Juror #3 Page 23

  Her voice rang out so loud I wanted to cover my ears as she said, “What the hell is going on here?”

  I said, “I am drunk as fuck.” Then I laughed again, because it’s not something I’d usually say.

  Cary froze behind his desk, still holding that little key between his fingers. He didn’t look happy as he demanded, “Who are you?”

  “It’s Suzanne. She’s my podner.” I tried to straighten up in my seat, but I felt myself slipping sideways instead. “She’s gonna take me home and put me to bed.”

  Suzanne took another look at me and commenced digging in her big brown bag. “I’m calling 911.”

  Cary stuck the key in his desk drawer and jerked it open. “You ain’t calling nobody. Y’all are going out the back and getting in the van.”

  He thrust his arm in the desk drawer. When he pulled it out, he was holding a handgun. I thought I must be dreaming. Who brings a gun to a party?

  Suzanne stood still as a statue, her hand deep inside the brown bag hanging off her elbow.

  When Cary said, “You drop that bag on the floor. You won’t be bringing it along,” she followed his order.

  She dropped the bag. I watched it fall to the floor. It tipped onto its side, and her cell phone spilled out, close to my shoe.

  But when I looked up, she held something in front of her, clutching it with both hands.

  Suzanne and Cary shouted at the same time, but I couldn’t make out what they said. Because there were fireworks. Lights flashing, rockets going off.

  That’s when I slid out of the chair and passed out.

  Chapter 70

  WHEN MY EYES opened, I focused on the pattern of ceiling tiles overhead, trying to remember where I was.

  I was lying on a narrow mattress, covered with a sheet. My head was fuzzy. And my stomach hurt. A blue nylon curtain surrounded me. The curtain was ripped aside so abruptly that it frightened me, and I nearly rolled off the bed.

  Before I could escape, I was snatched up into a fierce hug that smelled of tobacco and Estée Lauder. My eyes closed as I sagged into Suzanne’s embrace.

  “They said you were coming around, honey.” She released me and stood back, examining me over her glasses. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not great.”

  Suzanne hugged me again and kissed my cheek. The gesture made me tear up. I hadn’t experienced a hug and kiss like that since my mama passed. Suzanne grabbed a stool in the corner, rolled it next to my bedside, and sat down.

  She stroked my hair. It eased the ache in my head. “Well, they pumped your stomach. I expect that took the sap out of you.”

  My head was clearing. As the clouds parted, I grasped the reason that I was in a hospital bed. My nerves jangled with delayed fight-or-flight instinct.

  “Good Lord, Suzanne. What happened?”

  “Do you recall anything? The police tried to take a statement from you, but you were too woozy.”

  The scene came back to me. Sitting in Cary Reynolds’s office. Drinking a weak Scotch and water. Getting blind drunk from one drink.

  Not drunk. I don’t pass out from one drink.

  “Did he drug me?”

  She took my hand in a warm grasp. “Slipped you a mickey, honey.”

  “Oh, my God.” My frazzled brain struggled to piece it together. He didn’t slip a pill into the glass; I would have seen that. Was it in the Scotch? But Cary drank the Scotch, too. And Potts.

  My heart started to hammer in my chest. “Suzanne, that deputy was there. The one from Rosedale. Potts.”

  “Yeah—originally from Vicksburg, till he left about six months ago, the police tell me. I’m guessing that the late Detective Guion had caught on to Potts’s employment sideline. He’s in custody. The police got him, running down the highway, holding a big old bag of cash. There was a van running in the back. With the back open. For you, I reckon.”

  My head was pounding again. I rubbed my forehead, trying to remember. “Potts was there. Reynolds sent him out back. I had a drink. That’s all I remember.”

  “Nothing else?”

  A vision floated up: Suzanne in the doorway. Pulling something from her purse. I sat up so fast my head began to spin.

  “Suzanne. Did you have a gun?”

  “Yes, sugar. It’s all legal. I have a concealed-carry permit.”

  My throat was dry, but I tried to swallow before asking, “Did you kill Cary Reynolds?”

  She reached out and patted the sheet where it covered my knee. “No, honey. I got him in the chest, but he’s still breathing. Worthless son of a bitch.”

  I lay back on the hard mattress as I tried to absorb Suzanne’s revelations. “Was I in danger?”

  “What do you think?” Suzanne rummaged in her bag, pulled out a flowered handkerchief, and wiped her glasses with it.

  She said, “When I walked in there, you were sliding out of that little chair. Why, I hadn’t left you there for twenty minutes. I knew he’d done a number on you when I set eyes on you. And when I barged in, he reached for a gun in his desk drawer. But I had my Smith and Wesson.”

  I was reeling. Reynolds had drugged me. Suzanne came to my rescue and shot him. I was still processing when the metal rings on the blue curtain jingled again. A woman dressed in scrubs gave me a genuine smile. “You’re awake.”

  “Yeah. Trying to get my head to wake up.” I pulled the sheet up to my neck, as bashful as if I’d ended up in the ER due to intentional overindulgence.

  She ripped the Velcro of a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around my arm. “I’m going to take your vitals. Then a police officer would like to talk to you. Are you up for that?”

  My stomach twisted, but I ignored it. “Sure.”

  The nurse slipped a plastic clip onto my fingertip. I lay back, quiet, until Suzanne announced that she was stepping out.

  As she hooked her bag over her shoulder, the vision of the prior night returned.

  “Suzanne! How do you know what to do with a handgun?”

  She returned to my bedside, ignoring the nurse’s warning look, and tucked the sheet around me with a gentle hand. “My daddy taught me how to shoot. It’s a Greene family tradition.”

  Giving the sheet a final pat, she added, “He taught me how to drink, too. Always take it neat. You and my nephew could stand to take a lesson from him.”

  As she swept through the curtain, my weary brain finally made the connection.

  Lee Greene’s memory loss. My incapacity. Monae Prince’s death.

  It was in the water.

  Chapter 71

  AT NOON ON Friday, I was back in the Ben Franklin, poring over reports. I’d received a fortuitous email from Judge Ashley that morning; his wife required follow-up tests, so he informed Isaac Keet and me that the Greene trial would be delayed until Monday morning.

  I should have taken the opportunity to sleep, but I was too wired. After I was released from the ER in Vicksburg, Suzanne and I spent the wee hours of Friday morning at the Vicksburg police department, providing witness statements to the detective division. The police indicated that Suzanne’s use of her firearm was justifiable self-defense; moreover, while we were at the PD, the cops were performing a search of Cary Reynolds’s car lot. I was wild to know what the search revealed, and kept my phone near at hand.

  An unwrapped Clif Bar sat on my desk. The sight of it made me want to gag. I needed something soft on my stomach. A scrambled egg, maybe. Or grits.

  The vision of a dish of grits made me reach for my phone for the umpteenth time. Still no word from Shorty, though I had called and texted repeatedly.

  “Some boyfriend,” I muttered, petulant.

  I tossed the phone in my bag and left the office. If he wasn’t answering the phone, I’d hunt him down at the diner. I was so intent on my injured feelings that I didn’t notice that the neon bulbs that ordinarily greeted me were turned off.

  And when I reached the entrance, I saw that inside the glass door was a sign that was never displayed at noon: SORR
Y! WE’RE CLOSED!

  My disappointment was so profound that tears blurred my vision. I blinked them back, wondering when I’d become such a crybaby. I tried the door, but the dead bolt held it fast. Pounding my fist on the glass didn’t raise anyone.

  I turned to walk back to the Ben Franklin, moving in slow motion. Then I noticed Shorty’s car, parked on a side street beside the alley that ran behind the diner.

  Picking up my pace, I headed for the alley. When I pushed the screen door that led into the kitchen, it opened wide. “Shorty? You in here?”

  He appeared, wearing a smile. At the sight of him, I jumped over the threshold, grabbed him, and held on tight. Then I started to bawl.

  “What?” He tried to lift my chin with his hand, but I buried my face in his shoulder. “Ruby, honey. What’s wrong?”

  When I was able to speak, my voice came out in a whine. “Where were you?”

  “Arkansas.”

  I swiped at my nose, which was running—not a glamorous sight. “But I tried to call you.”

  He groaned, stepping over to a stainless-steel counter where a roll of paper towels sat. He ripped a towel off and handed it to me, saying, “I forgot my charger. My phone is dead.”

  I blew into the towel. It was scratchy, but I was grateful to have it. “You could’ve picked one up at a gas station.”

  “Yeah. I could’ve. But I was only gone overnight. What happened?”

  With an immature “they’ll feel bad when I’m dead” reaction, I took a perverse pleasure in responding. I gave a little shrug and said, “I got roofied.”

  He stared at me. “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah.” I let out a small sigh.

  His jaw began to twitch. He spun around, grasping the counter where the pots and pans were stacked. With a swift movement of his arm, he sent them crashing onto the tile floor.

  I jumped back. “Jesus!”

  He turned to face me again, his eyes burning. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch. Where is he?”

  I shook my head, stupefied; this was a side of my mild-mannered lover that I’d never seen. “He’s in the hospital. I think. Or the jail. Probably the hospital.”

  “Then I’m going over there.” He ripped off his apron and flung it to the floor, and pushed the screen door so violently I feared it would come off its hinges.

  I ran to the door. Through the screen, I shouted, “What are you doing?”

  He faced me. He was breathing hard. “I’m going to find Lee Greene and kick his fucking ass.”

  Chapter 72

  MY REACTION WAS delayed. He was storming out into the alley as I called out to him. “Shorty, no! Lee Greene didn’t roofie me. Cary Reynolds roofied me.”

  He turned, his brow furrowed. “Who?”

  I heaved a huge sigh and gave the screen door a push. “Get on back in here. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  As he stepped back into the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, kicking a stray saucepan out of my way. “I’m not helping you pick that mess up, baby. I am wore slick.”

  “How did you get roofied?”

  “I ran up to Vicksburg last night to talk to a turncoat witness, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t try to do me in.”

  Shorty shook his head, looking shocked. “I can’t believe it. When you needed me, I wasn’t around to help. Good God, Ruby. I am so sorry.”

  “Shoot—it’s not like you could’ve predicted it. So why’d you run off to Arkansas without saying a thing about it?”

  “It’s a surprise. For you.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head with a silent “no.” Surely, we weren’t back to that debate again. Shorty’s timing was worse than terrible. Couldn’t he see that I was at the end of my rope? I tried to send him a silent message: Don’t pull out a ring box. Just don’t.

  “I drove all the way to Little Rock to pick up your surprise. And, by God, here she comes.”

  My eyes popped open. Here who comes?

  Through the screen panel in the door, I could see a gray-haired figure bearing a brown paper grocery sack. She said, “Shorty, your daddy is spinning in his grave. I guarantee, he never in his life ran out of baking powder at the diner.”

  Shorty pushed the door open, saying, “Mama, Ruby’s here.”

  She shoved the grocery sack into Shorty’s hands and said, “Well, isn’t this a pleasure.”

  My weak stomach twisted. Meeting my boyfriend’s mother without prior notice? That rocked me back on my heels. I wished I’d had the chance to brush my teeth, at least.

  But Shorty’s mother was smiling like she’d just won the lottery. She extended her hand. “Ruby, I’m Cassie. And I’ve been dying to meet you.”

  When I took her hand, I had to look up. She was almost as tall as her son. I’d swear that Cassie was six foot two. I gave her hand a squeeze. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Your son has told me such wonderful things about you.”

  She reached out and patted his cheek. “Shorty’s a good boy. Drove all the way to Little Rock to bring me back to Rosedale to meet you.” She looked chagrined. “I just can’t do that highway driving. Makes me a nervous wreck.”

  We fell silent. I struggled to think of something to say.

  Cassie clapped her hands together. “I’ve met the famous Ruby Bozarth at last. This calls for a celebration. Shorty, where did this mess come from? Pick it up, for goodness’ sake. I’m going to fry y’all some chicken.”

  A vision of golden fried chicken swam before my eyes. And suddenly, I was gloriously hungry.

  As Cassie tied an apron over her clothing, Shorty bent to pick up the pans scattered on the floor.

  “Mama’s showing off for you. She knows her chicken’s better than mine.” He stood and whispered in my ear. “She wants you to like her.”

  She wanted me to like her. Well, that was refreshing.

  And Cassie had nothing to fear. I liked her already. How could I not?

  She was just like Shorty.

  Chapter 73

  THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY afternoon, I stood beside Isaac Keet near my counsel table. The courtroom was deserted but for the two of us.

  I held a compact in my hand, which shook slightly as I dabbed on a coat of lipstick.

  “You look fine,” Isaac said.

  To my surprise, I did look pretty fresh, considering we had just made our closing arguments to the jury that afternoon. My suit was unwrinkled, all buttons accounted for. My blouse was crisp. My hair wasn’t hanging in my face.

  My gut, on the other hand, was queasy. Despite Cassie and Shorty’s cooking, I hadn’t felt 100 percent right since my stomach was pumped at the hospital. And today I was high on adrenaline due to our jury instruction conference and the closing before the jury. It made me jumpy and slightly nauseated.

  It didn’t help that I had a wad of nicotine gum lodged in my jaw. I intended to give it up. Right after the Lee Greene trial was put to bed.

  When I returned the compact to my briefcase, my hand trembled so violently that I nearly dropped it.

  Keet reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “You nervous, Ruby?”

  Folding my hands together to still them, I lied. “Nothing to be nervous about. The jury hasn’t even been deliberating for an hour yet.”

  He turned and checked the big clock on the courtroom wall. “They’ve been out for over an hour.”

  I shrugged, trying to look confident. “It takes that long to read through the instructions and vote for a foreman.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.” He stepped away from the table and stretched his arms over his head. “I’m worn out, too, I gotta confess. Quite a weekend.”

  “No shit.” Without irony, I added, “I kept the Vicksburg PD working overtime.”

  He nodded soberly. “Now that you’ve cracked the crime ring and the money-laundering scheme, they may want to present you with the key to the city.”

  A moment of silent agreement hung between us. I broke it, with a touch of resentment
in my voice.

  “You could’ve just dismissed the charge.”

  He swung around, facing me with a look of reproach.

  “Don’t you complain to me, Ruby. I laid down on the floor in this case. When you rolled in with your law partner and your wild new evidence, I didn’t object to your evidence or your exhibits. Not even the smoking gun the jury’s got in the jury room with them right this minute.”

  I turned my head to the jury room, wishing I were a fly on the wall inside. “Wonder why they asked to see that exhibit.”

  He huffed a rueful laugh, shaking his head. “It’s a ticking bomb, that’s for sure. Don’t know why they needed the judge to send it to the jury room. Guess we’ll see soon enough.”

  The big entrance to the courtroom opened with a mighty creak. In walked the bailiff, accompanied by a uniformed deputy. I was happy to see that the uniformed man was young Deputy Brockes, back on the job. His uniform hung even looser on him than it had the week before, as if he’d been on a long fast. But his freckled face was bright again.

  Brockes and the bailiff carried trays loaded with coffee in foam cups and cold drinks. As the two men bore the trays toward the jury room, Keet nudged me.

  “See? We still have a wait ahead. They can’t return a verdict before they get something to drink. They may even hold out for a meal.”

  As the bailiff knocked on the door of the jury room, Deputy Brockes turned and faced us. I made eye contact with him. He gave me a nod, and a bashful smile lit his face.

  In a low voice, Keet said, “The bailiff has his helper back. Remember when the sheriff offered Judge Ashley Deputy Potts in Brockes’s place?”

  “I sure do.”

  “I should’ve paid attention to that. Ashley is a sharp old dog. If he suspected Potts was dirty, that should have sent a message to me.”

  I shot Keet a glance. If my face was smug, well, I couldn’t help myself.

  He went on. “Judge Ashley’s got a sharp eye.”

  I couldn’t resist: “And a deaf ear.”

  He laughed but said in a bantering tone, “Watch yourself, girl. Someday you’ll be old and gray like the rest of us.”