Juror #3 Page 19

  “Had it ever been opened?”

  “No, ma’am. It was virgin, Ruby.” He winked at me.

  I pressed on. “When you came into the hotel room, did you both have a drink?”

  “I got in there to his room at the Magnolia Inn, and we got some ice from the machine, and I poured one for Lee, one for myself. But I never got a chance to taste it. The call girl came in right about then, and she took the glass from my hand. She sat on Lee’s lap and knocked that drink back.”

  “Did you pour another one?”

  “No! I left, to give them privacy. I wanted to pay him back.”

  I finished my notes, then reached into my briefcase and pulled a pink subpoena out of a file folder. Reaching across the desk, I handed it to him. “Cary, here’s your subpoena for Lee’s trial. I’ll need you in court on Friday. You may have to sit around the courthouse hallway before you’re called to the stand.”

  He tossed it onto a stack of loose papers. “You don’t need to give me that. I guarantee I’ll be at that trial. I owe him.”

  I shoved the pad into my bag and dug for my keys. “I went to Ole Miss, too. Graduated from undergrad about five years ago.”

  “Well, that makes you a few years older than me, I guess,” he said, looking at me with surprise.

  “Oh, I’m ancient. Twenty-seven. Got one foot in the grave.”

  He scratched his jaw again. “That right?”

  “Were we on campus at the same time? Do you think we ever had a class together?”

  He cleared his throat. “Probably not. I wasn’t there that long. I dropped out and went into business on my own.” He flashed the grin again. “You don’t have to have a degree to be a kick-ass salesman.”

  “Just a degree in kick-ass.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got a degree in that.”

  He followed me out of the office as I left, saying, “See you in court. You know I’ll do whatever I can to help ol’ Lee.”

  As I slid into my driver’s seat, I said, “I’m glad to hear it. Your testimony could make all the difference.”

  But as I drove back to Rosedale, I puzzled over the information he’d shared, wishing I had asked more questions. The whole story about the hotel still didn’t make sense. Lee had said from the outset that he couldn’t remember anything after the first drink at the hotel. He only dimly recalled the prostitute coming to the room. He could remember that she was pretty, that she was black, that she was wearing red fishnet hose. But that’s all.

  I knew what the DA would claim in court: the young prostitute went into a coma and died during a sex act with Lee, with a toxic mix of alcohol and drugs in her system. The prosecution would tell the jury that the girl’s drink was drugged, that she died from an overdose of Rohypnol—roofies, the “date rape drug.”

  Isaac Keet would contend it couldn’t be self-inflicted. No one roofies herself.

  But that raised another curious issue—one that I would introduce. The prostitute was there in a “professional” capacity. Who roofies a hooker?

  Chapter 56

  IN MY OFFICE early the next morning, I paced in front of the storefront window, waiting for Suzanne to arrive. She couldn’t stand me up for the second day in a row. There was too much at stake.

  A car pulled into one of the parking spots directly in front of my building on the square. I pressed my hands to the glass and squinted; the sun had risen to the point where it blinded me from my vantage point.

  But it wasn’t Suzanne’s car. A young man emerged from the vehicle and shuffled to my office door. His shoulders were slumped.

  He tried the doorknob, but it was locked. I wasn’t open for business. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. He stepped over to the storefront and cupped his hands around his face to see inside. Then he rapped on the glass. Apparently, he’d spied me inside the building.

  For a second, I considered sneaking off down the hallway to hide, but it wouldn’t do to be impolite. My mama didn’t raise me that way.

  I unlocked the front door and cracked it open. Raising my hand to block the glare of the morning sun, I now recognized the man. It was Deputy Brockes, dressed in jeans and a Crimson Tide sweatshirt.

  “Morning, Deputy. What can I do for you?”

  His face was unnaturally pale, making the circles under his eyes stand out in contrast. “I need to see Miss Greene.”

  He stepped forward, so I blocked the entrance. “She’s not here, Deputy. We’re not open yet.” I tapped the letters painted on the door. “Our office hours are nine to five, usually. But we’re in trial right now.”

  His head ducked. Recalling the scene in court the day before, I knew it hadn’t been necessary to mention the trial. Looking at his unlined forehead, I wondered what role this young man could have played in the demise of my witness from Vicksburg.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I can wait.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but then Suzanne’s Lexus roared around the corner and zipped into the spot next to Brockes’s car. The deputy ran up to the driver’s side of the Lexus and stood beside the window as she rolled it down.

  To Brockes, she said, “Looks like you beat me here.”

  “Thank you so much for seeing me, Miss Greene.”

  She unbuckled her seat belt and exited the car, pulling her enormous Dooney & Bourke briefcase along. “Come on in, hon, and let’s talk.”

  I held the door open, glowering as Suzanne entered the office with Brockes at her heels. “Suzanne, we need a chance to confer before court.”

  She swept right past me. “Plenty of time for that, after I’m done with this young man.”

  The deputy dogged her tracks all the way to Suzanne’s private office space. “Thanks so much, ma’am. Everybody says you’re the best lawyer in this part of Mississippi, you know that?”

  “That so?” Suzanne said as she waved the man into her office. Then she pulled the door shut with a solid click.

  Shaking my head, I went to my own desk. I had a phone call to make. I looked through my handwritten notes, made on the night I’d first met Detective Guion in the sketchy bar in Vicksburg. I could swear he gave me a name: a man on the Vicksburg police force he trusted.

  I scanned the notes with a sharp eye, but it took two reviews of my chicken scratch handwriting before I found the officer’s name. I picked up my phone and dialed hastily, hoping I’d get a human on the other end, rather than a recording.

  I was in luck. “Connect me with Officer Beau George, please,” I said, and the receptionist connected me. A man’s voice spoke in a gravelly drawl.

  “This is George. I’m unavailable, but you can leave a message when you hear the tone.”

  Lord, yes, I’d leave a message: a desperate plea, begging him to return my call. I’d just ended the phone call and was sorting through the manila folders I needed for the second day of evidence when I heard the front door open. A man’s voice called: “Hello? Anybody home?”

  When I stuck my head into the lobby, I saw another deputy, this one in uniform. It was Potts, the cop who’d cuffed Brockes the day before.

  A fist of impatience squeezed inside my chest. We’d hired a secretary to handle the incoming traffic, but she wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes.

  “We’re not open, Deputy. Sorry, the door should be locked.” I pointed at the glass exit, hoping he’d take the hint and depart. “Our hours are posted on the door.”

  He removed his hat and held it with both hands. “I’m looking for my partner, Brockes. Young fellow, early twenties, red hair. Have you see him?”

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  He advanced toward me. “I see that’s his car out there, right in front of your office.”

  He walked past me, toward the door marked Suzanne Greene. I trotted behind. “Deputy? Excuse me? I told you, we’re closed now.”

  Without breaking stride, he said, “If that boy is talking to a lawyer, I should be with him.”

 
I thought, Snoop Dogg. I slipped in front of him and stood guard before Suzanne’s door, with my arms crossed on my chest. There was no way I’d let a cop into a private legal conference concerning a criminal investigation.

  “Deputy, you need to leave. Now.”

  He grabbed my arm and tugged me toward him. Startled, I broke free.

  Potts raised his hands in a placating gesture. With a quaver in his voice, he said, “That boy is my partner; he’s like a brother to me. He’s just a kid, and he needs me. That boy don’t know what to do on his own.” He blinked, hard. “I got to get in there and help him out.”

  His speech was touching. But not persuasive. I patted his shoulder before I clenched my hand around his forearm and led him to the front door.

  Without a trace of irony, I said to the deputy, “Suzanne Greene is the meanest lawyer in Mississippi. If you interrupt her conference, she’ll snatch you bald.”

  He snorted. “I ain’t afraid of no lawyer.”

  “Well, I am.” I opened the door and gave him a not-so-gentle shove. “Because if Suzanne thinks I let you go back there, I’ll be bald, too.”

  When he stepped outside, I shut the door and locked it.

  Chapter 57

  THE DA HAD spent nearly an hour questioning the county coroner from Vicksburg. Keet led the coroner, Dr. Walker, through a summary of his medical background before eliciting testimony that described the autopsy and the condition of the deceased. Photographs of the dead girl had circulated through the jury box. Some of the jurors looked queasy.

  Others looked somber. One man ran a hand over his face. Lee’s fan club, consisting of two female jurors, no longer gave him the eye.

  Isaac Keet stood at a podium near the jury box. He was wrapping up.

  “Doctor, based upon your examination of Monae Prince, and your education, training, and experience, do you have an opinion as to the cause of death of the deceased?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “And what is that opinion?”

  “I believe that the deceased died as the result of ingesting an overdose of Rohypnol and alcohol.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The judge pointed the gavel at me. “Ms. Bozarth?”

  I moved quickly, hoping to break Keet’s stride. Unlike the DA, I bypassed the podium and walked straight up to the witness stand, to shatter the notion of distance between us.

  “Doctor, thank you for coming today.”

  He smiled, “You’re welcome, Ms. Bozarth.”

  I made a show of rifling the pages of his report. “Doctor, you testified that the deceased was seventeen at the time of her death. Is that right?”

  “I did.”

  “Why do you say she was seventeen?”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am?”

  “Her age. Upon what basis did you conclude that she was seventeen years old?”

  He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. “Well, there was information given to me by the police department.”

  “Ah.” I nodded, smiling as if a lightbulb had come on. “So your testimony concerning her age wasn’t a scientific determination, based upon your education and training.”

  “No.” He uncrossed his legs. “Well, I could see she was young.”

  “Certainly. But as to her precise age: based on your examination, could she have been eighteen? Or nineteen? Or twenty-two?”

  “I guess so. She could have been.”

  I shot the jury an expressive look before turning back to the witness.

  “Doctor, the state has charged my client with causing death during an unnatural sex act.”

  “Objection.” Keet stood at the prosecution table.

  The judge tugged at the ear that held his hearing aid. “What grounds?”

  “Defense counsel is making statements rather than asking a question.”

  Unruffled, I said to the judge, “Your Honor, have I misstated the charge?”

  “You have not. Ask the witness a question, Ms. Bozarth.”

  “Doctor, was ejaculate found in the deceased’s body?” I raised my brow, as if I didn’t know the answer.

  “It was not.” His hands squeezed his knees. “That’s not dispositive, you know. If a man wears a condom.”

  I cut him off. “Thank you, sir. And from your extensive review of police reports in this case, you are no doubt aware that no one observed the defendant engage in a sex act with the deceased. Correct?”

  “Objection. Hearsay,” Keet was saying, but the doctor talked over him, saying, “I observed tears around the anal opening of the deceased.”

  Now it was time to walk over to the jury box and lean on the railing. “Can you clinically tie those tears on the body of the deceased to my client, Mr. Lee Greene?”

  “No. No, ma’am, I can’t.”

  “Doctor, are you aware that professional call girls often entertain multiple clients over the course of an evening?”

  Keet sprang from his chair, objecting that my question was outside the scope of testimony. He was right; it was. But I’d made my point.

  With a triumphant nod, I picked up my papers. “No further questions.”

  Lee’s eyes were approving as I slid into my seat. “Progress,” he whispered.

  I didn’t have a moment to gloat. The DA had called his next witness, the Vicksburg police officer who had collected evidence at the scene of the crime.

  Keet walked him through the crime scene. The officer described my client and the dead woman, naked in bed; the collection of hair from the hotel sheets, matching that of Lee Greene; the strewn clothing, his and hers, that was bagged and tagged; and Monae Prince’s purse and the contents thereof.

  Keet offered the various exhibits into evidence: clothes, bedding, hair samples, purse, contents.

  “No objection,” I said.

  Keet’s brows raised, and he gave me a look of mild surprise. “Your witness.”

  I walked over to Keet’s counsel table and picked through the exhibits until I found what I was looking for: a Mississippi driver’s license with a picture of the deceased. Strolling to the witness stand with a hint of a swagger, I handed the license to the witness.

  “Officer Lake, I’m handing you State’s Exhibit Twenty-two. Can you identify it, sir?”

  He glanced down. “It’s Monae Prince’s driver’s license.”

  “And where was her license found?”

  “In her wallet, inside her purse.” He pointed at Keet’s table. “It’s the brown handbag over there, with that fringe on it, I think you ladies call it.”

  Sexist. But I kept my voice polite. “And this is the license upon which you based your determination of her identity?”

  A shade of confusion crossed his face. “Yes, ma’am, her license.” He turned to the jury and said, “We never could locate next of kin.”

  “May I?” I extended my hand, and he returned the exhibit. I studied it and said, “Monae Prince, date of birth: September 6, 2000.”

  He shrugged, “If that’s what it says. I didn’t commit it to memory.”

  “So Monae was seventeen years old at the time of her death.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that much I know for certain. She was only seventeen.”

  I walked back to my table, where Lee held out a piece of paper. I took it from him and made a show of reading it, shaking my head.

  My star witness, the Vicksburg vice cop, was dead. But he’d left a little treasure in my possession before he died.

  I gave the paper to the court reporter, keeping my game face intact as she placed a sticker on it.

  “Officer Lake, I hand you what has been marked for identification as Defendant’s Exhibit One. Could you tell the jury what it is?”

  “It’s a printed copy of the license. Monae Prince’s Mississippi driver’s license. But the original was in her purse.”

  He attempted to return the sheet of paper. I took a step away from him.

  “Is it identical to the state’s exhibit?�
�

  He looked at the paper again. “Monae Prince. Same photo.”

  “And the date of birth?”

  As he bent over my exhibit, I saw a wave of color wash up his neck. “The date of birth is different. Well, date’s the same, but the year says 1994.” He glanced up. “But it’s just a printed copy.”

  “That’s true.” In my hand, I held the plastic license, the state’s exhibit; I returned it to him. “How long have you served in law enforcement?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “That’s a long time.” I shot the DA a look, and was tickled to see that he was poised on the edge of his seat. “I’ll bet you can tell the difference between a real license and a fake ID. Tell the jury, Officer Lake: in your expert opinion, which license looks legitimate to you?”

  He spent long moments studying the two exhibits. A muscle twitched in his cheek. I was gambling that he wouldn’t lie under oath.

  And I was right. With an apologetic glance at Keet, the officer said, “The state’s exhibit appears to be fake.”

  I snatched up the plastic driver’s license and held it high for the jury’s benefit. “This one is fake?”

  “Possibly.” With a sheepish look, he corrected himself. “Probably.”

  “And defendant’s exhibit?”

  “It looks legit. I mean, it’s a paper copy. But it looks like the real deal.”

  I faced the jury. “Then in your opinion, what was Monae Prince’s age at the time of her death, Officer?”

  He took a second to calculate. “Twenty-three.”

  I was on a roll. “Officer Lake, the state contends that an overdose of Rohypnol was in the deceased’s system at the time of her death.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is the street name for the drug, sir?”

  “Roofie.”

  “And isn’t it true that roofies are commonly known as a date rape drug?”

  “True.”

  “So they’re used for drugging people into having sex without their consent? Right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s generally the use on the street.”

  I leaned against the jury box and cocked my head. “Officer, in your career in law enforcement, have you ever encountered a situation in which a prostitute was roofied by a client?”