Juror #3(56)

I was about to ask a follow-up question when I caught sight of the DA exiting through a side door. In his absence, I needed to have some straight talk with my client. “Lee, the DA brought up his plea bargain offer again this morning.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He stood up abruptly and turned away, but I grabbed his coat sleeve. “Lee, it’s my duty to tell you what he offered.”

He wrenched his sleeve from my hand. “You’re wrinkling my jacket.”

I stood beside him and spoke into his ear. “Keet will accept a plea of guilty to voluntary manslaughter. If you plead, he’ll recommend five years.”

Lee’s head dropped and he let out a groan. I went on: “Lee, with your clean record, and the victim’s seamy background, you might have a shot at probation.” When he didn’t speak, I said, “I’m not saying you should take the offer. But you should think about it. Talk it over with your parents. And your aunt Suzanne.”

He shut his eyes and laughed softly. “Aunt Suzanne.”

When he lifted his chin and looked at me, his typical demeanor was back in place. “I have an answer for you, Ruby. The suggestion that I claim any responsibility for that woman’s death is appalling to me. I’ve told you: I have no recollection of doing anything criminal.”

I nodded. “Yeah. No recollection. And I’ve told you, Lee: your lack of recall doesn’t help your case. Because you know as well as I do that voluntary intoxication is not a defense for this crime.”

His eyes flashed. In a dangerous voice, he said, “Thanks, counselor—so glad to see you’re on my side. Here’s a thought, Ruby: maybe the girl at the hotel drugged me. You know it’s not my custom to experience blackouts.”

I pondered the possibility. It would help our case, but it just didn’t make sense. Why would the girl drug him, then give herself an overdose?





Chapter 51



I PUSHED MY files into a neat pile on the counsel table while I watched Judge Ashley fiddle with his ear. He turned to look at Isaac Keet, and I saw a pink plastic device in the judge’s ear canal.

I breathed a sigh of relief: thank goodness. Maybe we wouldn’t have to shout our secret conferences at the bench.

Addressing the jury, Judge Ashley instructed that they were to disregard the events that had occurred prior to the recess. He then asked me if I wished to continue my opening statement, which I declined. Finally, to the DA, Judge Ashley said, “Call your first witness.”

Keet stood. “The State of Mississippi calls Juana Gomez.”

The bailiff, now stationed at the courtroom entrance, opened the door and called out the name. A young woman entered, wearing a high-necked black nylon dress. Once she was inside, the bailiff murmured instructions to her and she approached the bench.

“Raise your right hand,” Judge Ashley said, and she complied.

“Do you swear that the testimony you’re about to give is the whole truth?”

“I do,” she answered, with a decided nod.

“You may be seated.”

She took her seat on the witness stand, pulling the hem of her dress down to her kneecaps.

Isaac Keet said in a solemn tone, “Please state your name.”

In a heavily accented contralto voice that carried to the back of the room, she said, “Juana Maria Gomez.”

“And what is your occupation, Ms. Gomez?”

“I work in housekeeping at the Magnolia Inn.” She paused and added, “Magnolia Inn, in Vicksburg.”

Keet nodded with approval. “And by Vicksburg, you’re referring to Vicksburg, Mississippi?”

I could’ve objected to leading the witness, but there was nothing to be gained by it, so I kept my seat.

“Yes, sir. Mississippi.”

“How long have you been employed in that capacity?”

She blinked; there was a moment’s pause. “How long have I worked there? Two years, almost.”

Keet strolled to the jury box and leaned on the wooden railing. “Ms. Gomez, let me direct your attention to March of this year. Specifically, March twenty-third. Were you working on that date?”

“Yes, I was working.”

“What shift, if you recall?”

“Early shift. Seven to three.”

He reached out with his right hand and grasped the oak railing. “Let me direct your attention to 11:15 a.m. on March twenty-third. Could you tell us what happened at that time?”

She shifted in her chair and faced the jury, taking care to cover her knees. He’d trained her like a professional witness. I was impressed in spite of myself.

“Checkout is eleven.”

“Objection.” I rose to a half-stand. “Not responsive.”

The judge gave me a glance. “Sustained.”

Keet shot me a scornful look. It was a small matter. I knew he would redirect her. I just wanted to remind the jury that I was on the playing field.

“Ms. Gomez, what precisely did you do at 11:15 a.m. on that date?”

She looked at the defense table with trepidation, then said, “I knocked on the door. The door of room 113.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Because I needed to get in, to clean. He should be gone. Because,” and she looked my way again, triumphant, “checkout is eleven.”