Juror #3(10)

If there was any other option, I’d gladly pursue it. But I had to provide a suit for my client to wear at trial. A man who faced a jury in his inmate garb sent a clear message: I’m guilty. Convict me. Send me up the river.

My ex, Lee Greene Jr., was a clotheshorse—a trait of which he was supremely proud. And he was tall, about the same height as Darrien Summers.

I swallowed my pride and dialed. As I punched the numbers, it occurred to me that Lee might well refuse to talk to me.

But he answered. When I heard the sound of Lee’s voice in my ear, my teeth clenched so hard it almost locked my jaw.

He said, “Can it be? Is this really Ruby?”

He was laughing. It rankled. I kept my cool and answered in a polite voice.

“It’s me. How you doing, Lee?”

“It’s really you. When I saw your number on the screen, I thought I was hallucinating. Because the last time I saw you, Ruby, you bitchslapped me. Threw a diamond at my head. Then you said you’d never speak to me again.”

Pressing the phone to my ear, I held my tongue. The conversation wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped.

“Do you recall that? Ruby?”

“Yeah.”

“You said—this is a quote—‘I’ll never speak to you again.’”

I waited to see whether he wanted to unload some more. After all, I was calling to beg a favor.

“Ruby? You still there?”

“Right here.”

“Well, damn. This is a red-letter day. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I bit the bullet. “Lee, you know you’re the best-dressed man in Mississippi.”

Grease the pig.

“That’s true,” he said, his voice dripping self-satisfaction.

“And I’m over here in Williams County, doing a solo practice. I’ve got a case going to trial really soon. My client is a young man, and I’ve just got to get him into a suit. I wondered, you know—could I maybe use one of your castoffs? Something you don’t wear anymore?”

Now the phone was silent on his end.

I said, “It would be a real kindness on your part, Lee. An act of charity.” To lighten the tone, I added, “You’d be racking up points in heaven.”

In a suspicious voice, he said, “What kind of clientele are you representing? What man can’t put clothes on his back? Oh, my God, don’t tell me—is this a criminal case?”

I should have figured he’d react in just this way.

“Yes. A criminal case.”

“What’s the charge?”

If I thought I could get away with it, I’d have lied through my teeth. But he could easily check my veracity; all he had to do was go online. “Murder. A murder case.” Hastily, I added, “He’s innocent.”

He laughed with genuine mirth. “Oh, they’re all innocent, definitely. Every inmate convicted in Mississippi swears he wouldn’t hurt a fly, it was someone else who ‘done it.’ What on earth are you doing with a murder case?”

“I got appointed.”

“Well, that’s a hoot. So tell me about this client of yours who doesn’t have a stitch of clothing.”

I hesitated. It wouldn’t advance my cause with Lee to reveal Darrien Summers’s race. Lee and his family made no secret of their innate sense of superiority to others. The list of people who were beneath their notice was long. As I held the phone, I wondered yet again how I had ever been drawn to him.

“Lee, you don’t really want to hear the details. I’d surely appreciate it if you’d do me a solid. It’s not so much to ask, right?”

“Um, don’t think I can, Ruby. I really don’t relish the idea of a criminal trudging into court in chains, sporting my clothes.”

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the Nicorette box. Chewing down on the tablet, I thought: I tried to be nice. It’s time to play dirty.

“Lee, I’ll make you a deal. You help me out, and I won’t tell your mama the real reason I broke off the engagement.”

I could hear a sharp intake of breath on his end of the phone. “You know, you always had a mean streak, Ruby. Ruthless. I tried to ignore it, but it was always there, right under the surface.”

I didn’t suppose that Lee had shared the real story with his mother, the incident that caused our relationship to end. But I certainly hadn’t forgotten it. At our engagement party, I’d walked in on him in a bathroom stall with a kneeling woman. So much for the fairy-tale romance.

“You want to blackmail me. Well, you can’t play me. I’m not giving you a suit.”

“You sure about that?”

He exhaled. “How about a compromise? I’ve got someone who might be disposed to help you out. My aunt Suzanne practices in Barnes County. Aunt Suze has a soft spot for charity cases.”

I frowned into the phone. He was making it complicated. “But I don’t even know her.”

“Sure you do. You met her one Christmas. Six feet tall, silver hair, two hundred and fifty pounds. Never saw a buffet she didn’t like. She’ll probably lend you a hand with your clothing crisis.”

“Why would your kinfolks want to help me, when you won’t do it? How am I supposed to beg a favor from your aunt?”

His voice had regained its confident drawl. “Give her a call, you’ll see. Aunt Suzanne is the black sheep of the family. Because she has a taste for trash.”