Juror #3(7)

Darrien Summers left the interview room without a backward look. As the door clicked shut behind him, I slammed the plastic telephone into its base. To the empty space, I announced: “I quit.”





Chapter 5



MY MAMA DIDN’T raise no quitter.

I repeated the thought like a mantra the next morning as I rose from my sofa bed at the office, showered, and brushed my teeth. I pulled on jeans and a loose sweater. I was heading back to the jail for another shot with Darrien Summers, and I figured I might as well be comfortable. My courtroom suit hadn’t impressed my new client the previous afternoon.

No quitter no quitter no quitter.

If the sun had been shining, I might have headed straight for the jail. But it was gray and overcast, with a blustery wind. A cup of coffee would give me a lift, and I hadn’t had a drop that morning. The Maxwell House can at my office was empty.

A diner sat on the south side of the square, around the corner from my office. As I hurried down the sidewalk, I checked out the exterior to make sure it was open for business.

A neon sign sparkled in vintage glory, blinking an outline of a pan of eggs and bacon in yellow and hot pink. Above the blinking pan, SHORTY’S was spelled out in sparkling white bulbs.

A brass bell hanging from the door jingled to announce my entry. I’d only frequented Shorty’s diner a few times since I’d moved to town. In the storage room behind my office, I had a microwave, a hot plate, and an ancient refrigerator; since I was counting pennies, I made do.

I surveyed the booths, upholstered in bright orange vinyl, but since I was eating alone, I sidled up to the counter and sat on an old-fashioned bar stool.

I swiveled on the stool like a schoolkid, taking in the surroundings. A waitress delivered a breakfast plate to a man down the counter from me: pigs in a blanket. Steam rose from the pancakes.

Oh, Lord, have mercy.

A man wearing a white apron walked up with a mug and a coffeepot. “Coffee, ma’am?”

“Yes, please.”

As he poured, I stared at the apron. Over his heart, in bold black stitches, it read SHORTY. I’d swear he was six foot four. I snorted.

He pointed an accusatory finger. “Just what are you laughing at, ma’am?”

“I beg pardon, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s your apron.”

“It’s clean.” He brushed the front of it, looking down. “What about my apron?”

“It says Shorty.”

He stood tall: six foot four, for certain. Extending his hand, he said, “Yes ma’am, it sure does. Shorty Morgan, damn glad to meet you.”

I shook his hand. He squeezed it just right: a friendly grip, not too tight. “I’m Ruby. Ruby Bozarth.”

“Ruby from the Ben Franklin!”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Well, then, this is a special pleasure. That old dime store was sitting vacant for too long. Just looking at it made me blue. Everybody was awful glad to see the lights turned back on in there.”

I nodded, stealing another glance at the breakfast plate nearby.

“Ruby, you’re giving Jeb’s pancakes and sausage links the eye. You want me to order them up for you?”

I checked the prices on the menu. “Short stack, please. Butter and syrup.”

He wrote “SS” on a pad and disappeared into the kitchen. I sipped my coffee and pondered the best way to approach Darrien Summers.

Shorty was back in a New York minute, carrying a steaming plate of pancakes. A magazine sat on the counter near me, a copy of Foreign Affairs. He nudged it out of the way to make room for the syrup pitcher.

As I poured syrup on my pancakes, he marked a page inside the magazine with a paper napkin and set it beside the coffee station.

“So you’re doing some light reading this morning?” I said. The pancakes were making me feel sociable.

Shorty smiled. “Just trying to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world.”

I was curious about his reading choice, but my fellow customer at the counter interrupted. “Shorty! Your coffee’s weak this morning!”

“Jeb, hush your mouth.” He grabbed the pot and refilled the man’s mug.

“Just look there. Like a cup of weak tea.”

Jeb swung around on his stool and called to a dark-haired man sitting alone in one of the orange booths. “Hey, Troy? How you like the coffee today?”

The lone diner looked up from a newspaper he’d been studying. He looked to be older than me—maybe in his thirties. A port-wine stain birthmark covered one side of his face.

The man with the newspaper said, “I didn’t order any coffee.”

His tone was so chilly, I’d swear it lowered the temperature of the diner by ten degrees.

Jeb turned to me. “How about yours, honey?”

I sipped my coffee and said, “I like it.” It was true. I didn’t care for those hip coffee places where baristas gave you the caffeine shakes with a single cup.

Shorty set the pot on its coil and smiled at me. To Jeb, he said, “Hear that? A satisfied customer. And she’s a lawyer, so she knows what she’s talking about.”

Feeling a little self-conscious, I dug into the pancakes. As I mopped up syrup with my last bite, Shorty refilled my coffee and asked, “How’s the murder case going?”