Juror #3(25)

My head jerked up. “Objection!”

“Sustained.”

I took a step to the bench. “Ask that the jury be instructed to disregard.”

The judge said to the jury, “You will disregard the sheriff’s last statement. About the knives in the kitchen.”

Oh, my God, I thought—now they’ve heard it twice. I moved on.

“Sheriff, you identified an image from Jewel Shaw’s phone: an image which depicts the deceased and my client engaged in what appears to be a sexual act.”

His mouth twisted. “Appears to be.”

I turned to Lafayette. “Can you display that image again please, Mr. Prosecutor?”

He blinked in surprise and turned to the bench.

“Your Honor?”

The judge shrugged. “It’s been admitted.”

The photo appeared on the screen. I studied it. “Sheriff, who is on top?”

He gaped at me. “I beg your pardon?”

I walked over to the screen and tapped it. “Who’s on top, Sheriff?”

He turned to the judge. “Your Honor, this don’t seem right.”

Lafayette took the cue from his witness. “Your Honor, I object; the defense is disrespecting the memory of the deceased in the presence of her loved ones. The Shaw family is present in the courtroom, Your Honor.”

I didn’t need to look out into the courtroom gallery to ascertain whether it was true; I could feel daggers in my back. “Judge, it’s their exhibit. It is the state’s evidence.”

“The defense may continue. But I warn you, I expect discretion and decency in my courtroom.”

Turning back to the sheriff, I said, “Is she restrained?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is she tied up? Chained down?”

“Not that I can see.”

“All right, then.” I paused to study the image again. “Sheriff, would you say she’s happy?”

“How would I know?”

“How do you usually detect whether a person is happy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Sheriff—wouldn’t you say that when someone is happy, they’re wearing a smile?”

I took my pen and pointed at Jewel Shaw’s face. “Tell me honestly, Sheriff—would you say she’s happy in this picture? Or sad?”

He was spared the necessity of answering, because the bell in the courthouse began to toll. It was high noon.

Judge Baylor banged the gavel. “Noon recess. Court will reconvene at one o’clock.”

I stormed the bench. “Your Honor, I haven’t completed my cross-examination of this witness.”

But the judge was already rising from his seat. “You’ll have the opportunity to continue. After lunch.” And he slipped away into his chambers.

Lafayette nearly knocked me down as he raced to confer with the sheriff. And before the courthouse clock struck for the twelfth time, the bailiff was escorting Darrien to the holding cell.

Court was over for the morning.

Just when I was on a roll.





Chapter 20



A CRUSH OF people crowded outside Shorty’s diner. When I squeezed through the door, I saw that Shorty had kept his promise: a single stool was unoccupied, and it sported a RESERVED sign.

I slipped onto the stool and signaled the waitress, who was juggling water glasses.

“Joyce, I know it’s crazy in here, but could you get me a cheeseburger?”

She smiled. “Shorty said to take care of you. I’ll get you a sweet tea too, hon, in a to-go cup.”

Lord, yes. Sweet tea. When she delivered it, the bell jingled over the front door. I glanced over my shoulder. It was Judge Baylor’s bailiff, leading the jury. The twelve jurors followed him in single file.

Shorty pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen and called to the bailiff. “I’ve got the back room all set up for you.”

As Shorty scooted around the counter, the bailiff said, “Judge says he don’t want you sending a waitress in there. I’ll take their order and bring it out.”

“We’ll take good care of you.” Shorty shouldered his way into the aisle. To the line of jurors, he said, “Good to see y’all today.”

“Shorty, no talking to the jurors. They’re sequestered.”

I swiveled my stool to face them as they filed past me on their way to Shorty’s private dining room. I couldn’t speak to them, but I was determined to make eye contact and offer up a smile.

Several jurors cut their eyes away from me or glanced without response. But an older man gave me a nod. That was progress. The younger woman I’d pinned my hopes on smiled at me.

Shorty was an arm’s length away from me. As the last of the line filed past, I trained my smile on juror number 3, the port-wine man.

But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Shorty.

Shorty didn’t speak to the juror. But he extended his hand.

Not so strange, I thought. Juror number 3 was a regular customer.

But as the juror grasped Shorty’s outstretched hand and pumped it, he mouthed something to Shorty. Shorty nodded and backed away.

As the jury disappeared into the back room, I called out to Shorty. I wanted to ask what juror number 3 had said to him. But he turned away from me and ducked into the kitchen.