side of the park. “I kinda hang out over there.”
“You know the people who run The Apartment?” Gil asked.
“I do odd jobs for them. Mop the floors, stack boxes, help set up the stage area when they need it. Sometimes I help the bartender.”
“So you’re a regular?”
“You could say that.” The boy’s eyes flickered a signal to Gil. “You want some action?”
“What?”
“It’s early, but I know a place we could use.”
Gil understood the boy’s meaning and held his stare. Then he stood. “No, I’m not interested in that, but if there’s a place around here where we can get a cup of coffee, I’m buying.”
Christian was also a regular at the tiny Sheldon Diner, a six-booth hole-in-the-wall catering to the early-morning workers who wanted to order and eat in fifteen minutes or grab breakfast to-go. Gil ordered coffee and a couple of donuts. Christian ordered bacon, eggs, and hash browns. The waiter gave Gil a knowing smile when he brought their food to the booth. Christian said a prayer over his food and then, head still bowed, moved across his plate like a vacuum cleaner. Gil sipped coffee, dunked his donut, and appraised the boy’s dirty fingernails and rumpled T-shirt. When the food was consumed, Christian looked up at Gil.
“Sorry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”
“No worries. You want my other donut?”
“Can I?”
Gil pushed the plate toward Christian, and pulled a photo of Jason Ferry from his inside jacket pocket.
“You know him?”
The boy lifted the photo, still chomping on a huge piece of donut. He nodded before he could speak.
“That’s Jay.”
“So, you do know him,” Gil said, pulling out his notebook.
“Hey. What is this?” Christian said, sitting upright. He looked nervously at the notebook and then squinted. “Hey, are you a cop?”
“I’m not a cop. I’m helping Jason with a problem he’s having at school.”
The boy’s torso relaxed a bit. He gave Gil another once-over, this time with a different motive, and poured more coffee from the carafe.
“I guess I had you wrong.”
“No worries. When did you meet Jason?”
“Maybe a year ago. Something like that. He comes to the bar a couple of times a month. When he first started showing up, he kind of kept to himself. Not that many black guys come in, you know?”
Gil nodded.
“But now he fits right in. Is he okay?”
“Yes. But . . .”
“It’s his asshole father, isn’t it? He’s told me about him. We’ve talked a lot about our dads.”
# # #
Gil gunned it south on US-131 to Kalamazoo. He was lunching with Jason in the lobby of the hotel where they’d had their first meeting. The highway was dry, the sky was blue, and the engine of Gil’s Mustang hummed with the delight of an open road. This far north the tree leaves were a mix of dull October color, but the sun’s glint occasionally caught a tree in splendor.
Gil pulled into the hotel parking lot just before one o’clock. He turned off the ignition, but before he could get out of the car, he saw Jason and rolled down the window.
“Man. This is a sweet car,” Jason exclaimed.
“You want to sit in it for a minute?”
“Yeah. Can I drive her?”
They eyeballed each other for a couple of beats. Gil stepped out of the car and flipped Jason the keys.
Gil watched as Jason checked the rearview, adjusted the side mirrors, and pushed the seat back a smidgen. “The GT Deluxe V8,” he said.
“Yep,” Gil answered.
“Sweet.”
“Let’s go. We can pick up some food and talk in the car.”
Gil wasn’t surprised that Jason was a skilled and confident driver. When he merged onto I-96, where he could open up the engine, he hit the 80-mph mark before he backed it off to the speed limit. They traded seats when they pulled into a Checkers drive-thru line. They ordered sandwiches, fries and soft drinks, then drove a few miles to a nearby rest stop.
“Let’s sit at that picnic table,” Gil suggested.
They talked for a few minutes about Gil’s discovery of an additional video of Maya’s assault. He also told Jason about his conversation with Maya and her friends. It was the same update he’d given Jason’s parents.
“How is Maya?”
“She’s doing okay. She’s a brave girl.”
While Jason ate his second burger, Gil counseled the boy on his upcoming grand jury appearance.
“A grand jury is a confidential proceeding. It will look more like a classroom than a courtroom. There are no visitors or other witnesses in the room,” Gil said. “Just you, the prosecutor, a court reporter, and twenty-three grand jurors. Your attorneys won’t be allowed in the room during your testimony, and the jurors can ask you questions if they want.”
“Yeah. Dad’s attorney told me,” Jason said between bites.
“The prosecuting attorney may or may not bring up the video. But if it comes up, or if they show any of the footage to the grand jurors, that may be your best chance to explain your state of mind during the attack.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you can tell them what you told me. You didn’t like what was going on in that room, and you couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
“Won’t they blame me for not trying to stop it?”
“Maybe. But you’re not charged with looking the other way. You’re charged with rape, and you didn’t commit a rape.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“I spoke to the police again. The detectives investigated all the Gamma members charged in the case.”
Jason nodded.
“One of the detectives told me you’ve been frequently seen at a gay bar. Jason, are you gay?”
The boy leapt from the table, his face contorted in anger, his fists balled. He appeared ready to swing at Gil, who remained seated and expressionless.
“What the fuck did you ask me?” Jason sputtered.
“You heard me, man,” Gil replied, keeping his voice low and even.
“That’s some bullshit.”
“Look, Jason, I don’t care if you’re gay or not, but it might explain why you’re reluctant to say anything about the others. I know you’re trying to fit in. I know it can’t be easy to be who you are in a fraternity filled with macho jocks.”
“I want to go,” Jason said, storming off to the car.
Gil picked up their lunch waste and trailed behind the boy. He used the remote to unlock the car and when he slipped behind the wheel, Jason sat sullenly staring out the passenger window. There was no conversation during the ride back to the hotel parking lot where Jason had left his car. Gil expected the boy to bound from the car as soon as he stopped, but he remained still, and Gil cut the engine.
“I should have helped Maya,” Jason said, still staring through the window.
“Yes. You probably should have.”
A quiet minute passed. Gil pulled a small cloth from under the seat and began to polish the odometer and radio face.
“My teammates don’t know, and my father doesn’t know.”
“I didn’t t
hink so,” Gil said, still polishing. “Is there anyone you can talk to about being gay?”
“I have a few friends in Grand Rapids.”
“You’ll tell people when you’re ready. Meanwhile, it’s important for you to know that just the way you are is the way you’re supposed to be.”
Jason didn’t say anything for a while, and Gil let him sit in the silence. He shifted the cloth to the cup holder and console.
“I wish Dad would say that to me.”
“Your father can be a hard man. I’ve seen that for myself. But, I also know he has a fierce love for you.”
“Do I have to tell the police or the prosecutors I’m gay?” It was the first time since leaving the rest stop that Jason had looked at Gil. “Will they ask me?”
“Even if they know, I don’t think they’ll ask. It’s not relevant to the case. Being gay wouldn’t automatically absolve you of raping Maya. You should ask to confer with your lawyer if the prosecutor asks.”
Gil let that information sink in with Jason and waited for another question, which didn’t come. So, he floated an idea that had occurred to him.
“The more troublesome possibility is that one of the boys in the fraternity, or their lawyers, might try to use the information against you.”
“What do you mean?”
“If one of the boys who participated in the rape knew your secret, he might ask you to lie for him.”
Jason pressed his fists against his eyes. He pounded his head against the headrest. Gil tried to settle the boy with a hand on his shoulder. Jason grasped the door handle, but before he could get it open, he vomited onto his lap and the front seat of the Mustang.
Chapter 11
Tuesday
After a wait of over an hour, the clerk came for the jury. Charlie counted sixteen people in the gallery, among them the ghost and Don. The prosecution called a last-minute surprise witness. Video equipment had been set up at the front of the room, and there was a third lawyer at the government’s table. It was the new prosecutor, Earl Thompson, who would question the witness.
“Your Honor, I call Donald Paulsen to the stand.”
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