Juror #3(54)

“YOUR HONOR, MAY we approach the bench?” I struggled to regain my composure in addressing the judge.

Judge Ashley invited us up with a wave. As I walked the short distance to the bench, my ears hummed like a beehive. If I didn’t settle down, I might end up as deaf as the judge.

Keet was waiting for me. He had the nerve to smile as I approached. “What’s the matter, Ms. Bozarth? You’re red as a beet.”

The bees in my ears hummed with an angry buzz. “Your Honor, the defense requests a mistrial.”

Judge Ashley’s brow furrowed. “Beg pardon? Did someone say mistrial?”

Isaac Keet laughed out loud. “Now who’s got the thin skin?”

The judge inclined his good ear in my direction. “Ms. Bozarth, did you say you want a mistrial?”

“Your Honor, the district attorney’s untoward comments—which are irrelevant and immaterial—are highly prejudicial to my client.”

Keet smiled again. “But are they true?”

I could feel the blood in my face; I suspected that I was, as Keet claimed, red as a beet. And as for his objectionable comment: how could I deny it? I had, in fact, broken off my engagement with Lee Greene due to his sexual proclivities.

In a furious whisper, I said to Keet: “How dare you inject my personal life into this case, in the presence of the jury?”

Keet bent his head and spoke softly into my ear. “When you’ve been around a while, you’ll learn a thing or two about trial practice. For example: all’s fair in love and war, as the saying goes.”

Judge Ashley leaned toward us. “Can y’all speak up?”

Keet raised his voice. “Your Honor, the defense has informed me in the past that the state’s case is baseless and flawed because we cannot, in Ms. Bozarth’s opinion, show a motive for the crime. The State of Mississippi has a duty to let the jury know the defendant’s mind-set. His elitist, misogynistic temperament is at issue in this case. Maybe Ms. Bozarth can’t recognize it because she shares his elitist background.”

He looked over for my reaction. But he’d revealed he didn’t know his opponent as well as he thought. Because I’d learned how to fight off bullies at an early age.

I lifted my chin and addressed the judge. “I request the court instruct the DA and the jury that this prosecution is about facts, hard evidence, and not gossip and innuendo.” I shot Keet a glare. “You, sir, should be disciplined.”

He grinned. “I’m frightened.”

While we wrangled at the bench, the elderly bailiff and young Deputy Brockes sat at the bailiff’s desk at the far end of the bench. The old bailiff nudged Brockes, and they spoke in whispers. Deputy Brockes hid a smile with his hand.

I wanted to snap. Apparently, we were providing entertainment for the courthouse staff.

Looking back at the judge, I spoke firmly. “Judge, I need a ruling on my request for mistrial.”

The judge made a face. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ms. Bozarth? We’ve got the doggone jury already seated. Me and Isaac, we’ve come in from Vicksburg for this special setting. Do you really want it reset? To start the process all over again? It might be another year, maybe longer, before I can fit it into my calendar.”

At the mention of the jury, I glanced over to gauge their reaction to the drama that was taking place. Three of the jurors looked bored. A couple were exchanging looks of impatience.

And one woman on the jury was casting sympathetic, longing eyes at Lee Greene.

Maybe a mistrial wasn’t such a good idea.

The main door to the courtroom creaked open and closed with a bang. Many heads turned to see the county sheriff, Patrick Stark, walk into court, accompanied by Potts, the nosy deputy whom I’d encountered in the hallway. Deputy Potts lingered by the door, but Sheriff Stark marched to the bench, his boots treading heavily on the tiled floor.

“I need to talk to you, Your Honor.”

The judge looked astounded by the interruption. “What?”

The sheriff walked up to the empty witness stand and sat on the wooden seat. “Judge, I’ve got to take my deputy out of here.”

“What’s that? Who?”

Sheriff Stark edged closer and set his elbow on the bench. “My deputy.”

“Who’s your deputy?”

“Young fellow assisting your bailiff over there: Deputy Brockes. I got to take him away.”

Judge Ashley rubbed his head. “This is a murder trial, Sheriff. I need security. Why do you need your man right now?”

At the bailiff’s desk, Brockes must have overheard the exchange. He rose to his feet, a look of confusion clouding his face.

The sheriff dropped his voice to a gruff whisper. “I need him for the investigation into the shooting of that Vicksburg detective.”

That grabbed my attention. I moved down the bench, to be closer to the sheriff. I wanted to hear exactly what he said. The Vicksburg detective’s fate was intimately tied to the fate of Lee Greene, and the outcome of my case.

I needn’t have bothered to elbow my way closer. The judge waved his black-robed arm at the sheriff. “Speak up, sir. What is it?”

In a booming baritone, Sheriff Stark said: “We have the weapon that killed the Vicksburg detective. It’s registered to that boy there.” He cocked his head and nodded in Deputy Brockes’s direction.