Juror #3(15)

The booths were full, but when I scanned the faces of the diners, the man with the birthmark was staring at me. “No. I’m still on the list.” His eyes flitted away.

Shorty took me by the elbow and nodded in the direction of the table he’d just vacated. In the past few days, I’d become a regular at Shorty’s; I’d walked through that door three times. I’d refused to let Shorty give me dinner on the house the night before, but when he offered to let me order food and drink on credit and pay at the end of the month, I happily agreed to the arrangement. The knowledge that I would receive a government paycheck in the near future made me feel extravagant.

I picked up the magazine he’d been reading and examined the cover. “Oh. My. Lord. The National Review? That William F. Buckley rag?”

“It’s chock-full of interesting articles.” His mouth twitched when he said it.

“Interesting to Newt Gingrich, maybe. Don’t you ever read anything fun?”

He smoothed the cover, plucking off a stray crumb. “For an old political science guy, this is fun reading.”

Swiveling his stool our way, Jeb interjected, “Your daddy said he was throwing money down the well when he sent you off to school.”

Shorty rolled his eyes, but his voice remained good-natured. “Jeb, drink your coffee or I’ll make it even thinner tomorrow.” He pointed at my motion. “Can I see it?”

I handed it to him; looking at it gave me a thrill of pride. “Absolutely. It’s public record.”

While he read through it, I drained the tea and sent Suzanne a text, telling her about my success in court.

Shorty looked up from the document. “You really scored. So what’s next?”

I glanced over my shoulder, to make sure the prospective juror in the orange booth couldn’t overhear. The hum of conversation from the other customers provided cover. In a quiet voice, I told Shorty: “I’m going straight to the sheriff’s department, to get inside the property room and check out the evidence.”

“We ought to celebrate. Why don’t you come over to my place tonight? I’ll cook for you.”

Unzipping my briefcase, I slipped the motion inside. I took a breath and chose my words carefully. “Shorty, that’s flattering, it really is. But I got out of a bad relationship in the past year. I’m still kind of gun-shy.”

His face was a blank. “Why do you assume I’m asking you out on a date? Maybe it’s just a friendly gesture.”

I could feel a blush work its way up my neck. Embarrassed, I scooted down the booth, anxious to make my getaway. “I apologize. God, I feel like an idiot. Excuse me for assuming—”

He reached across the table and grasped my forearm. “Hey, I’m giving you a hard time. Yes, Ruby, I was asking you for a date. But it doesn’t have to be anything but a friendly evening. It’s food. You gotta eat, right?”

In fact, I would need to eat tonight. And Shorty’s cooking was much better than mine. But I was also motivated by a case of loneliness. In the months I’d been living and working at the Ben Franklin, I had yet to make a real friend.

We agreed on seven o’clock, and I got his address on a paper napkin.

I was feeling pretty cocky as I walked out. But Jeb knew how to take the wind out of my sails. As I pulled the door open and the bell tinkled overhead, I heard him shout: “Give ’em hell, Jailtime!”





Chapter 12



I WALKED THE short distance to the sheriff’s department. A stern-faced woman wearing a tan uniform sat behind the counter in the lobby.

“Hey! I’m Ruby Bozarth, defense counsel in State v. Summers. I need to get access to the state’s evidence, back in your property room.”

“Excuse me?” Her expression turned downright forbidding. “Mr. Lafayette didn’t send any notice about somebody rummaging around in the property room.”

I dropped my smile. And I slapped the signed motion onto the counter.

“It’s not Lafayette’s call. Judge Baylor has ordered the room opened for me. That’s his signature, right there.”

She made a show of reading the document from beginning to end, then picked up the phone. “Dusty, there’s a lawyer here, says you need to open up the evidence room for her.” To the voice on the other end of the line, she said, “Because the circuit judge says so. She’s got a court order.”

Her brow wrinkled. “If you can’t get out here, then send somebody.” She hung up the phone and turned away from me.

I thought they might make me cool my heels in the lobby, but within minutes, a uniformed deputy arrived. He approached the woman at the desk. “I’m supposed to watch somebody in the property room.”

She nodded in my direction. “Her.”

I approached the deputy with a determined step and stuck out my hand. “Ruby Bozarth, counsel for defendant Darrien Summers.”

The deputy was a young man, so slight that his uniform hung loose on him, like a boy wearing his big brother’s clothes. He took my hand and smiled, a blush washing over his freckled face. “I’m Deputy Brockes. Sorry I didn’t know you, ma’am. I’m brand-new.”

I waved off the apology. “Me, too, Deputy Brockes. Fresh as paint.”

He led me down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the building, then unlocked the property room. I followed him inside. While he searched for the Summers evidence, I looked around. Locked behind a mesh cage marked CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES, I saw powdery substances in plastic bags; other bags looked like they held marijuana.