Juror #3 Page 2

  Again.

  “Ruby Bozarth?”

  When I heard my name, I looked around. The circuit judge’s clerk stood in the courtroom doorway.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I said.

  “Ruby? Judge Baylor wants to see you in his chambers.”

  Well, that was weird. I didn’t have anything pending in Judge Baylor’s court. Baylor handled the big cases: felonies, big-money civil matters. Looking at the clerk, I shook my head and said, “Me? Are you sure?”

  The clerk nodded and pointed at the hallway. “He’s waiting. It’s about your murder case.”

  Huh? I didn’t have a murder case.

  How could I? I’d never handled anything bigger than a country roads DWI. And I’d lost that case, too.

  Chapter 2

  I DIDN’T WANT the judge to spy the dangling threads hanging off my suit, so I tucked the side of my jacket behind my back and entered the office with my hand on my hip, like a Salvation Army fashion model walking the runway.

  “Miss Bozarth here to see you, Judge,” said the clerk.

  “Good! Excellent! Take a seat, ma’am.”

  Two leather wingback chairs faced his mammoth walnut desk. I set my shiny briefcase beside the one nearest the door.

  “No, not over there. Sit here.”

  He pointed to a small wooden library chair to the right of his desk. I got the message, loud and clear. I wasn’t important enough to sit in the fancy chair. My jaw clenched as I picked up the briefcase.

  Settling on the hard edge of the chair, I smoothed my skirt and primly crossed my ankles.

  “Judge Baylor,” I began, but he cut me off.

  “So you’re a grad of Ole Miss law school?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. I graduated last May.” Should I tell him my class rank? Because it was pretty damned good.

  “Did you know, I graduated from Ole Miss, too—class of 1976.”

  I smiled politely. Life had been good to the judge. By his appearance, with salt-and-pepper hair and a trim physique, I’d thought he was younger than that.

  He smiled back. “Got my undergrad degree there, too. Oxford is a grand old town. Beautiful campus.”

  “Beautiful,” I echoed.

  “I was a Sigma Nu, back in undergrad. How about you, Miss Bozarth? Which sorority did you pledge?”

  Was there a murder case, or had he called me in to take a trip down memory lane?

  God, I wanted a piece of Nicorette. My hand itched to reach down and dig for the box inside my briefcase.

  I said, “No sorority. Not my scene. Your Honor, your clerk said—”

  He tilted back in his chair and propped his feet on the shiny desktop. “How’d you happen to come to Rosedale to hang your shingle?”

  I answered by rote. “I like small towns, sir. Grew up in them.”

  Actually, one of the places I’d lived as a kid was right here in Rosedale. But I wasn’t inclined to tell him the whole story.

  I also did not confide that I’d had a cushy job lined up after graduation at a big law firm in Jackson. A generous offer that disappeared when I broke off my engagement with my ex-fiancé, Lee Greene, whose family knew a whole lot of people in Mississippi.

  It still gave me satisfaction to recall the shocked look he wore when I threw the diamond ring in his face. The Coach briefcase he gave me, though, was another matter. A woman has to be practical.

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Sir?”

  “Where’d you grow up?”

  Was he digging, or just being polite? Was there a chance that he knew I’d spent time in Rosedale? I shifted my weight in the uncomfortable chair. “All over. We moved around Mississippi. Even spent a while across the river in Arkansas.”

  I fell silent but tried to send him a telepathic message: Don’t you dare ask me what my daddy did for a living. Because the fact was, I didn’t know. I was the product of a one-night stand following a concert. Mom was taken with my biological father because she thought he kinda looked like Garth Brooks. “That’s where you get your shiny brown hair,” she’d say, and kiss the top of my head.

  “Well, Miss Bozarth, y’all being new to town puts you in a prime position for the Summers case. You’ll be more comfortable handling the defense, since you don’t have a history with the victim and her family.” He shook his head, his mouth turned down in an expression of deep regret. “Jewel Shaw was a Kappa at Ole Miss.”

  Finally. “Exactly what kind of case are you talking about, Your Honor?”

  “State v. Darrien Summers. He’s been charged with the murder of Jewel Shaw. It happened over at the country club, if you can believe it.”

  I was poised so close to the edge of my wooden seat that I was in danger of falling onto the floor.

  “But Judge Baylor, what’s this got to do with me?” When he frowned, I added hastily, “Sir, I don’t mean to sound impertinent. But I don’t represent Mr. Summers.”

  “Oh, yes you do.” He dropped his feet back onto the floor. “I appointed you this morning.”

  A wave of panic washed over me and I let out a nervous laugh.

  “Your Honor, I’m not qualified. I’ve only tried one case before a jury—it was a misdemeanor. I’ve never handled a felony defense.”

  While I spoke, he began to smile at me. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. My clerk tells me you’ve been begging for appointments.”

  It was true. I had—but not appointments like this. “For guardianships. I told your clerk I wanted to serve as guardian ad litem in family law matters.”

  “In fact, Grace told me you’d been complaining about it, saying it was downright unfair that I hadn’t given you an appointment yet. Now I am.” He smirked.

  I should have known that his clerk would repeat my rash words. But I’d been angling for GAL work for months, and he kept handing the guardianships to the same two lawyers. “Judge, if you have a guardianship, I’m more than ready to take it on. But not a murder. I don’t have any background in that kind of case.”

  “Miss Bozarth, if you want to learn how to swim, you’re going to have to jump in the water.” His tone was benevolent.

  My heart beat so fast, it was hard to breathe. “I have to decline. Respectfully. I respectfully decline.”

  The kindly expression disappeared. “You, ma’am, are a member of the Mississippi Bar. And when you became a member, you swore an oath.” He tossed a file at me. “I expect you to honor your obligations as an attorney licensed to practice law in this state.”

  I picked up the file with a shaking hand. Opening it, I skimmed through the judge’s docket sheet.

  “Your Honor, it says here that Darrien Summers is represented by the public defender.”

  “Was. Was represented. The public defender withdrew. Look at the most recent docket entry. The defendant is represented by you, Miss Bozarth.” The judge turned to the phone on his desk and pushed a button. “I’m ready for my next appointment, Grace. We’re all wrapped up here.”

  Clearly, I was dismissed. I stood, my briefcase in one hand, the file in the other. Judge Baylor gestured toward the file I held. “You can keep that copy. It’ll bring you up to date.”

  As I tottered toward his office door, a thought struck me. I turned around.

  “Beg pardon, Your Honor, but why did the public defender withdraw?”

  “Oooooh,” he sighed. “Well, the defendant took a swing at him the last time they appeared in court. Tried to punch him out. The attorney could hardly be expected to continue representation, under the circumstances.”

  Judge Baylor winked at me. “Y’all be careful, now. Watch your back.”

  Chapter 3

  A MURDER CASE. I had a murder case.

  I walked out of the judge’s office in a fog, heading for the courthouse stairway. I grasped the banister at the top of the stairs with a sweaty palm.

  Get a grip.

  I was going to have to pull it together. Gotta deal.

  Directly across the hall from Ju
dge Baylor’s chambers was a door painted in bold black letters: THOMAS LAFAYETTE, DISTRICT ATTORNEY. I left the stairway and headed for that door.

  Because if this was really happening, and I was actually representing a man charged with murder, I needed to know the evidence the state had against him. Lifting my chin, I walked into the DA’s office.

  “I need to see Mr. Lafayette.”

  The receptionist gave me a glance as she clicked her computer mouse. “He’s got a tight schedule this week. If you email him directly, he might be able to squeeze you in.”

  “I need to see him today. I’ve been appointed to represent Darrien Summers.”

  Her eyebrows shot up as she looked up from the computer screen, picked up the phone, and pushed a button. “Tom, there’s a woman out here, says she represents Darrien Summers.”

  The door to his inner office flew open. A forty-year-old man in a pinstriped suit with a deep dimple in his chin leaned in the door frame, looking me up and down.

  He laughed. “Well, get on in here, and let’s get acquainted.”

  In his office, I took a seat facing his desk and sat up straight, trying to look professional.

  “Mr. Lafayette, I’m Ruby Bozarth.”

  “Call me Tom.” He plucked a business card from a brass display on his desk and handed it to me. I checked my pockets, hoping to find a card of my own to offer in return, but I only found the button.

  “So, Ruby, you set up shop across from the courthouse, right? In the old Ben Franklin store? I can’t believe we haven’t met.”

  Lafayette had a speech impediment, just a slight emphasis on the letter S—a tendency to hiss.

  “I haven’t done too much criminal litigation.” Did I imagine it, or were his eyes unusually wide set?

  He picked up a fountain pen, twirling it in his fingers. “I didn’t think Baylor would find anyone fool enough to take this on. Do you realize we’re set for trial in two weeks?”

  My stomach did a flop. I had a spasm of such intense nausea, I was afraid I might vomit on his carpet.

  I swallowed. “I’ll get a continuance.”

  He laughed again. My hand itched to punch his dimpled chin.

  “Well, I guess you can ask Baylor for a continuance. But asking ain’t getting. The judge doesn’t intend to let this case languish on the docket. Summers won’t plead, and the community wants justice.” He set the pen down. “How much are they paying you?”

  I opened my mouth and clamped it shut, astounded to realize that I had no clue. I hadn’t thought to ask the judge.

  Lafayette said, “The last time the public defender conflicted out, a lawyer that Baylor appointed tried to bill the county a fortune for his time. But they cut him back. You should know that up front. You’ll only get paid eighty dollars an hour for in-court time, fifty dollars an hour for your out-of-court time.”

  I blinked. That sounded like a fortune. I’d been wrangling small fees from clients who couldn’t afford to pay for their groceries. I started doing math to calculate how many hours I’d rack up for a jury trial.

  I could pay my rent at the Ben Franklin.

  Lafayette reached over to the credenza behind his chair, picked up a file, and tossed it across the desk at me. “There’s your discovery: it’s the contents of our Darrien Summers file.”

  I opened the file and flipped through it. Skimming the pages, I tried to play it cool.

  “Tom, what do you see as the core evidence you have against my client?”

  “It’s all right there, in the sheriff’s report. Summers was found with Jewel Shaw’s body in a cabana out by the pool at the Williams County country club on the night of the Mardi Gras ball. She had thirteen stab wounds, inflicted by an instrument consistent with a butcher knife.”

  When he talked about the deceased’s injuries, he rolled the words on his tongue: ssstab woundsss inflicted by an inssstrument.

  “What was my client doing at the club?”

  “Summers was on staff at the club—a waiter.”

  I had the sheriff’s report in hand, skimming through it as fast as I could. “I don’t see anything about a murder weapon. Where is it?”

  “Damn shame—they looked for it. Never found it.”

  I looked up from the report and tried to read his reaction. “No murder weapon? What did he do, eat it? And no eyewitness? Your evidence is circumstantial. My client sounds like a bystander, a guy who stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Lafayette laughed at me—for the third time. “Keep digging in that file, Ruby. They found Jewel Shaw’s cell phone at the scene. And the last activity on her phone was a text message to the defendant, telling him to meet her at the cabana.”

  “I don’t get it. She’s texting the waiter? What—she wants another dessert? This is totally arbitrary. What’s the motive?”

  “Keep turning the pages, ma’am.”

  I did. When I came upon photocopies of selfies of a blond woman and a tall black man engaged in a variety of sexual positions, I almost dropped the file.

  “Oh, my Lord.”

  “Yep. Looks like Miss Shaw didn’t delete her photos too often.”

  Something about the name of the deceased rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Jewel Shaw,” I repeated.

  Lafayette nodded. “Jewel was cut down in her prime. We’ll never know how he got rid of that knife—but he didn’t get rid of those phone pictures. And those pictures there are going to get your client the death penalty.”

  The death penalty. Bile rose up in my throat again. I grabbed the file and my briefcase and made a run for the women’s restroom.

  Chapter 4

  I’D NEVER SEEN the inside of a jail before.

  The smell hit me first: an unhappy combination of dirty feet and school cafeteria food. I dug into my briefcase, palmed a Nicorette tablet, and chewed down hard.

  As the jailer led me into the inmate interview area, he pointed to a phone receiver on the wall, next to a foggy pane of security glass. “You’ll talk through that.”

  “Okay,” I said, and pulled out a folding chair that faced the glass. When the jailer left, the electronic door slammed shut behind him, locking me in. I shuddered.

  While I waited for Darrien Summers to appear on the other side of the cubicle, I pulled out my legal pad, turned to a fresh page, and tapped my pen on the paper in a nervous rhythm. I started to wonder whether the gum chewing would make me look like an immature kid.

  He wouldn’t know I was trying to kick the Marlboro habit I’d started in high school, when I used to filch cigarettes from my mom’s purse. I quit in college; it was a habit I could ill afford. But I picked it up again in law school from my ex, Lee Greene. Somehow, his overblown confidence made the vice look genteel. Those were the bad old days.

  But I was done with tobacco, and done with my false southern knight, Lee. The Nicorette was a handy panacea, but my client might think I was chawing down on a lump of bubble gum. I tore off a piece of paper from the legal pad and spat the gum onto the paper just as my client walked through the door on the other side of the glass.

  The fuzzy selfies I’d seen of Darrien Summers didn’t do him justice. He was well over six feet tall, dwarfing the jailer who led him in, and his muscled biceps and forearms looked like those of a DC superhero. His hair was buzzed close to his head, enhancing his sculpted cheekbones and strong jaw. He was dressed in orange jail scrubs, his hands shackled behind him.

  I waved at Summers through the glass. As soon as the jailer unlocked the cuffs and made his exit, I picked up the phone.

  Darrien Summers stared at me with disbelief. I pointed at the phone receiver in my hand. “Pick up.”

  Shaking his head, he dropped into his chair. Slowly, he picked up the phone on his side of the glass and held it to his ear.

  “Who are you?”

  Smiling, I said, “Mr. Summers, I’m Ruby Bozarth. May I call you Darrien?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Judge
Baylor just appointed me to represent you in your criminal case. You can call me Ruby. Sir, can I call you Darrien?”

  “Well, shit.”

  Through the glass, I could see his eyes rove over my long hair, my face, the worn business suit. After a long silence, he spoke again. “How old are you?”

  I dropped the grin. It was a fair question, and there was no point in trying to dodge it. “Twenty-six.” Hastily, as if it would boost my credibility, I added, “I’ll be twenty-seven in two months.”

  Summers dropped the phone. It made a metallic whine when it hit the counter. The noise hurt my ear, and I winced.

  His head rolled back on his neck, with his eyes focused on the ceiling. Then his eyes closed, and he gave a deep exhale.

  Gripping the phone, I spoke loudly into the receiver. “Darrien? Mr. Summers? Pick up the phone, please.”

  He ignored me. Turning sideways in his chair, he faced the blank cinder-block wall.

  I shouted into the receiver. “We have got to talk. You’re going to trial in two weeks. Two weeks!”

  Summers rose from the seat. Turning his back to me, he took a step to the locked door inside his cubicle and knocked on it.

  My face hot, I rapped on the security glass. “Darrien, I need your help. You have to assist in your defense.” The phone was wet from the sweat in my hand.

  He began to pound on the door with a closed fist. I didn’t need the phone to hear what he was saying on his side of the glass.

  “Out! Get me out of here!”

  The door on his side of the cubicle opened abruptly, and the short jailer’s face appeared, wearing a bemused expression. “What the hell?”

  “I’m done here. I want to go back to my cell.”

  As the jailer shackled his wrists, I tried again. “You need me. Come back! Talk to me.” I was ashamed to hear the whine in my voice. I beat on the glass. “I’m all you’ve got.”