Juror #3(17)

“I wanted to be a journalist. Sound crazy?”

“Why’d you go all the way up to Missouri after you graduated from Miss State?”

“They have a really good J-school, first journalism school in the country. But Daddy had his stroke. I couldn’t stay up north while he was suffering in the hospital. Besides, somebody had to run the business. So I came back.” He swallowed beer from the can and fell silent. Then he turned to me and laughed, his good humor restored. “Never say you’ve kicked the dust of Rosedale off your sandals. Sure as you do, you’ll find yourself right back here.”

Well, he was right about that. When my mother and I left Williams County over a decade ago, I hadn’t figured I’d ever return.

“Come on, your turn. Tell me a story.”

“Oh, my life isn’t particularly interesting.”

“Now, come on. How about that big bad romance you mentioned today? Anybody I know?”

I shrugged, but he persisted. “Come on—let me know the name of the competition. So I’ll be able to tell whether I can kick his ass.”

I sighed. It wasn’t really a secret. In Jackson and Oxford, it was local legend. “His name was Greene. Lee Greene.”

“You’re kidding.” Shorty barked a laugh. “You mean that guy? The Lee Greene Junior?”

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable. “Yeah. Him.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I didn’t know I was consorting with royalty.”

I took a swallow from the beer can. “Well, you ain’t. Obviously.”

He cocked his head and studied me. After a moment, he said, “It’s easy to see what Lee Greene liked about you. What did you see in him?”

The question made me sit back in surprise. No one had ever questioned Lee’s appeal. He was the prince in the Cinderella story; I was the girl in rags, lucky to have him show up with a glass slipper.

To avoid answering, I said, “I don’t know how it was that I caught his eye. I wasn’t his usual type, believe me. Maybe he was weary of sweet southern belles. Tired of plain vanilla, maybe—I dunno.”

Shorty picked my hand up from the arm of the rocking chair. Turning it over, he kissed the palm of my hand. “Maybe he was in the mood for peppermint. Or cinnamon. Or chili powder.” His tongue touched the life line of my upturned palm, and I shivered.

“Well, I don’t think I’m ready for the details of your relationship with Lee Greene Junior. Tell me something else. One of your youthful triumphs,” he said.

I set my half-empty beer can on the floor beside my chair. “My adolescent stories are all kind of pitiful.”

“No kidding? Well, good. Tell me a sad one.”

“Actually, I went to sixth grade right here in Rosedale. And I was not anyone’s idea of a beauty queen. That title fell to Julie Shaw.”

He blinked. After a moment, he said in a hushed voice, “You mean you knew Jewel Shaw?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I knew who she was. She was older.”

He raised his beer can and chugged from it. “Did you like her?”

“No.”

Shorty shot me an appraising look. “That was a quick answer. For someone who didn’t know her.”

I didn’t respond. He reached out and took my hand. “What is it? Did you have a run-in with Jewel?”

I stared at him, wondering whether I should shut up and go home. But it might be a relief to confide in someone, and he seemed so trustworthy, looking at me with those gray eyes.

I dove in. “When we lived in Rosedale, my mom worked on the cleaning staff at the Blue Top Motel, and money was tight. Rosedale Public Schools had a PTA clothing bank, and Mom took advantage of it. I wasn’t ashamed. I knew the value of a buck, even as a kid.

“One day, my mom came home with a real prize: a beautiful pink sweater the color of cotton candy, in perfect shape, other than a small bleach stain—hardly noticeable. I wore it to middle school the next day, walking tall.”

“Uh-oh. I’m afraid I can guess where this story is headed.”

“Yep. I passed Jewel and her circle of friends in the hall on the way to my locker. One of Jewel’s friends pointed at me. She said, ‘Julie? Isn’t that your sweater?’”

The memory made my chest tight. I arched my back, trying to stretch the muscles.

Shorty was still holding my hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Jewel turned and stared—the first time she’d ever looked my way. Then she laughed. Said, ‘It was my sweater. Mom gave it away to the poor when she spilled Clorox on it.’”

Telling the story took me back; I remembered standing by that locker like it was yesterday. Jewel and her cronies whispered. One of them laughed. That was all.

But I threw the sweater in a dumpster after school.

Shorty asked, “So is that why you’re defending him?”

Startled, I jerked my hand away. How could he think that? “Hell, no. I’m defending him because I believe he’s innocent.”

He tipped back in his rocker, nodding. “I get that. A defense attorney is obliged to represent a guy if she thinks he’s innocent.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s not the extent of it. Even if the accused isn’t innocent, he is entitled to a defense.”