Juror #3(23)

Darrien tugged at my jacket. “Why didn’t you say anything for me? Speak up on my behalf?”

I whispered, “We’ll have our chance; I’ll do it later, at the end of the state’s evidence and the start of our case.”

I was ready to explain further when a hand reached from behind the counsel table and squeezed my shoulder with an iron grip.

Twisting around in my chair, I saw Oscar Summers, Darrien’s father. “Are you trying to hang my boy?”





Chapter 18



AFTER THE BAILIFF cuffed Darrien and escorted him to the holding cell, I made a beeline for the hallway. Oscar Summers followed.

As I dodged behind the Coke machine, he started in on me.

“What are you trying to do in there?”

“Mr. Summers, please keep your voice down.”

“I want to make sure you can hear me. Why aren’t you fighting for my boy?”

I beckoned for him to stand beside me, so that the soda machine could block our confrontation from curiosity seekers who were roaming the halls. He stepped in close to me, effectively trapping me between the humming red machine and the wall.

“Mr. Summers, you’ve got to understand how the process works. The state goes first; they have the burden of proof. They put on their case. Then we have our turn. I’ll make an opening statement and put on our evidence, call our witnesses.”

He moved in closer. I could smell the coffee on his breath.

“By the time you get around to defending Darrien, those twelve people gonna have their minds made up.” He pointed a finger at the courtroom. “Did you pick that jury? Eleven white people, only one black one, a woman. Why’d you do that?”

It wouldn’t calm him to hear that I shared his apprehensions.

“It’s Williams County citizens who have sworn they’ll base a verdict on the evidence. We just have to play the hand we’re dealt.”

A young woman walked up and slipped coins into the Coke machine. Oscar Summers started to speak, but I gave a quick shake of my head. After the woman’s can fell from the machine with a clunk and she wandered off, he spoke again, in a soft voice that held a hint of a warning.

“That talk about playing your hand? I don’t see that you’re risking anything. But my boy’s life is at stake. And you promised me.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “You said you’d set my boy free. I’m holding you to that.”

When he reminded me of my rash promise, I shut my eyes, a childish reflex. I tried to move away, but my back was literally against the wall.

Get a grip, I thought.

I raised my chin. “I was wrong to tell you that, Mr. Summers. I can only promise that I’ll do my best. But I shouldn’t have made any guarantee. There are no guarantees at trial.”

His face contorted. “You can’t take it back.”

He was getting loud again. I glanced down the hallway; people were turning to stare.

“You can’t tell me that, then take it back. My son’s life—we’re talking about Darrien’s life.”

I tried to ease around him, sliding my shoulders against the Coke machine, but he blocked me with his arm. “This conversation isn’t over.”

I heard change jingle in the Coke machine again. A head peered around the side; it was Shorty.

“Everything okay, Ruby?”

I took a deep breath and pasted a smile on my face.

“Hey, there! Shorty, this is Oscar Summers, Darrien’s dad. Mr. Summers, have you met Shorty Morgan? He has the diner on the square.”

Oscar Summers’s arm dropped back to his side. He gave a grudging nod. “I go there sometimes.”

Shorty held his hand out. “I appreciate your business, sir. And let me say: you’ve got a fine lawyer here. Ruby Bozarth is going to kick some ass in that courtroom.”

Summers suffered the handshake, but didn’t acknowledge the endorsement on my behalf. Shorty pushed a button and picked up a can of Coke from the dispenser. He held it out to me.

“You thirsty, Ruby?”

Gratefully, I popped the top and swigged from the can.

Oscar Summers remained at my side. I said, “Let’s talk later, okay? I’ll share my strategy with you as soon as I get a chance.”

He left us then, and I sagged against the side of the red machine, grateful for its support even though it buzzed like a beehive.

Shorty leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’m a basket case. I want to run and hide.”

His fingers rubbed the back of my neck. “You’re going to be just fine. The diner will be overflowing when the judge breaks for lunch, so I’ll save a seat for you at the counter. I’ll put a Reserved sign on your favorite stool.”

It was nice to have someone looking out for me. I felt my eyes begin to sting. Covering my weakness with a smirk, I asked whether fried chicken was on the day’s menu.

“Oh, hell no. Good thing, too. I know what you’ll do for a plate of fried chicken.”

I gasped with mock outrage but didn’t have a chance to make a snappy comeback. The bailiff shouted down the hall, “Court back in session, Miss Bozarth.”





Chapter 19



THAT MORNING, PATRICK Stark, the sheriff of Williams County, sat on the witness stand. He was a squat figure of a man whose tan uniform barely covered his paunch, and his ginger hair was combed over with a pouf.