Juror #3(14)

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He opened the file. “There’s a motion for continuance. Mr. Lafayette, what does the prosecution say to that?”

Lafayette leaned against the bar behind his counsel table. “Judge, the state is ready to proceed. Our witnesses are under subpoena, and we’ve made arrangements for the forensic expert from the state crime lab to appear. It would work a hardship on us to cancel out at this point.”

“Miss Bozarth?”

“Your Honor, I need more time to prepare. The trial setting is only eleven days from now.”

The DA pushed away from the bar. “Judge, this isn’t a complex case.”

I turned on him. “What do you mean? It’s a capital murder case.”

The judge raised a restraining hand. “Y’all settle down. Miss Bozarth, what do you need to accomplish that you can’t get done in eleven days?”

I repeated, “Prepare. I need to prepare for trial.”

The judge frowned at me like I was a misbehaving child. “Well then, get to work, ma’am. Miss Bozarth, I have access to the docket for Williams County, and you’ll forgive me for observing that you don’t have a wealth of cases eating up your time.”

My blood started to boil. He turned a page. “There’s a motion to compel discovery here. Mr. Lafayette, have you provided Miss Bozarth with the prosecution’s file?”

The DA was assuring the judge that he had handed it over when I interrupted.

“I want to see it.”

The judge said, “What’s that?”

“I want to see the evidence in the property room. To inspect it personally.”

Lafayette broke in. “Judge, the prosecution objects to this request. The evidence in this case involves sensitive and personal information—matters which may be protected from tampering by subsection B.”

I leaned my damp palms on the surface of the counsel table as I faced the judge. “Judge Baylor, you’ve entrusted me with the defense of a man charged with capital murder. I want to see that evidence, and I want it today.”

The judge adjusted his glasses and lifted a pen. “Miss Bozarth, Mr. Lafayette has a wealth of experience in these matters; whereas you are, as they say, new to the game. I’m inclined to trust his judgment.”

“I’ll appeal.”

Shocked silence followed my statement. It was a gamble, a desperate play.

But I sure had their attention.

The judge’s voice cut the air in the courtroom. “What do you mean, you’ll appeal?”

I scrambled. What was it called, when an attorney in the midst of the trial process appealed the ruling? I sunk my teeth into the legal term I remembered for certain.

“I intend to do an interlocutory appeal.” I paused for a moment; when no one jumped in, I knew I’d used the right term. I went on: “We’ll just see what the high court says about your refusal to permit me effective representation. And while we wait for their decision, well”—I shrugged philosophically—“I guess that will provide me the extra time I need.”

In the silence that followed, I saw Baylor and Lafayette exchange a look. At length, the affronted look on the judge’s face disappeared, and was replaced with a genial smile. The judge said, “I think she’s outfoxed you, Tom.”

The DA jumped in, “Your Honor, on behalf of the State of Mississippi, I repeat my objection—”

But the judge hushed him with a wave of his hand. “Motion for continuance denied. Motion to compel discovery granted.” He signed his name with a flourish of the pen, and pointed at Lafayette. “Tom, let the little lady see your evidence.”

The judge handed me a copy of the signed motion and departed abruptly. My knees suddenly weak, I dropped into my chair.





Chapter 11



WITH THE SIGNED motion gripped tightly in my hand, I pushed open the door of Shorty’s diner. I spied Shorty sitting alone in the back booth, near the kitchen. He was reading a magazine.

“Shorty,” I said, waving the document. “I did it.”

He looked up with a smile, and I headed down the aisle to join him. Jeb sat again on a stool at the counter. As I passed, he swiveled around.

“Hey, Jailtime! How’s the case coming?”

I turned to face him.

“Why are you always parked on that stool? Isn’t there someplace you need to be?”

“Better talk sweet to me, Jailtime. I got jury duty in a couple of weeks.”

Shorty came to the rescue, slipping behind the counter. “Ruby’s right, Jeb; I ought to start charging you rent. Hey, Ruby—what can I get you?”

“Are you really on the jury panel?” In my imagination, I could see Jeb calling me Jailtime Ruby in the jury room.

Shorty said, “Ruby, he’s pulling your leg; you can’t take anything he says seriously. Let me get you a cup of coffee. Or would you like a cold Coke?”

“Tea, please. I’d love a sweet tea.”

While Shorty poured the tea over ice, Jeb thrust his thumb in the direction of the orange booths. “You lucked out this time; I didn’t get called. But Troy over there? He’s on the list.” Jeb called across the diner. “How about it, Troy? Did you manage to talk the judge into letting you out of jury duty?”