Juror #3 Page 17

  Judge Ashley rubbed his head. “This is a murder trial, Sheriff. I need security. Why do you need your man right now?”

  At the bailiff’s desk, Brockes must have overheard the exchange. He rose to his feet, a look of confusion clouding his face.

  The sheriff dropped his voice to a gruff whisper. “I need him for the investigation into the shooting of that Vicksburg detective.”

  That grabbed my attention. I moved down the bench, to be closer to the sheriff. I wanted to hear exactly what he said. The Vicksburg detective’s fate was intimately tied to the fate of Lee Greene, and the outcome of my case.

  I needn’t have bothered to elbow my way closer. The judge waved his black-robed arm at the sheriff. “Speak up, sir. What is it?”

  In a booming baritone, Sheriff Stark said: “We have the weapon that killed the Vicksburg detective. It’s registered to that boy there.” He cocked his head and nodded in Deputy Brockes’s direction.

  “And it’s got his prints.”

  Chapter 49

  I SWUNG AROUND and checked out Deputy Brockes. It appeared that Brockes had also overheard the sheriff’s pronouncement. His face had blanched, and his jaw opened and shut, and then opened again.

  “I-I—n-n-never,” he said, sputtering.

  Sheriff Stark left the witness stand, and with a jerk of his head, he signaled to Deputy Potts in the back of the courtroom. Both lawmen advanced on young Brockes. Brockes backed away, shaking his head.

  Sheriff Stark said, “You need to come along, son.”

  “Why? Wha-What for?”

  The sheriff lowered his voice, but he was only a few feet away from me. I could hear him clearly.

  “Looks like you’re a suspect in the investigation of the Vicksburg man’s death. I expect we can clear it all up. I’m sure we can. But we need to have a talk, Deputy.”

  He grasped Brockes by the elbow, but the young man jerked his arm away.

  “Wasn’t me. I don’t know nothing about that Vicksburg man, nothing except we seen him in his car that night. Ain’t that right, Potts?”

  Deputy Potts had reached his partner’s side. His face was grave as he looked to the sheriff for direction.

  The pitch of Brockes’s voice rose to a whine, childlike in its intensity. “We pulled him over, is all. It was Potts that said to do it. ‘Pull that Volvo over,’ he told me. ‘It didn’t signal right.’ He was fine when we let him go. Fine as frog hair.”

  He turned to his partner. “Ain’t that right, Potts?”

  Potts didn’t respond. The sheriff reached for Brockes a second time; again, Brockes snatched his arm away.

  The sheriff said to Deputy Potts: “Cuff him.”

  With a stony face, Potts pulled the handcuffs from his belt. It took both men to hold Brockes as they clicked the restraints shut. I had to look away; it seemed disrespectful to witness the scene. I turned my focus to Judge Ashley. He and Isaac Keet were exchanging a look.

  “Getting kind of rowdy in here, Judge,” Keet said.

  For once, I was in agreement with the DA. The spectators in the gallery were buzzing with talk; more important, the jurors were craning their necks to see the drama unfold.

  Judge Ashley banged his gavel. “Court will be in recess for fifteen minutes.” To the bailiff, he said, “You’ll probably need to accompany the jurors to the restroom facilities.”

  The bailiff spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I can’t watch over the ladies’ room and the men’s room at the same time. I’ve only got one set of eyes—”

  The judge cut him off. “My court clerk will assist. Carla!” he said, pointing to a woman who lingered near the judge’s chambers exit. “Assist with the ladies. Please.”

  And Judge Ashley disappeared.

  Chapter 50

  I HEADED FOR the defense counsel table and walked into the cloud of scent. My nose began to drip. As I dug a wad of Kleenex from my briefcase, I said, “Lee, you can’t wear that cologne. It’s driving me nuts.”

  “It’s my new signature scent.” He looked down at my briefcase. “Is that the bag I got you for graduation? You still carry it, after all this time. That is really touching.”

  I shoved the briefcase under the table. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t carry it for sentimental reasons.”

  “Maybe you carry it because it’s nicer than anything you can afford,” he whispered.

  I rolled my eyes. That stuck-up son of a bitch. Even if it was true.

  Lee drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop, watching as Deputy Brockes was escorted out of the room, still protesting. After the officers departed, he laughed and said to me in a confiding tone, “Jesus Christ—that Barney Fife deputy doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Glad I’m not representing him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That little deputy they just dragged out of here. What an idiot. I wouldn’t want to represent a dumbshit like him, that’s all I’m saying.”

  I stared at him for a long moment. It seemed to me that maybe Lee didn’t have a grasp on reality. We were sitting in a Mississippi courtroom where he was on trial for a murder charge. And if I couldn’t figure out an angle to get the dirt on the victim into evidence, the only legal work Lee would do in the future might be as a jailhouse lawyer in a Mississippi state prison.

  I needed to make Lee concentrate on his own situation. “Since I’m seeing Cary Reynolds tonight, I want to be fresh. Give me the background on y’all’s friendship.”

  Lee waved it off. “We’re brothers, Ruby. It’s all good.”

  “So you stayed tight after college.”

  “Well, no. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Did you talk regularly?”

  “No. Lord, I don’t think we’d talked in years. But he followed me on Facebook. I posted a picture of dinner at that barbeque place in Vicksburg, and he messaged me.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he wanted to see me, next time I was in town. He wanted some business advice. I was going to Vicksburg anyway, on depositions. So we made an appointment to have dinner while I was in town.”

  I was about to ask a follow-up question when I caught sight of the DA exiting through a side door. In his absence, I needed to have some straight talk with my client. “Lee, the DA brought up his plea bargain offer again this morning.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He stood up abruptly and turned away, but I grabbed his coat sleeve. “Lee, it’s my duty to tell you what he offered.”

  He wrenched his sleeve from my hand. “You’re wrinkling my jacket.”

  I stood beside him and spoke into his ear. “Keet will accept a plea of guilty to voluntary manslaughter. If you plead, he’ll recommend five years.”

  Lee’s head dropped and he let out a groan. I went on: “Lee, with your clean record, and the victim’s seamy background, you might have a shot at probation.” When he didn’t speak, I said, “I’m not saying you should take the offer. But you should think about it. Talk it over with your parents. And your aunt Suzanne.”

  He shut his eyes and laughed softly. “Aunt Suzanne.”

  When he lifted his chin and looked at me, his typical demeanor was back in place. “I have an answer for you, Ruby. The suggestion that I claim any responsibility for that woman’s death is appalling to me. I’ve told you: I have no recollection of doing anything criminal.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. No recollection. And I’ve told you, Lee: your lack of recall doesn’t help your case. Because you know as well as I do that voluntary intoxication is not a defense for this crime.”

  His eyes flashed. In a dangerous voice, he said, “Thanks, counselor—so glad to see you’re on my side. Here’s a thought, Ruby: maybe the girl at the hotel drugged me. You know it’s not my custom to experience blackouts.”

  I pondered the possibility. It would help our case, but it just didn’t make sense. Why would the girl drug him, then give herself an overdose?

  Chapte
r 51

  I PUSHED MY files into a neat pile on the counsel table while I watched Judge Ashley fiddle with his ear. He turned to look at Isaac Keet, and I saw a pink plastic device in the judge’s ear canal.

  I breathed a sigh of relief: thank goodness. Maybe we wouldn’t have to shout our secret conferences at the bench.

  Addressing the jury, Judge Ashley instructed that they were to disregard the events that had occurred prior to the recess. He then asked me if I wished to continue my opening statement, which I declined. Finally, to the DA, Judge Ashley said, “Call your first witness.”

  Keet stood. “The State of Mississippi calls Juana Gomez.”

  The bailiff, now stationed at the courtroom entrance, opened the door and called out the name. A young woman entered, wearing a high-necked black nylon dress. Once she was inside, the bailiff murmured instructions to her and she approached the bench.

  “Raise your right hand,” Judge Ashley said, and she complied.

  “Do you swear that the testimony you’re about to give is the whole truth?”

  “I do,” she answered, with a decided nod.

  “You may be seated.”

  She took her seat on the witness stand, pulling the hem of her dress down to her kneecaps.

  Isaac Keet said in a solemn tone, “Please state your name.”

  In a heavily accented contralto voice that carried to the back of the room, she said, “Juana Maria Gomez.”

  “And what is your occupation, Ms. Gomez?”

  “I work in housekeeping at the Magnolia Inn.” She paused and added, “Magnolia Inn, in Vicksburg.”

  Keet nodded with approval. “And by Vicksburg, you’re referring to Vicksburg, Mississippi?”

  I could’ve objected to leading the witness, but there was nothing to be gained by it, so I kept my seat.

  “Yes, sir. Mississippi.”

  “How long have you been employed in that capacity?”

  She blinked; there was a moment’s pause. “How long have I worked there? Two years, almost.”

  Keet strolled to the jury box and leaned on the wooden railing. “Ms. Gomez, let me direct your attention to March of this year. Specifically, March twenty-third. Were you working on that date?”

  “Yes, I was working.”

  “What shift, if you recall?”

  “Early shift. Seven to three.”

  He reached out with his right hand and grasped the oak railing. “Let me direct your attention to 11:15 a.m. on March twenty-third. Could you tell us what happened at that time?”

  She shifted in her chair and faced the jury, taking care to cover her knees. He’d trained her like a professional witness. I was impressed in spite of myself.

  “Checkout is eleven.”

  “Objection.” I rose to a half-stand. “Not responsive.”

  The judge gave me a glance. “Sustained.”

  Keet shot me a scornful look. It was a small matter. I knew he would redirect her. I just wanted to remind the jury that I was on the playing field.

  “Ms. Gomez, what precisely did you do at 11:15 a.m. on that date?”

  She looked at the defense table with trepidation, then said, “I knocked on the door. The door of room 113.”

  “And why did you do that?”

  “Because I needed to get in, to clean. He should be gone. Because,” and she looked my way again, triumphant, “checkout is eleven.”

  “What happened when you knocked on that door?”

  “No answer. So I used my key and I opened it.”

  “Then what?”

  She exhaled audibly. “I peeked in. Only opened the door partway. I said, ‘Housekeeping,’ like they tell us to.”

  “Was there any response?”

  “No. No one said nothing.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She turned to face the jury again. “I stepped inside and you can’t believe what I seen.”

  “Objection,” I said, but the judge waved me down.

  “Just tell the jury what you saw, ma’am,” Judge Ashley said.

  She dropped her voice to a husky whisper. “I saw there was a black girl’s arms tied to the headboard of the bed, with duct tape. And a white man was on top of her.”

  “What did you observe about the man in room 113?”

  “He was naked with no sheet or blanket or nothing.”

  “Ms. Gomez, what, if anything, were the people in bed doing?”

  “Well, they don’t move, so at first I thought they were asleep. But the man’s face was so white, maybe they are not breathing. Maybe they’re dead. But I must have made a noise because he opened his eyes, he lifted his head. I thought he looked like a ghost. He scared me so much I couldn’t even move, not at first.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I looked at that man’s face and I wanted to scream, but I was too afraid…of what he’d do to me. So I shut the door behind me. And I called the manager. He came up to see, then he called the police on 911.”

  “Ms. Gomez, the man you saw in the hotel room, lying on top of the girl in bed, is he in the courtroom today?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a voice that rang with assurance.

  “Would you point him out for the jury?”

  She pointed a finger at Lee, her face twisted with loathing. “Him.”

  Isaac Keet bowed his head. “No further questions.”

  As Keet walked back to the prosecution’s counsel table, Judge Ashley said, “Ms. Bozarth, your witness.”

  I leaned in to Lee and whispered, “Anything in particular you want me to ask?”

  He bent his head to my ear. “Leave her alone. Don’t cross-examine her.”

  I shot him a look of surprise. “Why not?”

  “There’s nothing to be gained by it, and she’s poisoned against me. Get her off the stand and out of here.”

  I understood his sentiment, but I had a point to make. Lee had been unconscious, unmoving, and therefore harmless when Juana Gomez saw him. I intended to make her admit it.

  So I ignored my client. Picking up my notes, I walked around the defense table and leaned against the front of it. Lee poked me from behind and said “Don’t” in a dangerous whisper. Too late.

  “Ms. Gomez, describe the defendant’s condition when you first saw him.”

  Her brow puckered. “Huh?”

  I was taken aback. Her English had been strong during Keet’s direct examination. “His condition. Didn’t you say he appeared to be sleeping?”

  “Appears? I don’t understand.”

  I took a step closer. “Ma’am, you said in your testimony on direct examination that the man in the hotel room wasn’t moving, his eyes were closed, and he didn’t respond in any way. Isn’t that correct?”

  She was silent. After a second, she shrugged her shoulders.

  I felt a wave of heat roll up my neck. Juana Gomez seemed determined to mess with me.

  “Did he appear to be unconscious?”

  “Conscience?” She shook her head. “That man have no conscience.”

  I heard Keet chuckle. Snapping my head toward the judge, I said, “Objection, Your Honor. I request the jury be asked to disregard.”

  “Sustained. Disregard the last answer, ladies and gentlemen.”

  I walked all the way to the witness stand and eyeballed the housekeeper. “Ms. Gomez. The man in the hotel room—he wasn’t moving, barely breathing. So when you saw him, he wasn’t harming anyone. Correct?”

  No answer. I raised my voice.

  “Isn’t that right?”

  In a sulky voice, she said, “Yeah. When I saw him.”

  “And when you made the noise, and he did awaken, what was his condition at that time?”

  I wanted to paint a picture of Lee’s vulnerable state, to set the stage for his incapacitation. We needed to establish that he was unable to do any harm. It was within my grasp, inches away, if I could just pull it out of Juana Gomez’s mouth.

  She cocked her head. “Conditions?”


  “Yes, condition. How did he act? What did he do?”

  “Oh, him.” She sneered and turned to face the jury one last time. “He scream and cry like a little girl.”

  Chapter 52

  AS GOMEZ DISAPPEARED from the courtroom, Judge Ashley picked up his gavel.

  “We’ll break for lunch. Court is adjourned until one o’clock.” He slammed the gavel on the bench, and Lee and I rose and stood while the judge departed into his chambers, the hem of his black robe flapping.

  Lee turned on me and grabbed my upper arm. “Why didn’t you do what I told you to do?”

  I tried to snatch my arm away, but he held me fast. In a whisper I said, “I was trying to make a point.”

  His eyes were wide with fury. He pulled me closer, and the odor of his cologne engulfed me.

  “Your cross-examination of the hotel maid was a disaster. She made you look like a fool. And she made me look like some kind of freak, some criminal.”

  With a mighty yank, I freed my arm. “You were in bed with a dead woman, Lee. That does look pretty bad.”

  His head jerked as if I’d struck him. He said, “It sounds to me like you harbor doubts about my innocence. Well, I have doubts about you, Ruby. About your competence. Your ability to represent me in this case. To provide effective assistance of counsel. I’m beginning to think my father was right.”

  The cologne made my eyes run, as well as my nose. I pulled my briefcase from its spot on the floor, pulled out a tissue and blew my nose.

  Then I turned to Lee and said, “I’ve had a bellyful of your attitude.”

  I shoved the soggy tissue into the briefcase, followed by my legal pad, and closed it with a vicious zip. Then I looked up at him and said, “You want another lawyer? No problem, it’s your privilege. If you want me to withdraw, I’d be delighted. I’ll go into chambers and tell the judge, right this minute. Your call.” I swiped at the allergic tears seeping out of my eyes.

  Over Lee’s shoulder I saw a figure loom: my law partner, Suzanne Greene. She reached up and grabbed Lee’s left ear, then gave it a twist.

  He howled. Pulling away from the assault and rubbing his ear, he turned to her and said, “Damn, Aunt Suze! That hurts.”