Juror #3 Page 8

  The DA asked Sheriff Stark about the telephones. A brief introduction of Darrien’s phone showed his receipt of Jewel’s text directing him to the cabana. They spent far more time on Jewel’s phone, encased in the plastic bag I’d opened in the evidence room at the sheriff’s department. I fidgeted in my seat as the sheriff and the DA handled the plastic-wrapped phone, anxious they might notice my intrusion into the exhibit.

  But after the phone was introduced into evidence, Lafayette dropped it on the prosecution’s counsel table and left it there. He pushed a flash drive into his laptop and directed the jury’s attention to a large screen in the courtroom.

  The first image caused Darrien to jerk violently in his chair. Draping an arm around his shoulders, I gave an urgent whisper.

  “Pull yourself together.”

  His eyes met mine, and he nodded, placing his hands on the tabletop, and sat perfectly still.

  The picture blown up on display was one of Jewel’s selfies; she’d captured a shot of herself astride Darrien.

  When Lafayette finished his direct examination of Sheriff Stark, he turned to the judge.

  “Your Honor, I offer State’s Exhibits One through Thirteen into evidence.”

  The judge peered down at me. “Miss Bozarth?”

  I huddled with Darrien.

  “Darrien, he laid the foundation for his exhibits. We can object to them, but the judge will overrule us.”

  He spoke in a hushed voice. “So we’d end up losing that fight, plus the jury will think we’re trying to hide something from them.”

  His perception impressed me. I whispered, “You’d be great in criminology. You’re a natural.”

  He almost cracked a smile, but as he straightened in his seat, his face regained a grave expression.

  I stood. “No objection.”

  “The exhibits will be received. Miss Bozarth, your witness.” And he inclined his head toward the witness stand.

  “Sheriff Stark, did you conduct a search of the cabana at the Williams County country club?”

  He cleared his throat before answering. “I did. Me and two deputies.”

  “The physical evidence identified in court today—the dress, the Mardi Gras beads, two telephones, the blood samples—were those all discovered at the scene?”

  “They were. I said that already, when I testified for Tom.”

  “Did you conduct a thorough search, Sheriff?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I always do.”

  “But on this particular occasion—your search of cabana six—was it thorough? Conducted in a professional manner?”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “I know what you’re getting at.”

  I took a step closer to the stand. “Answer the question: yes or no.”

  Lafayette jumped up. “Your Honor, she’s badgering the witness.”

  I shot him a look and was about to protest, but Judge Baylor intervened. “Answer the lady’s question, Pat.”

  The sheriff shifted back in his chair, watching me with a shuttered face. “Yes. Thorough.”

  I faced the jury. “Sheriff, where is the murder weapon?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you look for it?”

  “Of course I did. You know, he could’ve stashed—”

  I cut him off in a ringing voice. “Objection, Your Honor: speculation.”

  The judge said, “Don’t speculate, Pat.”

  “Sheriff, what was the diameter of the cabana? How big of a space are we talking about?”

  “I don’t recall a measurement, can’t rightly say.”

  “Well, then, let’s narrow it down. Bigger than a football field?”

  Another sigh from the witness stand. “No.”

  “Okay, we’ll scale back. Big as this courtroom?”

  “No.”

  I walked over to the jury room. It adjoined the courtroom, and the door was located right outside the jury box. I turned the knob and pushed it open. “About the size of the jury room?”

  He leaned over his seat and peered into the space. Most of the jurors did the same. Inwardly, I warmed; they were paying attention to me. “Yeah, that might be about right.”

  I shut the door. As I advanced on the witness stand, I said: “So three law enforcement professionals conducted a thorough search of a space as small as the jury room, and couldn’t turn up a weapon.”

  “We didn’t. Didn’t find it in there.”

  I walked to the counsel table and leaned against it. “Sheriff, when my client was apprehended in the cabana, did he have a weapon in his possession?”

  “No. Not that I know of, anyway.”

  I pushed away from the table. “Let’s be clear. Did he or didn’t he?”

  He met my eye with a look that was unmistakably hostile. “He didn’t.”

  I walked to the podium to glance at my notes. The sheriff volunteered: “She was stabbed with a weapon like a knife. He’d have access to knives in the kitchen at the club.”

  My head jerked up. “Objection!”

  “Sustained.”

  I took a step to the bench. “Ask that the jury be instructed to disregard.”

  The judge said to the jury, “You will disregard the sheriff’s last statement. About the knives in the kitchen.”

  Oh, my God, I thought—now they’ve heard it twice. I moved on.

  “Sheriff, you identified an image from Jewel Shaw’s phone: an image which depicts the deceased and my client engaged in what appears to be a sexual act.”

  His mouth twisted. “Appears to be.”

  I turned to Lafayette. “Can you display that image again please, Mr. Prosecutor?”

  He blinked in surprise and turned to the bench.

  “Your Honor?”

  The judge shrugged. “It’s been admitted.”

  The photo appeared on the screen. I studied it. “Sheriff, who is on top?”

  He gaped at me. “I beg your pardon?”

  I walked over to the screen and tapped it. “Who’s on top, Sheriff?”

  He turned to the judge. “Your Honor, this don’t seem right.”

  Lafayette took the cue from his witness. “Your Honor, I object; the defense is disrespecting the memory of the deceased in the presence of her loved ones. The Shaw family is present in the courtroom, Your Honor.”

  I didn’t need to look out into the courtroom gallery to ascertain whether it was true; I could feel daggers in my back. “Judge, it’s their exhibit. It is the state’s evidence.”

  “The defense may continue. But I warn you, I expect discretion and decency in my courtroom.”

  Turning back to the sheriff, I said, “Is she restrained?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is she tied up? Chained down?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “All right, then.” I paused to study the image again. “Sheriff, would you say she’s happy?”

  “How would I know?”

  “How do you usually detect whether a person is happy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Sheriff—wouldn’t you say that when someone is happy, they’re wearing a smile?”

  I took my pen and pointed at Jewel Shaw’s face. “Tell me honestly, Sheriff—would you say she’s happy in this picture? Or sad?”

  He was spared the necessity of answering, because the bell in the courthouse began to toll. It was high noon.

  Judge Baylor banged the gavel. “Noon recess. Court will reconvene at one o’clock.”

  I stormed the bench. “Your Honor, I haven’t completed my cross-examination of this witness.”

  But the judge was already rising from his seat. “You’ll have the opportunity to continue. After lunch.” And he slipped away into his chambers.

  Lafayette nearly knocked me down as he raced to confer with the sheriff. And before the courthouse clock struck for the twelfth time, the bailiff was escorting Darrien to the holding cell.

  Court was over
for the morning.

  Just when I was on a roll.

  Chapter 20

  A CRUSH OF people crowded outside Shorty’s diner. When I squeezed through the door, I saw that Shorty had kept his promise: a single stool was unoccupied, and it sported a RESERVED sign.

  I slipped onto the stool and signaled the waitress, who was juggling water glasses.

  “Joyce, I know it’s crazy in here, but could you get me a cheeseburger?”

  She smiled. “Shorty said to take care of you. I’ll get you a sweet tea too, hon, in a to-go cup.”

  Lord, yes. Sweet tea. When she delivered it, the bell jingled over the front door. I glanced over my shoulder. It was Judge Baylor’s bailiff, leading the jury. The twelve jurors followed him in single file.

  Shorty pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen and called to the bailiff. “I’ve got the back room all set up for you.”

  As Shorty scooted around the counter, the bailiff said, “Judge says he don’t want you sending a waitress in there. I’ll take their order and bring it out.”

  “We’ll take good care of you.” Shorty shouldered his way into the aisle. To the line of jurors, he said, “Good to see y’all today.”

  “Shorty, no talking to the jurors. They’re sequestered.”

  I swiveled my stool to face them as they filed past me on their way to Shorty’s private dining room. I couldn’t speak to them, but I was determined to make eye contact and offer up a smile.

  Several jurors cut their eyes away from me or glanced without response. But an older man gave me a nod. That was progress. The younger woman I’d pinned my hopes on smiled at me.

  Shorty was an arm’s length away from me. As the last of the line filed past, I trained my smile on juror number 3, the port-wine man.

  But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Shorty.

  Shorty didn’t speak to the juror. But he extended his hand.

  Not so strange, I thought. Juror number 3 was a regular customer.

  But as the juror grasped Shorty’s outstretched hand and pumped it, he mouthed something to Shorty. Shorty nodded and backed away.

  As the jury disappeared into the back room, I called out to Shorty. I wanted to ask what juror number 3 had said to him. But he turned away from me and ducked into the kitchen.

  Seemed like Shorty and the juror had more than a casual connection. Maybe it could work to my client’s advantage. I opened my briefcase and dug out the jury selection file. I zeroed in on juror number 3: his name was Troy Ellsworth Hampton. Shorty had never mentioned him.

  Pulling out my phone, I tried a Google search. It was a shot in the dark, but the name was sufficiently uncommon that I might get a hit. What the search revealed nearly knocked me off my stool.

  Because juror number 3 appeared on the Facebook page for the Council of Aryan Citizens of Mississippi. A post showing a picture of the recent installation of new officers bore his image. It was unmistakable. The birthmark made him instantly recognizable.

  And scanning a list of individuals present at the installation, I saw a familiar name: Clarence Palmer Morgan Jr.

  I dropped the phone into my briefcase. What on earth was Shorty doing in a hate group?

  And what the hell was a card-carrying white supremacist doing on my jury?

  A wave of anxiety seized me; I had to get out of the diner. The waitress set the plate with my cheeseburger on the counter just as I grabbed my bag and slipped off the stool.

  “Ruby! You’re not leaving? Hon, that’s your order.”

  I just shook my head and headed for the door. Behind me, she called, “Ruby! You want it to go?”

  I pushed through customers who were waiting for a table. Before I reached the exit, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  Turning to see who had touched me, I was confronted by the angry face of a rail-thin middle-aged woman dressed in black, with diamond studs in her ears.

  Oh, shit. Jewel Shaw’s mother.

  “I know you,” she said in a breathy whisper.

  My head was spinning; I had neither the time nor the inclination to go around the ring with Jewel’s mother.

  “Beg pardon.” Because I was trying to be polite. “I have to go.”

  She clutched the jacket of my suit. Dear God, I thought, don’t let her pull the buttons off.

  “You are trying to disgrace my daughter. I heard you. No decent person would speak ill of the dead like that.”

  I pulled away and managed to get my hand on the door. But before I made my exit, she had the last word.

  “Don’t fool yourself—people remember. You’re that Bozarth girl. Your mama was a cleaning lady—just like a Negro. You were trash then, and you’re still trash.”

  Chapter 21

  THE WORD TRASH echoed inside my head as I tore across the street. I was so shaken by the revelations at lunch that I failed to see a car approaching at a fast clip. It swerved to avoid hitting me, and the driver laid on his horn and gave me the one-finger salute.

  Mrs. Shaw’s furious insult should not have been at the forefront of my thoughts. I had bigger things to think about, matters of profound significance to my client. And to me.

  When I reached the front of the county courthouse, I dropped onto a cold stone step and tried to figure out what I should do with the information I’d stumbled upon. My head was buzzing; it prevented me from thinking clearly. My primary focus should be exposing juror number 3 as a liar who was unfit to serve on the jury. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Shorty; why would he associate with the Aryan Citizens? Which led to the follow-up: did I have a lick of sense when it came to choosing my romantic partners?

  I heard Mrs. Shaw’s whispery voice again. Trash.

  I literally shook myself and pulled my phone out of the briefcase. Suzanne. I should call Suzanne Greene. She’d know what to do.

  When she picked up, the sound of her voice helped to calm me down.

  I spoke with the phone pressed close to my face. “Suzanne, I’ve uncovered something about one of my jurors. I think I need a mistrial.”

  “Mercy, girl. What’s going on? Which one?”

  “Juror number three: Troy Hampton. He’s an officer of a white supremacist group.”

  Suzanne’s voice crackled through the line. “Is he KKK?”

  “No, it’s another one: Aryan Citizens of Mississippi.”

  “Different name, idea’s the same,” Suzanne said in a weary voice.

  I hunched over the phone. “Suzanne, I covered the race issue in voir dire, and he didn’t respond. He was under oath. I’m going to see Judge Baylor and tell him what I know.”

  I stood up on the step, brushing off the back of my skirt. But Suzanne’s voice in my ear brought me up short.

  “No—don’t do that. You keep that card up your sleeve for now.”

  On Suzanne’s end of the line, I could hear the clatter of plates in the background; she was probably at the Dixie Buffet. My empty stomach twisted. With a pang, I regretted leaving my cheeseburger behind at Shorty’s—and there was no way I’d be darkening the door of his business again.

  I spoke softly into the phone, since people were coming up the steps. “Suzanne, why wouldn’t I go to the judge?”

  Her voice was sharp. “Let this play out. Do more research on juror number three; get your ducks in a row. If you win at trial, you’ll never need to use it; Darrien will walk. But if you lose, juror number three has given you a basis for a motion for new trial, and fodder for a successful appeal. You have an ace up your sleeve, but hold on till you need it. If you play it now, best you can hope for is a mistrial, and you’ll have to start the trial process over again from scratch.”

  I walked to the courthouse entrance with slow steps. People were returning from the noon break. The recess was almost over.

  “I’ll do what you recommend, Suzanne.”

  “Good.” She was chewing. “Get back in there and keep swinging. Anything else I can help you with today?”

  I ducked behi
nd a stone pillar so I couldn’t be overheard. “One more thing. What do you know about Shorty Morgan? He owns the diner on the square here in Rosedale.”

  In the moment of silence before she replied, my heartbeat accelerated.

  “Shorty? Let me think. Nice young man, I’ve heard. Fries good chicken.”

  Her bare bones commendation wasn’t enough to reassure me. What had I hoped she might reveal? That Shorty had an identical twin who was a racist and had stolen Shorty’s identity?

  Baloney. As I ended the call, my suspicions about Shorty consumed me. Seized by paranoia, I pondered: maybe the Aryan Citizens wanted inside information on the Summers case and had tasked Shorty with the job of prying information from me.

  My stomach twisted. I’d made it so easy for him. Easy as pie.

  And where had I first encountered the mysterious juror number 3? In an orange booth at Shorty’s diner.

  Closing my eyes, I indulged in another fit of self-loathing. I had fallen into bed with a manipulator, a man I barely knew. Bet he thought it was a hoot.

  The tower clock struck one.

  Chapter 22

  BACK IN JUDGE Baylor’s courtroom, we resumed our positions. Sheriff Stark sat on the witness stand; I faced him, leaning on the lectern near the jury box; and the DA was poised at his counsel table. Darrien sat at the defense table alone, with his father keeping watch behind him.

  Judge Baylor said to the sheriff, “Pat, let me remind you: you’re still under oath.”

  “Yes, sir, Judge.”

  “Miss Bozarth, you may continue.”

  I needed to make some headway. “Sheriff Stark, I believe you’ve testified that you examined Jewel Shaw’s telephone.”

  “I did.”

  “And you looked through her photo history, the pictures on her cell phone. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled, encouraging. “Sheriff, you have testified regarding photos of Jewel Shaw and my client. But there were other pictures on Ms. Shaw’s phone, isn’t that true?”