Juror #3(5)

As I tottered toward his office door, a thought struck me. I turned around.

“Beg pardon, Your Honor, but why did the public defender withdraw?”

“Oooooh,” he sighed. “Well, the defendant took a swing at him the last time they appeared in court. Tried to punch him out. The attorney could hardly be expected to continue representation, under the circumstances.”

Judge Baylor winked at me. “Y’all be careful, now. Watch your back.”





Chapter 3



A MURDER CASE. I had a murder case.

I walked out of the judge’s office in a fog, heading for the courthouse stairway. I grasped the banister at the top of the stairs with a sweaty palm.

Get a grip.

I was going to have to pull it together. Gotta deal.

Directly across the hall from Judge Baylor’s chambers was a door painted in bold black letters: THOMAS LAFAYETTE, DISTRICT ATTORNEY. I left the stairway and headed for that door.

Because if this was really happening, and I was actually representing a man charged with murder, I needed to know the evidence the state had against him. Lifting my chin, I walked into the DA’s office.

“I need to see Mr. Lafayette.”

The receptionist gave me a glance as she clicked her computer mouse. “He’s got a tight schedule this week. If you email him directly, he might be able to squeeze you in.”

“I need to see him today. I’ve been appointed to represent Darrien Summers.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she looked up from the computer screen, picked up the phone, and pushed a button. “Tom, there’s a woman out here, says she represents Darrien Summers.”

The door to his inner office flew open. A forty-year-old man in a pinstriped suit with a deep dimple in his chin leaned in the door frame, looking me up and down.

He laughed. “Well, get on in here, and let’s get acquainted.”

In his office, I took a seat facing his desk and sat up straight, trying to look professional.

“Mr. Lafayette, I’m Ruby Bozarth.”

“Call me Tom.” He plucked a business card from a brass display on his desk and handed it to me. I checked my pockets, hoping to find a card of my own to offer in return, but I only found the button.

“So, Ruby, you set up shop across from the courthouse, right? In the old Ben Franklin store? I can’t believe we haven’t met.”

Lafayette had a speech impediment, just a slight emphasis on the letter S—a tendency to hiss.

“I haven’t done too much criminal litigation.” Did I imagine it, or were his eyes unusually wide set?

He picked up a fountain pen, twirling it in his fingers. “I didn’t think Baylor would find anyone fool enough to take this on. Do you realize we’re set for trial in two weeks?”

My stomach did a flop. I had a spasm of such intense nausea, I was afraid I might vomit on his carpet.

I swallowed. “I’ll get a continuance.”

He laughed again. My hand itched to punch his dimpled chin.

“Well, I guess you can ask Baylor for a continuance. But asking ain’t getting. The judge doesn’t intend to let this case languish on the docket. Summers won’t plead, and the community wants justice.” He set the pen down. “How much are they paying you?”

I opened my mouth and clamped it shut, astounded to realize that I had no clue. I hadn’t thought to ask the judge.

Lafayette said, “The last time the public defender conflicted out, a lawyer that Baylor appointed tried to bill the county a fortune for his time. But they cut him back. You should know that up front. You’ll only get paid eighty dollars an hour for in-court time, fifty dollars an hour for your out-of-court time.”

I blinked. That sounded like a fortune. I’d been wrangling small fees from clients who couldn’t afford to pay for their groceries. I started doing math to calculate how many hours I’d rack up for a jury trial.

I could pay my rent at the Ben Franklin.

Lafayette reached over to the credenza behind his chair, picked up a file, and tossed it across the desk at me. “There’s your discovery: it’s the contents of our Darrien Summers file.”

I opened the file and flipped through it. Skimming the pages, I tried to play it cool.

“Tom, what do you see as the core evidence you have against my client?”

“It’s all right there, in the sheriff’s report. Summers was found with Jewel Shaw’s body in a cabana out by the pool at the Williams County country club on the night of the Mardi Gras ball. She had thirteen stab wounds, inflicted by an instrument consistent with a butcher knife.”

When he talked about the deceased’s injuries, he rolled the words on his tongue: ssstab woundsss inflicted by an inssstrument.

“What was my client doing at the club?”

“Summers was on staff at the club—a waiter.”

I had the sheriff’s report in hand, skimming through it as fast as I could. “I don’t see anything about a murder weapon. Where is it?”

“Damn shame—they looked for it. Never found it.”

I looked up from the report and tried to read his reaction. “No murder weapon? What did he do, eat it? And no eyewitness? Your evidence is circumstantial. My client sounds like a bystander, a guy who stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.”