Juror #3(45)

Once she walked away, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Monae, I mean. Miss Prince.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “Monae was my snitch.”

“Yes. So sorry.”

“My snitch. Not my little sister.”

I shifted in my seat. This was new territory for me. I didn’t know the dynamics of undercover police relationships. “I’m sorry. I mean, sorry that I misunderstood.”

I needed to get a grip, quit making so many apologies. Reaching into my briefcase, I said, “So how long have you been working undercover for the Vicksburg police department?”

He reached across the table and seized my arm. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t pull anything out of that bag. Not a phone, not a file, not a pencil. If you do, I’m walking out of here.”

He released my arm, and I sat back against the booth. “I can’t record this?”

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll need to take notes. For my recollection.”

He looked me up and down. “You’re pretty young. I bet you have a good memory. You’re gonna have to rely on that.”

I leaned in toward him. In a harsh whisper, I said, “You know I can depose you. Then we’ll have an excellent record.”

“That’s not the deal. I’ve been working my tail off to nail a crime ring in Vicksburg, and I’m not going to let you blow it wide open. Not yet.”

He took a swallow of beer and studied the mug, wiping the condensation on the glass with his finger.

Still whispering, I said, “You’re a detective. You have an obligation to respect court proceedings.”

Before he spoke, he looked away, as if he were scoping out the room. “I’ll talk to you tonight. I’ll testify at the dude’s trial. I know you can make me appear by subpoena. But I don’t want to publicly reveal any details of the investigation before I have to. Not ready to do that.”

I zipped my briefcase shut. He had the whip hand. I needed his information. And I needed to keep him cooperative.

“Okay. Deal. So Monae died of a drug overdose when she was in bed with my client. And my client has been accused of causing Monae’s death. We need to know—did she have a drug history, to your knowledge?”

“Hell, yeah. That’s why she was in prostitution. Got the drug habit, turned to the sex trade to support it.”

My knee started jiggling under the table. This was what we needed. “So she was a drug addict and a prostitute?”

“Yeah.”

“But the police report says she was seventeen. How did she get so deeply involved in the lifestyle at seventeen?”

When the detective laughed, I was taken aback. I hadn’t intended to amuse him. He said, “Right, the investigative team at the hotel, they found an ID on her, said she was seventeen. Shit. That girl hadn’t been seventeen for a long time.”

I cocked my head. “Huh?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, then pushed it across the table. I picked it up before it could get wet from the rings of moisture left by the beer mugs.

Studying the sheet, I said, “I don’t get it. She was twenty-three?”

“Yeah.”

I looked up. “But you didn’t share this with the murder investigation?”

“I ain’t sharing shit. From what Monae told me, someone I know could be on the payroll. Fuck them. I don’t know who to trust.”

I gave him a sunny smile. “I guess you have confidence in me. You’re giving me valuable information.”

He spoke in a voice that was deadly serious. “I’m keeping a lid on you, baby.”

This cop was as prickly as a porcupine. I tried a sarcastic tone. “You don’t trust anyone you work with in Vicksburg?”

“I didn’t say that.” He looked up, as if he were thinking. “I trust some of the undercover cops. Beau George—I trust him.”

“Didn’t you trust Monae?”

Again, the look—like he was talking to a kindergartner who wasn’t particularly bright.

“Monae was a snitch,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“How did you meet her?”

“I busted her. For drug possession. Opioids. Then I turned her. Offered immunity if she’d give me information. Tell me about the other players.”

“What other players?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at me over the mug while he took another swallow. He wiped beer from his mustache and said, “You’ll find out when I make the bust. Might be someone you know.”

I tried another tactic. “So Monae was twenty-three, a prostitute by profession, and a known drug abuser. How long had she been engaged in a criminal lifestyle?”

“For a while. She fell into it not long after she left Ole Miss.”

Now it was my turn to stare. “Ole Miss?”

“Yeah, she had a scholarship, freshman year. I never said she was stupid.” He paused, thinking. “Actually, I guess she was. Pretty stupid to get involved with drugs and the sex trade.”

“So who was her pimp?”

He reached across the table and pushed my untouched mug closer to me. “Drink your beer. We’re done.”