Juror #3(36)

“Big old straight-edge knife. She told me it was dirty. You reckon it had dried blood on it, maybe?”

“Yeah. I bet it did.”

Anthony said, “Cleaning lady about had a heart attack. Ran out in the hall, screaming for Mr. Owens. Security pinned the dude down before he could leave.”

I jumped from my seat and joined the others who were rubbernecking at the patio doors. I got there in time to see the sheriff swing open the back door of his patrol car, place his hand on the dark head, and shove the handcuffed man inside. Through the car window, I saw his profile: it was juror number 3.

I walked back to the table. Suzanne said, “Did you see him?”

I nodded. She said, “Anthony filled me in. He hid the weapon in the locker room. Sounds like it’s been concealed in there since the night Jewel died.”

So, I thought. All the pieces of the murder puzzle were in place. And with Troy Hampton in custody, it was really over. As I sat in my seat, I could feel my pulse racing. I made a silent vow: I would never again get involved in a homicide defense. It could eat me alive.

Suzanne was staring at me. “Anthony, would you bring Ruby a fresh drink? Looks like she needs it.”

“Yes, Miss Greene.”

I looked down at the plate of catfish but had no appetite for it. Then I was struck by the presence of the third plate. Puzzled, I asked Suzanne whether someone was joining us.

She craned her neck, checking out the dining room entrance. “I think he just walked in.” She stood and grabbed her purse. “I’m going to have a smoke on the patio. Be right back.”

I watched her walk through the patio doors, then turned to the entrance and was appalled to see Shorty Morgan heading straight for our table, dressed in a sports coat and gray slacks.

He sat down, cool as a cucumber. “Hey, stranger.”

I’d have liked to knock him out of the chair, but I was in a formal setting. Instead, I jumped out of my seat and reached for my briefcase.

Shorty rose and seized my elbow. “Why have you been giving me the cold shoulder? Ruby, we need to talk.”

I jerked my arm from his grasp. “You’re a damned hypocrite.”

He had the good grace to look abashed. “How did you find me out?”

“On the internet, you idiot.” I grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him closer, so I wouldn’t have to raise my voice. “You were playing me. You’re a racist. What was your angle? Were you reporting my trial strategy to your buddies in the Aryan hate club?”

He leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “Sit. Down.”

I sat. But not because he told me to. I wanted to hear his flimsy explanation.

Still speaking in a low voice, Shorty said, “I’m a political scientist, not a racist. And I was doing research, undercover.”

That set me back. I studied his face. “What kind of research?”

“I’m writing an article for an academic journal. I do have ambitions higher than frying a chicken. Did you know that?”

He picked up his fork, took a bite of catfish, and dipped it in the tartar sauce. As he chewed, he screwed up his face in disgust. “That tartar sauce wasn’t made in-house. What kind of joint are they running here?”

Settling into my chair, I watched him as he took another bite. He seemed sincere—and not just about the tartar sauce. My instincts said I should believe him, but, admittedly, my gut instincts were only right about half the time.

He set his fork down, reached out, and placed his hand over mine. I liked his hands.





Chapter 32



I HAD A million questions about Shorty’s Aryan brotherhood research, but just then Suzanne came flying in from the patio, her lit cigarette between her teeth.

She jerked the Marlboro from her mouth and extinguished it in the tartar sauce. “Good God almighty, kids. We have to go. Now.” She glanced at Shorty’s place setting; only the plate of fish and a water glass sat before him. “Thank goodness, Shorty, you haven’t been drinking. You can drive.”

As she pulled her purse onto her shoulder, I rose from my seat. I would follow anywhere Suzanne led. Shorty was slower to react. “Miss Greene, may I ask where we’re headed?”

“Vicksburg.” She waved at the waiter. “Anthony! Put it on my account. We’re out of here.”

“What’s in Vicksburg?” I asked.

She gripped my arm and whispered. “My brother just called. His boy Lee is in jail. He’s in terrible trouble—some charge of a partner dying during a sex act.”

I backed away. The mention of my ex-fiancé set off alarms in my head. And I had sworn off a career in murder defense only moments before.

“Suzanne, I’m awful sorry—for you and your family. But if Lee is in trouble, I don’t see what in the world it has to do with me.”

She grasped my hand, pulling me forcibly from the table. “Ruby, he needs legal help. Now.”

I resisted, leaning back in a game of tug-of-war. “Suzanne, Lee won’t want me there, I assure you.”

She stopped in her tracks, turning to face me with a steely gaze over her spectacles. “Sugar. He asked for you by name.”

As Suzanne strode from the dining room, I followed behind, moving on autopilot. Shorty caught up to me and took my hand again. I was grateful for the warm clasp of his fingers.