Juror #3 Page 14

  She dropped the book on the table with a bang. “Your son is not my only client. I have a law practice. I have people counting on me.”

  Mr. Greene roared, “Your family is counting on you.”

  I rose. It was time. “Whoa,” I shouted.

  They swiveled in their seats, astonishment on all faces. The family resemblance was remarkable.

  In a softer tone, I said, “Let me hear out the investigator, what he’s learned. Whether he’s found us a witness. Then we’ll see where we are.”

  Everyone sat down. Suzanne lit a Marlboro. Lee pulled out his blue box of Nat Shermans. He opened the box and offered me one.

  My hand reached for it. But I thought better of it. I shook out a Nicorette instead and thought: Darrien and Oscar Summers were a walk in the park. The Greenes will be the death of me.

  Chapter 39

  SITTING IN THE parking lot outside a bar in a sketchy Vicksburg neighborhood, I was nervous. I was about to meet the man who could be the basis of our defense in the murder case.

  Not the private investigator—I’d talked with him earlier in the week. He had set up this meeting.

  He’d told me to wait for my witness outside a dive called the Twilight Inn. I was looking for a black man in his thirties, with a goatee, driving a late-model Volvo. He was a detective named Guion who worked vice in Vicksburg.

  If ever I’d longed for a nicotine buzz, this was the night. But I’d sworn off Nicorette, decided to kick it altogether when I nearly accepted that cigarette from Lee Greene. I unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and chewed on it. It made a poor substitute.

  A Volvo pulled into the lot. The driver met the description the PI had provided. I tossed the gum wrapper onto the floorboard of the passenger side and grabbed my briefcase.

  The bar was dimly lit, but even so, it was clear that I was the only customer wearing a business suit. I drew a couple of curious stares, which I ignored. My target sat in a booth at the rear. I joined him.

  A waitress walked up. “What can I get y’all?”

  The man said, “Bud. Draft.”

  I smiled, trying to act natural. “Same.”

  When she walked away, I said, “I really appreciate you coming out here to meet me, Detective Guion.”

  He shook his head with a humorless laugh. “I gotta be crazy. This is the kind of exposure I absolutely do not need.”

  The waitress walked up with two mugs of beer, and we fell silent. I reached into my purse for money, but Guion said, “We’ll run a tab.”

  Once she walked away, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Monae, I mean. Miss Prince.”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “Monae was my snitch.”

  “Yes. So sorry.”

  “My snitch. Not my little sister.”

  I shifted in my seat. This was new territory for me. I didn’t know the dynamics of undercover police relationships. “I’m sorry. I mean, sorry that I misunderstood.”

  I needed to get a grip, quit making so many apologies. Reaching into my briefcase, I said, “So how long have you been working undercover for the Vicksburg police department?”

  He reached across the table and seized my arm. “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t pull anything out of that bag. Not a phone, not a file, not a pencil. If you do, I’m walking out of here.”

  He released my arm, and I sat back against the booth. “I can’t record this?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I’ll need to take notes. For my recollection.”

  He looked me up and down. “You’re pretty young. I bet you have a good memory. You’re gonna have to rely on that.”

  I leaned in toward him. In a harsh whisper, I said, “You know I can depose you. Then we’ll have an excellent record.”

  “That’s not the deal. I’ve been working my tail off to nail a crime ring in Vicksburg, and I’m not going to let you blow it wide open. Not yet.”

  He took a swallow of beer and studied the mug, wiping the condensation on the glass with his finger.

  Still whispering, I said, “You’re a detective. You have an obligation to respect court proceedings.”

  Before he spoke, he looked away, as if he were scoping out the room. “I’ll talk to you tonight. I’ll testify at the dude’s trial. I know you can make me appear by subpoena. But I don’t want to publicly reveal any details of the investigation before I have to. Not ready to do that.”

  I zipped my briefcase shut. He had the whip hand. I needed his information. And I needed to keep him cooperative.

  “Okay. Deal. So Monae died of a drug overdose when she was in bed with my client. And my client has been accused of causing Monae’s death. We need to know—did she have a drug history, to your knowledge?”

  “Hell, yeah. That’s why she was in prostitution. Got the drug habit, turned to the sex trade to support it.”

  My knee started jiggling under the table. This was what we needed. “So she was a drug addict and a prostitute?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But the police report says she was seventeen. How did she get so deeply involved in the lifestyle at seventeen?”

  When the detective laughed, I was taken aback. I hadn’t intended to amuse him. He said, “Right, the investigative team at the hotel, they found an ID on her, said she was seventeen. Shit. That girl hadn’t been seventeen for a long time.”

  I cocked my head. “Huh?”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, then pushed it across the table. I picked it up before it could get wet from the rings of moisture left by the beer mugs.

  Studying the sheet, I said, “I don’t get it. She was twenty-three?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked up. “But you didn’t share this with the murder investigation?”

  “I ain’t sharing shit. From what Monae told me, someone I know could be on the payroll. Fuck them. I don’t know who to trust.”

  I gave him a sunny smile. “I guess you have confidence in me. You’re giving me valuable information.”

  He spoke in a voice that was deadly serious. “I’m keeping a lid on you, baby.”

  This cop was as prickly as a porcupine. I tried a sarcastic tone. “You don’t trust anyone you work with in Vicksburg?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He looked up, as if he were thinking. “I trust some of the undercover cops. Beau George—I trust him.”

  “Didn’t you trust Monae?”

  Again, the look—like he was talking to a kindergartner who wasn’t particularly bright.

  “Monae was a snitch,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “How did you meet her?”

  “I busted her. For drug possession. Opioids. Then I turned her. Offered immunity if she’d give me information. Tell me about the other players.”

  “What other players?”

  He didn’t answer. Just stared at me over the mug while he took another swallow. He wiped beer from his mustache and said, “You’ll find out when I make the bust. Might be someone you know.”

  I tried another tactic. “So Monae was twenty-three, a prostitute by profession, and a known drug abuser. How long had she been engaged in a criminal lifestyle?”

  “For a while. She fell into it not long after she left Ole Miss.”

  Now it was my turn to stare. “Ole Miss?”

  “Yeah, she had a scholarship, freshman year. I never said she was stupid.” He paused, thinking. “Actually, I guess she was. Pretty stupid to get involved with drugs and the sex trade.”

  “So who was her pimp?”

  He reached across the table and pushed my untouched mug closer to me. “Drink your beer. We’re done.”

  I clutched the beer mug. “But I want more information.”

  “We’re done talking for tonight.” He began to slide out of the booth.

  “No, please. Don’t run off yet.”

  Pausing, he gave me a hooded look. In a cynical voice, he said, “If you wan
t, I’ll let you pick up the tab. You can put it on your client’s bill. Pretty sure he can afford it.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Frustrated, I jerked some cash out of my bag and let him depart. When he was out the door, I slipped out to the safety of my car.

  Ten minutes later, I sat in my car a block from the bar, parked under a streetlight. By the light overhead, I wrote on my legal pad like a madwoman, recording every detail of the conversation that I could remember. My confidence in my young brain’s recall didn’t match the faith of my new witness.

  My new star witness. That vice detective was going to save the day.

  Scanning the notes, I saw the words I’d recorded to describe Monae: snitch, criminal, prostitute, opioids, liar. A chill ran down my spine.

  In less than a year, I’d defended two cases in which a woman had been murdered in connection with a sex act. Both times, I had to go on the attack against a dead victim.

  I never intended to devote my legal career to this brand of representation. Sitting in the car, I promised myself: when I wrapped up this murder trial, I’d seek out some happy cases. It took me a minute to conjure up an example of a happy case, but I thought of one. Adoptions. I’d do an adoption for free, just for the pleasure of it.

  My cell phone hummed; I’d had it on mute in the bar. I glanced at it, irritated by the interruption. But when I saw Suzanne Greene’s name, I picked up.

  “Hey, Suzanne.”

  “Well? Did he show?”

  Her voice crackled through the phone. I was tempted to hold it away from my ear.

  “He sure did. Just left him a while ago.”

  “And?”

  “It’s good. Really good. I don’t know how your New Orleans private eye uncovered him, but it’s worth whatever the Greenes paid. This Vicksburg cop is a gold mine.”

  “Well, New Orleans. They know how to find the seamy side.” She paused, then asked, “Did he tell you everything? Everything we were led to expect from the PI’s report?”

  “Pretty much. He was holding back, I’m certain. But he spilled the beans on Monae. We can counter the prosecution’s case.”

  I thought she’d be happy, but Suzanne said nothing at all. Finally, I said, “Suzanne? Did you hear me? The vice cop will make a great witness for Lee. I guarantee it. I’ve got a nickname for him: we can call him Detective ‘Reasonable Doubt’ Guion.”

  She sighed. “Well, hell.”

  Surprised, I sat, waiting for her to elaborate.

  “There’ll be no holding them back now. Lee wants that early trial setting, and my brother is backing him up. Looks like we’re going to trial.”

  Before she rang off, I heard her mutter: “Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 40

  I CUSSED OUT loud as I steered my car to the Barnes County Humane Society. It was the Saturday before trial, and I’d been phoning Lee all afternoon, but he hadn’t seen fit to answer my calls.

  Pulling into the gravel drive, I recognized the shiny black BMW parked beside the tumbledown shelter and breathed out in relief. Clutching a sheaf of printed notes, I slammed my car door behind me and hurried down an uneven path to the facility. When I saw a man emerge from a rough shed adjoining the main building, I paused.

  He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and carried a large bag.

  “I’ll be damned,” I whispered. It was my client.

  “Lee,” I called, waving my papers. I doubled my pace and met him by the shed.

  Lee let the bag slip to the ground and stood up. His hair was tousled. He shook it back and swiped at grime clinging to his shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said. When he didn’t respond, I pointed at the bag resting at his feet. “Looks heavy. What are you toting?”

  “It’s dog food,” he said stiffly.

  “That makes sense. It’s a big old bag.” I bent my head and shuffled through the papers in my hand. “You wanted to look through the jury selection questions in advance of voir dire. I emailed them to you. When you didn’t get back to me, I got nervous. I called you a million times, but couldn’t reach you. Your mom said you were out here.”

  He squinted in disbelief. “You called my mother? Really?”

  “Is that a problem? I was anxious to reach you.” I twisted around, looking for a place to sit, but there were no chairs or benches. “Do you have a minute to run over these with me? See if they look okay?”

  He extended his hand. “Just give it to me. I’ll look over the questions tonight and get back with you.”

  “Okay.” I placed the pages in his outstretched hand, alarmed to note a mark on his arm—of a recent bite. I almost reached out to touch the spot on his forearm, but dropped my hand. “Lord, Lee. Is your arm okay? It looks like a dog attacked you.”

  He stuffed the pages into his pocket. “It’s nothing serious. My sleeve will cover it at trial.”

  “What kind of beasts are you handling in there? Is it safe?”

  He rubbed the partially healed wound with his hand. “It wasn’t her fault. She was in bad shape when they brought her in, and she got spooked. Someone had been cruel to her.” He shook his head.

  “You take care of yourself. Jury selection is Monday, first day of evidence is Tuesday. We need you in one piece. And Lee: don’t be late. We’ll meet at my office before court begins, eight o’clock sharp.”

  He bent down and picked up the bag of dog food, settling it on his shoulder with a grunt. “You want to come inside? Meet the dogs?”

  I took a step back. “Not today, thanks. Gotta go.”

  He turned and walked to the side door of the shelter. To his back, I called, “Call me if you want to talk about the voir dire questions. Or if you have any last-minute thoughts.”

  He didn’t reply. When he reached for the screen door, it burst open. A huge beast of indiscriminate breed bounded out, barking, and lunged toward Lee. I gasped and stumbled away, poised to run.

  The big dog jumped up on Lee, its massive paws on my client’s chest. But I heard Lee laugh. He dropped the bag of dog food to the ground and rubbed the dog’s head with both hands, speaking to it in a voice I couldn’t hear.

  I recalled, for the first time in many months, some of the traits I used to admire in Lee Greene Jr.

  Chapter 41

  I’D TOLD HIM he couldn’t be late.

  And I’d told him emphatically, right after we finished picking the jury on Monday. “My office, eight a.m. Lee: Do. Not. Be. Late.”

  On Tuesday, the first day of evidence in the State v. Greene jury trial, Lee needed to appear right on time. Preferably in a dark navy suit and blue power tie.

  My watch was moving closer to 8:15 when his car pulled up in front of my office.

  The door opened, and Lee walked in. I checked out his attire: gray suit, blue shirt, pink silk bow tie wrapped up in a jaunty pink knot. My frazzled nerves got a shock at the sight of his neckwear.

  “Dammit, Lee, you’re late. And what are you doing in that tie?”

  He looked affronted. His hand flew to his neck in a protective gesture.

  “It’s a tie. What’s your problem, Ruby?”

  He’d picked the wrong day to play a power game.

  “That tie makes you look like a spoiled frat boy. That is not the impression you want to make in front of this jury, believe me.”

  I could have elaborated, but we had an audience. Lee’s mother and father seemed to use up all of the oxygen in the room. Someone was wearing a musky perfume that made my eyes water.

  Mr. and Mrs. Greene were giving me flinty stares. Even while I held their son’s fate in my hands, I was still getting the cold shoulder from the Greenes.

  But beneath Lee Sr.’s frown, I spied a beautiful necktie: red and blue striped, and bandbox fresh. I groaned with relief. Pointing at the tie on the elder Greene, I said: “The tie. Mr. Greene, that’s what Lee needs to wear in court today. I want y’all to swap.”

  As Lee jerked out the
knot of the pink silk bow tie, he said, “So it’s come to this. Taking fashion dictates from Ruby.”

  That stung. I was wearing a brand-new suit I’d bought for trial.

  Since joining forces with Suzanne, I didn’t have to wear exclusively thrift store clothes, and I no longer camped out in the back room of the Ben Franklin. I’d moved into a cozy one-bedroom apartment, not far from the town square in Rosedale. But Lee always knew how to make me feel small.

  Lee stood in front of my framed diploma from Ole Miss law school. In the reflection from the glass, he expertly tied a double Windsor knot and tightened it at the neck.

  Lee’s father said, “Where’s my sister? Why isn’t Suzanne here yet?”

  I had been wondering the same thing. Though Suzanne had initially taken the lead as counsel for the defendant, that role was now mine by default. In the past four weeks, every time we’d met with the Greenes, our legal discussions had ended in a bloodbath, with Suzanne and her brother nearly coming to blows.

  As a result, Suzanne had stepped back from the case, leaving me as first chair. She’d concluded that it wasn’t wise for a near relation to head up the defense. Also, she didn’t cotton to anyone questioning her legal advice. And, as she had warned them, she had scheduling conflicts this week.

  Mr. Greene spoke in a demanding tone. “I thought she was supposed to provide oversight at the trial.”

  “She is.”

  “The only reason I agreed to pay the bill for your representation was because I was assured Suzanne would be at your elbow, watching out for Lee. How the dickens will she run this trial if she won’t take the trouble to show? This is my son, for God’s sake—her own nephew.”

  I tried to keep my voice pleasant. “We’ve been through this, Mr. Greene. Suzanne says that representing a family member in a criminal trial is like a doctor performing surgery on kinfolks. It’s a bad practice. But she’ll be here, to help out. Suzanne’s probably run into some traffic on the highway. She would never fail to show.” Oh, my God, Suzanne, please, please show, I thought.

  In a tight voice, Mr. Greene addressed Lee. “I warned you about this from the outset. I knew we should hire a firm in Jackson, but you insisted that this girl was up to the task.”