Juror #3(61)

He set his boots on the floor and rose to meet my handshake. Like the high-end merchandise on the lot, Cary Reynolds was flashy. Tinted blond hair spiked with gel, a spray-tanned face, fancy alligator boots. Once I’d identified myself, he was all smiles.

“Now, don’t you be calling me Mr. Reynolds; that’s my daddy. You just call me Cary.” He pulled a white plastic patio chair away from the wall and placed it in front of the metal desk. “Please sit on down, Ruby.”

As I pulled out a legal pad, I said, “I thought I saw a cop on the lot when I pulled in. Is everything okay?”

He spoke in a confiding tone. “I hire a security guard to keep an eye on the cars at night. Don’t want anyone taking a joyride.”

Considering the neighborhood, his security measures made sense—but I didn’t want to offend by saying so. I balanced my pad of paper on my knees and said, “Cary, I need for you to tell me everything you remember about the evening when you and Lee were together in Vicksburg.”

“Haven’t we gone through all this before?”

“I know,” I said. I crossed my legs, trying to get comfortable in the patio chair. “But I need to be fresh on all the details.”

He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and propped the boots on the desk again. “All right, then. All right all right all right.” He winked. “Matthew McConaughey.”

He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I obliged. “Love him.”

“Yeah, Matt’s cool. But about Lee—me and Lee were buddies at Ole Miss, frat brothers.”

“And had you remained in touch?”

“Oh, not that much. He’s busy, I’m busy. But I followed him on social media. He does a lot of Facebook and Instagram.”

I kept a poker face. Lee Greene loved nothing better than posting selfies.

“So I knew Lee was coming to Vicksburg on business. I got in touch, said let me show you my town. We’ll knock back some drinks, get dinner. For old times’ sake.”

I’d been scrawling down his answers, but I looked up and said, “Lee told me that your meeting was about business.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. Lee said you wanted to hire him to do a start-up, to make your business a corporation, and that you wanted to talk about hiring him to file the paperwork and explain all the government regulations.” I needed to make certain that their versions of events were consistent.

Cary scratched the stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. “Sure, right—it was a combination of business and pleasure. We went to a bar, shot the shit, caught up on old college friends. Got some good advice on the corporate stuff. You know, I wanted to pay Lee for his time, but he wouldn’t charge me a dime for it. He didn’t even let me pick up the dinner tab.”

That sounded typical. Lee loved to pick up a check. It gave him the opportunity to show off his fancy American Express card.

“Since he wouldn’t accept anything, I got an idea. I’d give him a present instead. A gift. I told Lee that I had something for him, but I needed to deliver it to his hotel.”

“And?”

“And before too long, I showed up at Lee’s hotel room with a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch.”

“The police report said it was Macallan Scotch.”

“Yes, ma’am. And there was a bonus. We’d just sat down when a little hooker knocked on the door.”

I kept my voice businesslike. “How did you locate a hooker in that brief space of time? And why?”

Cary shot me an “aw, shucks” grin. “I know where to look. I know Vicksburg pretty damn good. And I know Lee Greene really well.”

I ignored the reference to Lee’s preferences. “Let’s talk about the Scotch. Where did you get it?”

“Liquor store, not far from the restaurant. In the Battlefield Shopping Center.”

“Had it ever been opened?”

“No, ma’am. It was virgin, Ruby.” He winked at me.

I pressed on. “When you came into the hotel room, did you both have a drink?”

“I got in there to his room at the Magnolia Inn, and we got some ice from the machine, and I poured one for Lee, one for myself. But I never got a chance to taste it. The call girl came in right about then, and she took the glass from my hand. She sat on Lee’s lap and knocked that drink back.”

“Did you pour another one?”

“No! I left, to give them privacy. I wanted to pay him back.”

I finished my notes, then reached into my briefcase and pulled a pink subpoena out of a file folder. Reaching across the desk, I handed it to him. “Cary, here’s your subpoena for Lee’s trial. I’ll need you in court on Friday. You may have to sit around the courthouse hallway before you’re called to the stand.”

He tossed it onto a stack of loose papers. “You don’t need to give me that. I guarantee I’ll be at that trial. I owe him.”

I shoved the pad into my bag and dug for my keys. “I went to Ole Miss, too. Graduated from undergrad about five years ago.”

“Well, that makes you a few years older than me, I guess,” he said, looking at me with surprise.

“Oh, I’m ancient. Twenty-seven. Got one foot in the grave.”

He scratched his jaw again. “That right?”