Juror #3(52)

I sat.

Isaac Keet’s voice rolled out like spun silk as he continued his statement to the jury. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Monae was in the company of the defendant that night as a call girl. A prostitute for hire. But, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Prince wasn’t only a call girl. No, indeed.”

I leaned forward, curious to hear what was coming. So did several of the jurors.

“She was a young girl. Monae Prince was an adolescent, a girl of tender years. If life was always fair, Monae would have been living with a family who loved and cared for her. But life can be hard. She was a girl living in dire poverty, without protection or support of family. And she was only seventeen years old. Seventeen, ladies and gentlemen.”

I kept my poker face intact when he beat the point home about Monae’s tender age because I knew better. At the time of her death, Monae Prince was old enough to vote and buy booze in Mississippi. The Vicksburg vice detective had said so.

The dead Vicksburg cop.

My mind started into overdrive again. How would I establish the evidence that the Vicksburg detective would have provided about the deceased’s background? I needed to tie her to the drug underworld. I’d been confident that we could prove that Ms. Prince was an enthusiastic consumer of illegal drugs. But with the vice detective dead and gone, who would contest the state’s position that Monae Prince was a helpless girl at Lee’s mercy?

Isaac Keet was wrapping up. He paced in front of the jury box, and said, “I see that some of y’all have been glancing over at the defendant, taking a look. And I suspect I know what’s going through some of your minds this morning.”

He stopped pacing. He stepped right up to the jury box and grasped the railing. “I know that some of you may find this unthinkable. You see the defendant sitting there in that fine new suit, holding a fancy writing pen. His pen costs more than my shoes, you know that?”

“Objection.” I shot up from my seat. “Mr. Keet’s comments are irrelevant and outside the scope of the evidence.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

As I took my seat, I could hear Lee beside me, breathing rapidly. His blood pressure must have spiked.

Isaac Keet waved off my objection like a buzzing horsefly. “As I was saying: you’re asking yourselves a pertinent question. Why would a prosperous, educated man from a good family callously cause the death of a poor teenage girl? Well, I have the answer. Ladies and gentlemen, some people in our society suffer from a disease of entitlement. There’s a word for it: ‘affluenza.’ Lee Greene had a bad case of affluenza—and young Monae Prince died as a result.”

As Keet turned away from the jury box and walked beside the counsel table, his eyes were twinkling. He had the nerve to wink.

Oh, I knew what he was communicating. He’d stolen a march on me. I had scoffed at him less than an hour earlier, mocking the state’s inability to produce a motive for the killing.

Affluenza.

Well, so much for my motive argument. I took my felt-tipped pen and struck a paragraph from my own opening statement.





Chapter 47



MY TURN.

The judge’s voice split the air in the crowded courtroom: “Ms. Bozarth, the defense may now address the jury with opening statement or reserve it for the beginning of defendant’s case.”

He made my ears ring. I’d learned that Judge Ashley was nearly deaf in one ear. But stubbornness made him resist the use of his hearing aid on most occasions. As a result, he tended to speak at a high volume.

I rose. “If it please the court.”

He leaned back in his high-backed leather chair. “You may proceed.”

Clutching the manila folder that held the printed pages of my opening statement, I walked to the podium, casting a sharp eye on the jury of seven women and five men. I hoped my outward expression was serene, because my brain was frantic. And the pages of my presentation to the jury, which had been pristine an hour prior, were marked with so many slashes of red ink, it looked like someone had hemorrhaged on it.

When I had crafted the opening statement on Sunday night, I’d planned to attack the state’s case without revealing what the details of the defense would be. That’s what Suzanne had advised.

It’s a tactical plan, she had said, blowing a cloud of Marlboro smoke in my office at the Ben Franklin. Don’t reveal your cards.

I’d followed Suzanne’s advice to the letter, because Suzanne had thirty years of courtroom experience. Plus, she did a lot of gambling at the Mississippi riverfront casinos.

I shot a glance at the courtroom gallery, looking in vain for my partner. With a flash of panic, I wondered again: where the hell was Suzanne Greene?

Spreading the ink-slaughtered pages out on the podium, I smiled at the twelve people in the jury box.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you in advance for your service in the trial. My client and I know that jury service involves a sacrifice, and Lee Greene and I appreciate y’all doing your civic duty.”

A woman in the front row nodded. That was good; it was a start, anyway. I saw her eyes slide to my right, sneaking a look past my shoulder. She was probably checking Lee out.

It didn’t necessarily hurt to have a good-looking client wearing a well-cut suit. If we were lucky, a couple of women on the jury would develop a crush on Lee during the trial. That could be his “get out of jail free” card.