Juror #3(3)

“And those conditions can adversely affect the health of her young children.”

At the mention of Darla’s kids, I heard JimBob cry “Mama!” I gave the judge a nod, as if having the children fuss in court was all a part of my master plan.

At least Darla didn’t bring her infant. The judge was looking testier by the moment.

I faced him with what I hoped was a steely look, steadying my voice. “The case is clear, Your Honor. For all the reasons stated, I urge you to enter a judgment in defendant’s favor, in both plaintiff’s action for rent and our countersuit for damages.”

I smiled, turned, and sat at the counsel table with an expectant air, waiting for him to announce our victory. We were sure to win; it was a textbook case, straight out of my landlord/tenant law class at Ole Miss. From the moment Darla Lamar had walked into my office with her three kids and her tale of woe, gripping a fistful of rat pictures, my gut had told me that this case was a winner—money in the bank.

The judge flipped open the file, lifted his pen, and announced, “Court rules in favor of the plaintiff.”

My jaw dropped. How could he?

I could feel my temper flushing a shade of pink up my neck. How could I have lost this?

I had clawed through law school on the belief that my gut instincts were generally right. Growing up poor in small Mississippi towns, I had learned at an early age to anticipate other people’s reactions.

And when my gut failed me, I had my fists. Too bad I couldn’t throw a punch at the county judge.

Darla Lamar was at my elbow, tugging on my secondhand jacket. I gingerly pulled away, afraid the fabric would pop a seam.

“What does he mean?” Darla asked in a frightened whisper.

Keeping my voice low, I said, “Darla, we lost. The judge found in favor of your landlord.”

Darla’s face contorted. “Where does that leave me? And my kids? You said we was going to win.”

Oh, no, I had not said that. My trial practice prof had beat that into our heads: Never guarantee victory. With an effort, I kept my voice patient. “Darla, what I said was that the law was on our side, and it surely is. But you still have the right to appeal.”

Darla started to cry. She pulled her enormous black purse up onto her shoulder with such a violent jerk, it smacked me in the chest.

“I don’t get it. This ain’t right.” She turned to the gallery. “JimBob, get your sister over here!” Fixing a glare in the judge’s direction, she wiped her eyes and said, “I gotta go pick up the baby, and now I’m out ten bucks for the sitter this morning. This ain’t right.”

I picked up the Darla Lamar file and tucked it into my Coach briefcase. Darla watched me zip it up.

“Fancy purse,” she said.

She was eyeing the bag with resentment. Darla said, “Must be nice, buying things like that.”

“It was a gift,” I said—which was the truth. “It’s a briefcase,” I added, as if explaining the bag’s purpose might make a difference to her.

Apparently not. She turned her back to me without further comment, gathered her children by the hand, and led them out of the courtroom. Watching them go, I felt sick to my stomach. Darla was right to be upset with the judgment, but I was pretty unhappy, too. I’d taken the case on a contingent fee basis. In other words: “No fee unless you win!” But it looked like I’d be eating Kraft macaroni and cheese for supper.

Again.

“Ruby Bozarth?”

When I heard my name, I looked around. The circuit judge’s clerk stood in the courtroom doorway.

“Yes, ma’am?” I said.

“Ruby? Judge Baylor wants to see you in his chambers.”

Well, that was weird. I didn’t have anything pending in Judge Baylor’s court. Baylor handled the big cases: felonies, big-money civil matters. Looking at the clerk, I shook my head and said, “Me? Are you sure?”

The clerk nodded and pointed at the hallway. “He’s waiting. It’s about your murder case.”

Huh? I didn’t have a murder case.

How could I? I’d never handled anything bigger than a country roads DWI. And I’d lost that case, too.





Chapter 2



I DIDN’T WANT the judge to spy the dangling threads hanging off my suit, so I tucked the side of my jacket behind my back and entered the office with my hand on my hip, like a Salvation Army fashion model walking the runway.

“Miss Bozarth here to see you, Judge,” said the clerk.

“Good! Excellent! Take a seat, ma’am.”

Two leather wingback chairs faced his mammoth walnut desk. I set my shiny briefcase beside the one nearest the door.

“No, not over there. Sit here.”

He pointed to a small wooden library chair to the right of his desk. I got the message, loud and clear. I wasn’t important enough to sit in the fancy chair. My jaw clenched as I picked up the briefcase.

Settling on the hard edge of the chair, I smoothed my skirt and primly crossed my ankles.

“Judge Baylor,” I began, but he cut me off.

“So you’re a grad of Ole Miss law school?”

I nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. I graduated last May.” Should I tell him my class rank? Because it was pretty damned good.

“Did you know, I graduated from Ole Miss, too—class of 1976.”