Juror #3(50)

AS I SAT beside my client at the counsel table, I checked the time over my shoulder. The big courtroom wall clock read 9:08.

But the prosecution table was empty, the bailiff’s desk was unoccupied, and the judge’s seat at the bench was vacant. I pulled out my phone to ascertain whether the courthouse clock was running fast, but no. Nine past nine in the morning.

Lee Greene jabbed me with his elbow. “Where is everybody?”

“Dunno.”

I smelled it again: the cologne. It was my client. Seemed like the scent hovered around him in a cloud.

Lee’s parents were seated behind us, in the front row of the gallery. His father leaned over the railing that separated the spectators from the court. In a whisper, he said, “Doesn’t court start on time in your county?”

I peered into the hallway, where no court personnel could be seen. “Well, it usually does.”

Mr. Greene leaned in closer; I could feel his breath in my ear. “And where is my sister? Why isn’t Suzanne here?”

I’d been wondering the same thing. I sent up a silent entreaty: Suzanne, come and rescue me.

In the meantime, it fell to me to solve the mystery of the missing courtroom personnel. I left the counsel table and approached the court reporter, a gaunt woman with a helmet of hair dyed midnight black.

“Roseanne, have you seen the DA this morning? Isaac Keet—the guy from Vicksburg?”

She nodded as she inserted a roll of paper into her reporting device. “He’s been hanging around since eight o’clock. I saw him talking to the judge.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. The DA had no business conferring with Judge Ashley outside my presence. It was called ex parte communication, otherwise known as “woodshedding” the judge. It was not an ethical practice.

I felt like odd man out with Judge Ashley, anyway, since both he and Keet were from Vicksburg; they clearly enjoyed a private camaraderie. Thank goodness Ashley had agreed to let me try the case in my own backyard, in the Rosedale courthouse. It was a lucky break. I needed the hometown advantage.

The court reporter was staring at me over the top of her eyeglasses. I hoped it wasn’t because I was wearing yet another scary expression. I said, “Thanks for the info, Roseanne. Guess I’ll go crash that party.” I opened the door that led to the judge’s chambers.

I bumped into the Vicksburg DA—literally. Isaac Keet took a step back into the narrow passageway. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Snappish, I said: “I’m not hard to find, Isaac. My office is across the damned street.”

Yes, my nose was out of joint, but I also was attempting to cover for the fact that Isaac Keet intimidated the shit out of me.

I squared my shoulders and said, “So if you’re trying to justify your private communications with Judge Ashley on the basis that I’m out of pocket, let me set you straight: it won’t fly.”

He flashed a rare smile, startling in its intensity. “I get it. You’re showing me what a tough cookie you are. Showing me who’s boss.”

I glanced away, uncomfortable with his sharp eye. It took all the nerve I possessed to match Isaac Keet blow for blow in court. He had every advantage over me: age, maturity, experience. He was old enough to be my daddy (by Mississippi standards, anyway). He’d served overseas in the navy for eight years. And in the past fifteen years, he had risen in the ranks of the Vicksburg DA’s office.

In our conferences with the Greene family, I’d expressed my concern about being outmatched by Keet. Lee Sr. had seconded the emotion. Suzanne waved my concern away; she claimed that juries like a fresh, young warrior.

And my client’s mother had also brushed off my concerns—on a different basis. No one will take that prosecutor seriously, for goodness’ sake. I don’t think I need to explain why.

She didn’t. Her meaning was crystal clear: Mrs. Greene thought he would be disregarded because he was black. Every time that woman opened her mouth, I thanked the gods that I was not a member of the Greene family. I had dodged that silver bullet.

Facing Isaac Keet in the passageway, I said, “So what were you and the judge chatting about this morning? Do y’all run late like this in Vicksburg? We like to start on time here in Rosedale. Of course, we’re just a small town—”

He cut me off. “You’re right; I was talking with the judge. I had to share some news—shocking news—about a law enforcement associate. That’s why we’re running late.” He glanced up and stared at the overhead light in silence for a moment. When I opened my mouth, he spoke again before I had the chance.

“Before the start of evidence, I’ll give you another shot. Does your client want to plead guilty?”

I pulled a face of disbelief. “Are we back to this? How many times have I told you? This case is overcharged. Capital murder, for the accidental death of a sex worker with a drug history?”

Keet ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, which was starting to gray. “Yes, seems like you mentioned that.”

“I think it’s terrible, absolutely offensive, the way district attorneys abuse the capital murder charge. You file these death penalty cases to scare the defendant into a plea bargain. You use the charge as a club to beat them over the head. How do you sleep at night?”