Juror #3(16)

The deputy returned, rolling a dolly that bore two boxes marked STATE V. SUMMERS. He pointed at a scarred wooden table in the corner. “You want to sit over there, ma’am?”

Brockes’s voice was respectful, almost shy. I nodded. “Can we get a little more light in here, you think?”

He squinted up at the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. “No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Sorry.”

“Okay. Hope I don’t get eyestrain,” I said as I scooted a metal chair beside the table. “Wouldn’t want to sue the county.”

He looked frightened. I winked at him, so he’d know I was kidding.

Settling into the chair, I opened the first box. Bloodstained clothes were piled inside. The deputy stood over my shoulder. I turned to him. “You know, this is going to take a while.”

He coughed, then thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I’m supposed to leave you alone.”

“Because I’m gonna steal y’all blind in here?” Deputy Brockes looked alarmed. I laughed, to reassure him. “Joke. It was a joke.”

I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag, along with my cell phone; as I unearthed the evidence from the box, I photographed each item and took detailed notes. The deputy maintained his post beside the table for a while, but as I meticulously inspected each item and made my handwritten notations, he yawned.

“I’m going to have a seat here.”

“Sure,” I said, as I held up Jewel’s dress. It was sheathed in plastic, but the slashes in the fabric had been tagged. I counted them: thirteen.

The deputy sat on the concrete floor, his back against the wall. I worked on in silence. When I completed my examination of the first box and lifted the lid from the second, I glanced his way. Sleeping like a baby. His head had fallen forward, and he snored softly.

I set the box lid on the floor and looked inside. At the top of the items in the box, I beheld it: Jewel Shaw’s cell phone.

At last, I might find something that could help my client. I wanted to dig into that phone.

The problem was, it was bagged and tagged, sealed in protective plastic. There was no way to check the phone without shedding all that plastic. It had been marked with the initials of the officer who placed it inside, with a sticker sealing the bag.

Bag or no bag, I had to get to that phone. I made a decision: to hell with the state’s chain of custody. I glanced over at my companion, who was still snoozing. Without making a sound, I shifted my chair so that my back faced the deputy. Then I reached into my briefcase and slipped on a pair of gloves with touchscreen tips that Suzanne had loaned to me for just this purpose. After another nervous look over my shoulder at Little Boy Blue, I eased up the custody tag without breaking the tape or tearing the plastic. Breathing out in relief, I removed the phone from the bag.

I knew Jewel Shaw’s security code; it was listed in a report in the prosecution file. Working quickly, I accessed the phone. With my own cell phone, I took photos of Jewel’s call history, recent texts, and some photos. Though I didn’t pause to make a close inspection, it appeared that Suzanne’s calculations were on target; Jewel had a lot of “couple pics” with different men.

I heard the deputy stir. My heart nearly stopped.

“Ma’am? You still working on those boxes?”

Scooping the phone and the plastic wrapping into my lap, I said, “It won’t be too much longer. You’re sure a good sport, Deputy Brockes.” I began to repackage the phone. My hands were unsteady as I slipped it back into the plastic evidence bag and replaced the chain-of-custody tape. Turning to face the young deputy, I gave him an apologetic smile.

“No problem.” With a groan, he pushed away from the wall and rose, coming to stand over me at the table. I dropped the phone into the box and pulled out a stack of files that rested beneath it.

Then I had a chilling thought. Had I remembered to turn the damned thing off?





Chapter 13



SITTING IN A wicker rocking chair on the front porch of Shorty’s house, I sipped cold beer from the can, glad I’d overcome my initial hesitation.

“Shorty, that supper was incredible. Catfish just jumped to number one on my list of favorite foods.”

“Old family recipe,” he said with mock solemnity. “My daddy knew his way around a catfish, I guarantee.”

I rocked in the wicker chair. “And your father was the original Shorty?”

“Yep.”

“Because he was genuinely short?”

“About five foot six. I got my height from my mama’s side.” He stretched out his long legs; they nearly reached to the end of the porch.

I asked, “So why’d you get stuck with the nickname?”

He cut his eyes at me. “I’m a junior, named after my daddy. Clarence Palmer Morgan the Second.”

I snickered. “Oh, Lord.”

“So you get it?”

I nodded in acknowledgment. It would be easier for a boy to be known as Shorty Jr. Living with the name Clarence Jr. would have made life tough on the school playground.

A chilly breeze made the bare branches rattle in the yard. Shorty said, “Is it too cold for you out here?”

“No. I like it. It beats being cooped up in the Ben Franklin.” I shifted my chair so I could see him better in the dim light that shone from the window. “So. You got your poli sci degree at Mississippi State. And what were you going to do with that?”