Juror #3(19)

He left the room and returned with a phone directory, its pages beginning to yellow. Together we made a list of people who would testify that Darrien had a peaceable reputation.

As he thumbed the pages of the phone book, Oscar Summers asked a question. “Will my boy get a fair trial?”

I looked up from my legal pad. Summers stared down at the phone book, turning the pages. With all the confidence I could muster, I said, “I’ll do everything I can to assure that he does.”

“Who is gonna be on that jury?”

He was still bent over the phone book, so I couldn’t read his face. “We don’t know yet, Mr. Summers. The jury is selected right before trial.”

Then he looked up, his eyes piercing. “Will it be white?”

I let a long breath escape. “Mr. Summers, we won’t know the makeup of the jury until trial. But the jury panel comes from registered voters of Williams County and forty percent of the population of the county is black. So it can’t be an all-white jury, can it? That’s just not possible.” In his eyes, I read skepticism.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

Our list completed, I packed up to go. He led me to the door but lingered with his hand on the knob.

With his head bowed, he said, “Promise me you won’t let them kill my boy.”

The statement knocked the stuffing out of me, but I tried to keep my voice calm as I repeated my stock answer: “No lawyer can guarantee an outcome in any case, Mr. Summers, but I’ll do my best to see that your son is acquitted.”

Looking up, he fixed his eyes on mine. “Not good enough.”

I took a backward step. Though nothing about his demeanor was threatening, the tension that was building made me distance myself.

“Mr. Summers—”

“I want a promise.”

“I promise I’ll do everything in my power.”

“No.” He let go of the doorknob and leaned back against the door, as if he wanted to block my exit. “A guarantee. You tell me you’ll set my boy free.”

My eyes jerked from his face to the doorknob. I wanted out of that house so bad, I considered making a run for the back door.

“Tell me,” he said. And his eyes filled.

When the tears rolled down his face, my resolve broke. I would have said anything to escape that moment.

“Yes,” I said in a whisper.

“What?”

“Yes, he’ll be acquitted. Because he’s innocent.”

After I spoke the words, I flew down the front steps to the safety of my car, absolutely horrified. How could I have done it? I’d broken the most basic rule of trial practice: Never guarantee victory.

And even worse, I was a liar. Because there was every chance that we would lose.

Oscar Summers’s beloved son might be on death row in less than two weeks.





Chapter 15



THAT PROMISE HAUNTED me over the course of the next week and a half. It hovered over me as I met with the character witnesses Darrien’s father had provided, and as I sat at my desk crafting cross-examination questions for the state’s witnesses.

When I met with Darrien in the interview room at the jail, seeing the fear in his eyes increase with each passing day, I was reminded of the false promise I’d made to his father, a vow I couldn’t keep.

On the Sunday night before trial, I sat in my storefront office, scratching notes onto my jury selection presentation with a pen. The ink grew faint and the pen stopped working altogether. I scratched hard on an old envelope to get it flowing again, but it had given up the ghost.

I pulled open my desk drawer to grab a new one, but the box was empty. Ditto for my briefcase. I started to panic, my breath growing shallow as I sorted through piles of papers on my desk, trying to unearth a writing instrument. Stupid, a voice whispered in my ear, stupid, incompetent. What kind of lawyer doesn’t have a damned pen to her name?

I heard a pounding sound and nearly peed my pants. It was past ten o’clock. No one would come calling at this time of night.

Then a face peered through the storefront window and a hand knocked on the glass. “Ruby! Open up, I’ve got something for you.”

When I saw Shorty’s face, I breathed out in relief and unbolted the door. He walked in, carrying a plate covered with aluminum foil.

“Ruby, where were you tonight? Didn’t I tell you we have a fried chicken special on Sundays?”

The aroma of freshly fried chicken drew me close. Leaning over the plate in his hands, I closed my eyes and inhaled.

“Lord, Shorty, that smells like heaven.”

Two chairs beside the door comprised my “waiting area” for clients. We took a seat. Lifting the foil, I spied the Sunday special in all its glory: fried chicken, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, green beans. Shorty handed me a fork and a knife wrapped in a paper napkin.

As I dug into the potatoes, I said, “You be sure to put this on my tab.”

“No way, baby. I was going to throw it away. Do you know what time it is?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. So what are you doing out and about so late?”

“I was at a meeting. Came back to go over the books at the diner, and I saw your light on. Thought I’d check in on you.”

“What kind of meeting?”