Juror #3(31)

“Just after eleven. At 11:03 p.m.”

“Mr. Forsythe, is Defendant’s Exhibit One a fair and accurate representation of the individuals you photographed at the Mardi Gras ball on that night?”

“It is.”

“Mr. Forsythe, has Defendant’s Exhibit One been changed or altered in any way?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the defense offers Defendant’s Exhibit One into evidence.”

The judge glanced at the DA. “Mr. Lafayette?”

“No objection.”

I nodded politely at the photographer. “The defense has no further questions of this witness.”

“Mr. Lafayette, you may cross-examine.”

“No questions.” He looked sulky. He’d pushed his “character witnesses” pad to the side and was doodling on a fresh legal pad. The top sheet had a line of question marks.

The sight made me want to grin. But I wore a stoic expression as I said, “The defense calls Sheriff Patrick Stark to the witness stand.” While the bailiff called his name in the hallway, I was amazed to notice that my nausea had disappeared.

As the sheriff took his seat, the DA caught my eye and gave me a “What the hell?” look. I ignored it.

Stepping over to the prosecution table, I picked up one of the state’s exhibits lined up on its surface: Jewel Shaw’s cell phone. Without asking leave, I walked up to the witness stand and handed it to the sheriff.

“Sheriff Stark, I’ve handed you State’s Exhibit Five. This is the cell phone that belonged to the deceased, Jewel Shaw—isn’t that right?”

His face was closed. “Yeah.”

“Sheriff Stark, please tell the court: what is the security passcode for Miss Shaw’s phone?”

“Don’t know. Can’t remember it off the top off my head.”

Yeah, baby. I was ready for that. I’d dealt with the sheriff’s selective memory before.

“Mr. Stark, would it be helpful to refresh your recollection with the sheriff’s report you prepared in this case?”

I handed him the report. Grudgingly, he recited the passcode. I walked over to my briefcase, pulled out a portable phone charger, slipped the phone from its plastic wrapping and plugged it in.

It took a minute to charge. Leaning against the counsel table, I waited, smiling. For the first time that day, I turned my face to the jury box.

Some jurors looked impatient, others confused. And one of them looked tense. Nervous.

Juror number 3 was starting to sweat. Beads of moisture were visible on his upper lip.

Once Jewel’s phone was powered up, I handed it to the sheriff.

“Sir, I’m showing you the phone history on State’s Exhibit Five, the cell phone of Jewel Shaw. Please read off the number of the last call received by the deceased.”

He did.

“Was the call received on the date of her death?”

“It was.”

“What time was it received?”

He glanced down. “Eleven sixteen p.m.”

I said, “Is there an identifying contact name?”

“Nope.” His eyes met mine with a challenge. “No name.”

Time for the grand gesture. I extended a hand; he placed the phone in my palm. With a fingertip, I hit the number on the screen. And I waited.

We’d done the homework. But any number of things might prevent the outcome I was praying for.

As the silence dragged on, my nausea returned so sharply, I nearly gagged.

Then I heard it: a buzz. The humming sound of an incoming call on a muted cell phone. My head jerked to the right: the sound was coming from the jury box.

The jurors looked around in confusion. When the humming ceased, I held up the phone and hit the number again.

When the second round of humming began, I strode to the jury box and leaned on the railing. Juror number 3 sat in the middle of the front row. I focused on him. His fellow jurors were staring at him as well; it had become clear that he was the source of the noise.

Holding Jewel’s phone so that the screen was visible to the jury, I cocked my brow and gazed down at juror number 3.

“You gonna answer that?”





Chapter 27



JUROR NUMBER 3 met my eye with an unblinking gaze, but a droplet of perspiration trickled in a wet path from his temple to his cheek.

When the humming ended for the second time, I walked to my computer, tapped a key, and enlarged the photo on display on the computer screen. With a quick adjustment, I centered it on the face of the masked man leaning away from the camera.

“Sheriff Stark,” I said, walking to the screen and pointing at the image. “Can you identify the individual depicted in the Defendant’s Exhibit One?”

The sheriff leaned forward in his chair, studying the enlarged image with a perplexed expression. As he squinted at the screen, juror number 3 stood up in the jury box.

I heard a gasp; it may have come from my own chest as I watched to see what he would do next.

To the woman on his right, the juror excused himself in a courtly fashion as he stepped over her feet. He nimbly passed the other jurors in the front row, making his way past their knees without stumbling. At the end of the jury enclosure, he stepped down onto the floor of the courtroom and walked the short distance to the adjoining jury room. Without a backward look, he opened the door and walked inside, pulling the door shut.