Juror #3(32)

I swung around to face Judge Baylor. He was staring slack-jawed at the jury room door. “Your Honor?”

When the judge didn’t respond, I ran to the jury room and tried to twist the knob. It wouldn’t turn. Putting my shoulder to the door, I tried again.

“Judge. He’s locked himself inside,” I said.

The courtroom had been buzzing with speculative murmurs since the juror made his exit. When I made my announcement, the volume intensified to a roar. The hubbub must have awakened the judge’s senses; he banged his gavel twice.

“Order. Order!” Judge Baylor waved his bailiff over. “Get that door open and get him out of there.”

The bailiff, an aged courtroom veteran, wrestled with the knob. He tried to shake it, pull it to and fro.

Judge Baylor said, “Use the key, for God’s sake.”

A sheepish look crossed the bailiff’s face. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and turned the lock. He twisted the knob; I saw it turn. The door remained closed.

The bailiff turned to the judge and spoke in an apologetic voice.

“Can’t get inside, Judge. Something is blocking the door, I reckon.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Darrien rise from his seat at the counsel table.

“Your Honor, I can get it open,” he said.

He could, without a doubt. But Judge Baylor shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Summers. Be seated, sir.” He leaned toward the sheriff, who still sat on the witness stand with his hands dangling between his knees.

“Pat, get up and get into that jury room.”

The sheriff rose eagerly; he strode to the door and lifted his booted foot. With three stout kicks, he opened the door, shoving the heavy conference table that had blocked it from the inside.

Once the door cracked open, I scooted next to Sheriff Stark and peered into the room.

The table still blocked the door from opening all the way, and a dozen chairs were pushed from their orderly placement. But it was plain to see that aside from the table and chairs, the room was empty.

The only movement in the jury room came from the lone window. It was wide open. A curtain fluttered in the wind.





Chapter 28



I DIDN’T ENTER the jury room. I just stood in the doorway and stared at the open window, trying to get my head around it.

A hand grasped my shoulder and gave me a shove. I stumbled and grasped the door frame for balance as Lafayette charged into the empty jury room. He looked around, but aside from the table and chairs sitting askew, there was nothing to be seen.

He swung around, turning to me with a frantic look.

“What the hell is going on?”

The calmness of my voice amazed me. “We just lost one of our jurors.”

“I know that; I’ve got eyeballs in my head. What I want to know is,” and he advanced on me with an accusatory finger, “what in God’s name are you up to?”

I left the doorway and walked up to the screen, where the party photo was still on display. I pointed at the masked man, running my finger down the red line of the birthmark that the mask didn’t cover.

“Didn’t you see that?”

He took a step forward for a closer look. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Are you insane? At the least—the very least—it means we’ve been trying the case to a man who was at the scene of the Mardi Gras party and didn’t bother to let us know. But Tom, that’s not all.”

I grabbed the cell phone from the counsel table and showed him the phone history. “Tom, I dialed this number—the last call received on the night of Jewel Shaw’s death.”

He stared at the phone. A look of dread came into his eyes. “And it rang. In the jury box.”

“Yep. Sure did.”

He rubbed his forehead. I said, “Have you figured it out? You’re prosecuting the wrong guy, Lafayette.”

“Ruby!”

Darrien was calling to me from the defense table; his father was behind him with a hand on his shoulder and a baffled expression. I hurried over to them.

Oscar Summers spoke first. “What the hell is going on here?”

I didn’t bother to whisper; the cat was way out of the bag. “One of the jurors went AWOL: juror number three.”

Darrien grasped my arm. “What happens now? Are they gonna let me go?”

I bent down so that I could speak into his ear. “Too soon to say. But Darrien, I think things are finally going your way.”

His father interrupted. “That white man with the red mark on his face—did he run out because he’s the one who did it?”

Lafayette was at the bench, waving his arms. The judge called to me, but I could barely hear him; the sound of sirens outside muted the voices in the courtroom.

I gave Darrien’s shoulder a squeeze. “Be right back.” I hustled up to join Lafayette at the bench.

The witness stand was empty. Judge Baylor said, “Miss Bozarth, I dispatched the sheriff to run down that juror.”

“Good. Excellent. Hope he remembers to advise him of his rights before he questions him.”

Lafayette ignored me. “Your Honor, what do we do now?”

“Danged if I know. I’ve served this county for nineteen years, practiced law here for decades. But I’ve never seen anything like this.” He craned his neck, checking out the remaining eleven jurors. I turned to look, too. Most were huddled in groups of two and three, whispering. The lone black woman sat with her arms crossed. She smiled at me.