Juror #3 Page 10
Unruffled, I nodded at the jury and walked back to the counsel table. “Your Honor, the defense calls Stanley Forsythe to the witness stand.”
The photographer walked into the courtroom. He paused before the bench. The judge said, “Mr. Forsythe, you’re still under oath. Be seated.”
On my laptop, I pulled up the Mardi Gras photo depicting Jewel Shaw’s angry expression, taken around 11:00 p.m., and displayed it on the courtroom screen. I asked the witness to identify Defendant’s Exhibit 1.
Stanley Forsythe said, “It’s a candid photograph, taken at the Mardi Gras ball at the Williams County country club.”
“Can you tell the court the time at which this picture was taken?”
“Just after eleven. At 11:03 p.m.”
“Mr. Forsythe, is Defendant’s Exhibit One a fair and accurate representation of the individuals you photographed at the Mardi Gras ball on that night?”
“It is.”
“Mr. Forsythe, has Defendant’s Exhibit One been changed or altered in any way?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the defense offers Defendant’s Exhibit One into evidence.”
The judge glanced at the DA. “Mr. Lafayette?”
“No objection.”
I nodded politely at the photographer. “The defense has no further questions of this witness.”
“Mr. Lafayette, you may cross-examine.”
“No questions.” He looked sulky. He’d pushed his “character witnesses” pad to the side and was doodling on a fresh legal pad. The top sheet had a line of question marks.
The sight made me want to grin. But I wore a stoic expression as I said, “The defense calls Sheriff Patrick Stark to the witness stand.” While the bailiff called his name in the hallway, I was amazed to notice that my nausea had disappeared.
As the sheriff took his seat, the DA caught my eye and gave me a “What the hell?” look. I ignored it.
Stepping over to the prosecution table, I picked up one of the state’s exhibits lined up on its surface: Jewel Shaw’s cell phone. Without asking leave, I walked up to the witness stand and handed it to the sheriff.
“Sheriff Stark, I’ve handed you State’s Exhibit Five. This is the cell phone that belonged to the deceased, Jewel Shaw—isn’t that right?”
His face was closed. “Yeah.”
“Sheriff Stark, please tell the court: what is the security passcode for Miss Shaw’s phone?”
“Don’t know. Can’t remember it off the top off my head.”
Yeah, baby. I was ready for that. I’d dealt with the sheriff’s selective memory before.
“Mr. Stark, would it be helpful to refresh your recollection with the sheriff’s report you prepared in this case?”
I handed him the report. Grudgingly, he recited the passcode. I walked over to my briefcase, pulled out a portable phone charger, slipped the phone from its plastic wrapping and plugged it in.
It took a minute to charge. Leaning against the counsel table, I waited, smiling. For the first time that day, I turned my face to the jury box.
Some jurors looked impatient, others confused. And one of them looked tense. Nervous.
Juror number 3 was starting to sweat. Beads of moisture were visible on his upper lip.
Once Jewel’s phone was powered up, I handed it to the sheriff.
“Sir, I’m showing you the phone history on State’s Exhibit Five, the cell phone of Jewel Shaw. Please read off the number of the last call received by the deceased.”
He did.
“Was the call received on the date of her death?”
“It was.”
“What time was it received?”
He glanced down. “Eleven sixteen p.m.”
I said, “Is there an identifying contact name?”
“Nope.” His eyes met mine with a challenge. “No name.”
Time for the grand gesture. I extended a hand; he placed the phone in my palm. With a fingertip, I hit the number on the screen. And I waited.
We’d done the homework. But any number of things might prevent the outcome I was praying for.
As the silence dragged on, my nausea returned so sharply, I nearly gagged.
Then I heard it: a buzz. The humming sound of an incoming call on a muted cell phone. My head jerked to the right: the sound was coming from the jury box.
The jurors looked around in confusion. When the humming ceased, I held up the phone and hit the number again.
When the second round of humming began, I strode to the jury box and leaned on the railing. Juror number 3 sat in the middle of the front row. I focused on him. His fellow jurors were staring at him as well; it had become clear that he was the source of the noise.
Holding Jewel’s phone so that the screen was visible to the jury, I cocked my brow and gazed down at juror number 3.
“You gonna answer that?”
Chapter 27
JUROR NUMBER 3 met my eye with an unblinking gaze, but a droplet of perspiration trickled in a wet path from his temple to his cheek.
When the humming ended for the second time, I walked to my computer, tapped a key, and enlarged the photo on display on the computer screen. With a quick adjustment, I centered it on the face of the masked man leaning away from the camera.
“Sheriff Stark,” I said, walking to the screen and pointing at the image. “Can you identify the individual depicted in the Defendant’s Exhibit One?”
The sheriff leaned forward in his chair, studying the enlarged image with a perplexed expression. As he squinted at the screen, juror number 3 stood up in the jury box.
I heard a gasp; it may have come from my own chest as I watched to see what he would do next.
To the woman on his right, the juror excused himself in a courtly fashion as he stepped over her feet. He nimbly passed the other jurors in the front row, making his way past their knees without stumbling. At the end of the jury enclosure, he stepped down onto the floor of the courtroom and walked the short distance to the adjoining jury room. Without a backward look, he opened the door and walked inside, pulling the door shut.
I swung around to face Judge Baylor. He was staring slack-jawed at the jury room door. “Your Honor?”
When the judge didn’t respond, I ran to the jury room and tried to twist the knob. It wouldn’t turn. Putting my shoulder to the door, I tried again.
“Judge. He’s locked himself inside,” I said.
The courtroom had been buzzing with speculative murmurs since the juror made his exit. When I made my announcement, the volume intensified to a roar. The hubbub must have awakened the judge’s senses; he banged his gavel twice.
“Order. Order!” Judge Baylor waved his bailiff over. “Get that door open and get him out of there.”
The bailiff, an aged courtroom veteran, wrestled with the knob. He tried to shake it, pull it to and fro.
Judge Baylor said, “Use the key, for God’s sake.”
A sheepish look crossed the bailiff’s face. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and turned the lock. He twisted the knob; I saw it turn. The door remained closed.
The bailiff turned to the judge and spoke in an apologetic voice.
“Can’t get inside, Judge. Something is blocking the door, I reckon.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Darrien rise from his seat at the counsel table.
“Your Honor, I can get it open,” he said.
He could, without a doubt. But Judge Baylor shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Summers. Be seated, sir.” He leaned toward the sheriff, who still sat on the witness stand with his hands dangling between his knees.
“Pat, get up and get into that jury room.”
The sheriff rose eagerly; he strode to the door and lifted his booted foot. With three stout kicks, he opened the door, shoving the heavy conference table that had blocked it from the inside.
Once the door cracked open, I scooted next to Sheriff Stark and peered into the room.
The only movement in the jury room came from the lone window. It was wide open. A curtain fluttered in the wind.
Chapter 28
I DIDN’T ENTER the jury room. I just stood in the doorway and stared at the open window, trying to get my head around it.
A hand grasped my shoulder and gave me a shove. I stumbled and grasped the door frame for balance as Lafayette charged into the empty jury room. He looked around, but aside from the table and chairs sitting askew, there was nothing to be seen.
He swung around, turning to me with a frantic look.
“What the hell is going on?”
The calmness of my voice amazed me. “We just lost one of our jurors.”
“I know that; I’ve got eyeballs in my head. What I want to know is,” and he advanced on me with an accusatory finger, “what in God’s name are you up to?”
I left the doorway and walked up to the screen, where the party photo was still on display. I pointed at the masked man, running my finger down the red line of the birthmark that the mask didn’t cover.
“Didn’t you see that?”
He took a step forward for a closer look. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Are you insane? At the least—the very least—it means we’ve been trying the case to a man who was at the scene of the Mardi Gras party and didn’t bother to let us know. But Tom, that’s not all.”
I grabbed the cell phone from the counsel table and showed him the phone history. “Tom, I dialed this number—the last call received on the night of Jewel Shaw’s death.”
He stared at the phone. A look of dread came into his eyes. “And it rang. In the jury box.”
“Yep. Sure did.”
He rubbed his forehead. I said, “Have you figured it out? You’re prosecuting the wrong guy, Lafayette.”
“Ruby!”
Darrien was calling to me from the defense table; his father was behind him with a hand on his shoulder and a baffled expression. I hurried over to them.
Oscar Summers spoke first. “What the hell is going on here?”
I didn’t bother to whisper; the cat was way out of the bag. “One of the jurors went AWOL: juror number three.”
Darrien grasped my arm. “What happens now? Are they gonna let me go?”
I bent down so that I could speak into his ear. “Too soon to say. But Darrien, I think things are finally going your way.”
His father interrupted. “That white man with the red mark on his face—did he run out because he’s the one who did it?”
Lafayette was at the bench, waving his arms. The judge called to me, but I could barely hear him; the sound of sirens outside muted the voices in the courtroom.
I gave Darrien’s shoulder a squeeze. “Be right back.” I hustled up to join Lafayette at the bench.
The witness stand was empty. Judge Baylor said, “Miss Bozarth, I dispatched the sheriff to run down that juror.”
“Good. Excellent. Hope he remembers to advise him of his rights before he questions him.”
Lafayette ignored me. “Your Honor, what do we do now?”
“Danged if I know. I’ve served this county for nineteen years, practiced law here for decades. But I’ve never seen anything like this.” He craned his neck, checking out the remaining eleven jurors. I turned to look, too. Most were huddled in groups of two and three, whispering. The lone black woman sat with her arms crossed. She smiled at me.
The judge called to the bailiff. “Leon, take the remaining jurors into the jury room until further notice.”
The bailiff stuck his head into the jury room. “Kind of a mess in there, Judge.”
“Straighten it up, then.” A pulse was pounding in the judge’s temple. He stood abruptly and addressed Lafayette and me. “Meet me in chambers.”
Another wail of sirens soared through the open window.
Lafayette turned on his heel and walked to the prosecution table. I followed close behind him.
“Sure hope they catch that dude,” I said.
No response. With his back to me, Lafayette bent to pick up his briefcase.
I said, “Hey, Tom. If the sheriff apprehends him, you know what I think you ought to do? If I were you, I’d have the sheriff impound that guy’s vehicle and do an inventory search of it.”
He jerked around to face me. The hair at the crown of his head was tousled. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
Raising my hands, I backed away. Back at the defense table, I took a moment to advise Darrien that I was heading off to meet with the judge in chambers, and I’d let him know what happened. Behind Darrien’s shoulder, Oscar Summers actually winked at me.
With my adrenaline pumping, I turned to focus on the prosecution table. From my vantage point, I could see Lafayette pull out his cell phone. Though the courtroom was noisy, I was pretty sure I heard him say: “Tell the sheriff to impound the car when they catch him.”
I bowed my head so nobody could see my satisfied grin.
Chapter 29
WHEN LAFAYETTE AND I joined the judge in chambers, he was shaking tablets into his hand from a bottle of Advil. He dry-swallowed them, and then shouted at his clerk through the open door. “Grace! Where’s my Coke?”
She hurried in with a can and a cup of ice, then disappeared, pulling the door shut behind her.
Ignoring the cup, Judge Baylor gulped from the can. As he set the can on his desk, he let out a soft belch.
“Beg pardon,” the judge said, placing his hand on his abdomen. “All right, Tom, Ruby.”
I noted with a start that for once he had addressed me by my first name. “How do you want to proceed?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but Lafayette jumped in. “I hate to do it, Judge, but I’m going to have to ask for a mistrial.”
“No, no, no,” I said, leaning forward on the seat of the wingback chair. “Not good enough. The defense requests a judgment of acquittal.”
The DA gnawed on a thumbnail. “No way. You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m totally serious.” I crossed my legs, swinging my left foot and displaying a shoe with a heel that was worn down to the metal stud. “I’m serious as a heart attack.”
“We have an alternate,” Judge Baylor said.
Lafayette shot us a look of disbelief. “Is that what you want? Just proceed with the trial like nothing happened?”
“Oh, something definitely happened,” I said. Both men focused on me. “I have other witnesses I can call. Got ten character witnesses out in the hall. And while they’re testifying about what a fine young man Darrien Summers is, I’ll betcha the jury will be thinking about juror number three. Wondering where he is.”
The DA shifted his eyes away from mine, so I tapped him on the arm.
“Don’t you think that they’ll be wondering why that juror ran off after I showed the picture of him at the Mardi Gras ball? And called him on Jewel Shaw’s phone?”
Judge Baylor sighed. “Sweet Jesus.” He stood abruptly, jerking the zipper of his black robe. He yanked the robe off and threw it over his chair, then loosened his tie.
He turned to the DA. “Tom, what do you know about this guy? What’s his name?”
“Troy Hampton,” I said.
“I don’t know him,” Lafayette said.
“Didn’t you try to get rid of him? Strike him for cause?”
Lafayette pulled at his thumbnail. “I don’t know him personally; I’ve seen him around. Didn’t particularly want him on the jury. Not comfortable with his politics.”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “Politics? What kind of politics?”
Lafayette shifted in his seat. “Not politics, exactly. Associations.”
“And what might those be?”
“Some ultra-conservative views, I guess. Stuff I’m not pers
onally comfortable with.”
I snapped. “Thomas Lafayette—were you aware of any hate group activity on his part? Sounds like you were. And yet you remained silent about it during voir dire, when he testified under oath that my client’s race wouldn’t have any bearing on his verdict.”
Lafayette and Judge Baylor exchanged a look. When the DA spoke, he chose his words carefully.
“I didn’t have any hard evidence of the guy’s activities. In my position, I hear a lot of things. But it’s vital that I exercise discretion.”
“Baloney,” I said. “Judge Baylor, I want to make a request for judgment of acquittal, and I want it on the record.”
“Fine.” He shook the Advil bottle again.
“And I need to make a record regarding the DA’s prior knowledge of juror number three’s ‘political associations.’”
“I object to that,” Lafayette said. “I don’t like that.”
“I don’t care whether you like it.”
A timid knock sounded on the inner door. Grace opened the door just wide enough to poke her head through.
“Judge Baylor?”
“What?”
His voice was so loud that her head jerked back and hit the door frame. She spoke in a whisper. “The sheriff is coming. He needs to see you.”
“Good. Send him in.” In a more civilized tone, he added, “Thank you, Grace.”
We sat in silence for long minutes as we waited for Sheriff Stark to arrive. The heel of my shoe had developed a wobble. When I reached down to investigate, it fell off onto the floor.
Shit.
While I struggled to stick the heel back on, the sheriff walked in. When I saw him, the heel slipped from my fingers, unheeded by anyone, including me.
Stark was sweating, though the day was cool. Damp spots showed on the front and back of his tan shirt, and his armpits were soaked.
“We got the car.”
“Good. Where is he?” the judge said.
“No, not him. The car. It was deserted, sitting on a side road on the east end of town.”
The judge sighed, a soft exhale. “Well, I’ll issue a warrant. Contempt of court, leaving the trial when he’d sworn to serve. One of your deputies can try to run him down.”