Juror #3(9)

“Were your meetings always at the club?”

“Sure. What were we going to do, walk into a movie together? In February, when it warmed up some, we started going to her daddy’s cabana by the pool. More private.” He grimaced, then said in a defensive tone, “It was casual. Just a woman having fun. I didn’t mind.”

Oh, my Lord. There was in fact a sexual harassment angle to the tale, but I didn’t think I could sell it to a Mississippi jury.

“So the relationship was casual—you mean, it was strictly physical? Not a romance?”

“A romance? No, nothing like that. You don’t think she wanted to end up with me? Take me home to the family? That’s crazy.”

“But it was her idea? For you to hook up?”

“Always. I never pushed it. Shit—never.”

I was still trying to get my head around their dynamic; they were a mismatched pair, for sure, by Mississippi standards. “So she wanted sex. Okay—what was in it for you?”

He gave me a look of disbelief. “Have you seen what she looked like?”

I had. In her lifetime, she was a 9.5, at least.

“And she had that charm thing going on. You know.”

I knew what he was talking about. I’d been taken in by the “charm thing,” too.

I asked: “So how’d you end up in the cabana the night of the Mardi Gras ball?”

“She texted me. I asked to go on break. Once I got into the cabana and saw her lying there, I thought maybe she was drunk.”

“Was that a possibility?”

“Oh, yeah. But then I got closer. And I saw the blood.”

I made a note; the blood was an issue we would have to tackle. “There was blood on you: on your jacket, your face, your hands. How’d it get there?”

“When I listened to her chest, I guess. I was flipped out. But I tried CPR. I tried to help her, I swear I did.”

“And then security came to the cabana?”

He whispered: “Shit.” Then he said, “Yeah. They surely did.”

I skimmed the sheriff’s report again. “There’s no record of any statement from you. What did you say to the police? Or to security?”

Darrien laughed, displaying the humorless smile again. “I’m a black man in Mississippi. I’ve got nothing to say to the police.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Miranda v. Arizona.”

I stared through the glass at him, surprised that he knew the “right to remain silent” case name.

“So you’ve heard of the Miranda case.”

“I’ve read it.”

I sat back in my chair. “Really.”

“Yeah, I wrote a paper on it at Arkansas State. I was a criminology major.” He paused before adding, “Before they took the scholarship away.”

I pulled the mug shot of Darrien Summers from my file and studied his battered face. Holding the picture up against the pane of security glass, I asked, “Who did this to you?”

His jaw twitched. “Owens, the club manager. At the club, when Owens and his security goons found me with Jewel’s body.”

Observing my client through the glass, I was glad I’d slept on it, that I’d come back to give it another shot. Because I really did believe him.

He was wearing jail scrubs. Since we were counting down to trial, I needed to address a practical concern. “When you go to court, I want you dressed like you’re going to church on Sunday. Who should I contact to get your clothes? You need a suit.”

“My daddy lives here in town; he’s got my clothes and stuff. But I don’t have any kind of suit jacket, nothing like that. The only jacket I own is my white waiter’s coat.”

I made a note of that. It wasn’t necessary to add that I knew where his waiter’s jacket could be found. It was in the evidence room of the sheriff’s office, covered in blood. State’s Exhibit 1.

We talked a while longer; I wanted to know names of people who might testify for the defense. At length, the short jailer appeared to escort Darrien back to his cell. He shackled him and walked him through the door. I wrapped up my interview notes, jotting down some final thoughts. As I stood up, a tap on the glass startled me. I saw the jailer holding the phone receiver on the other side of the glass.

I picked up, confused. “What?”

The jailer’s voice drawled into my ear. “I went to high school with Jewel.”

I backed away a step, even though the glass separated us. “That right?”

“A lot of people around here set store by the Shaw family. Lot of people wonder why that boy should even get a trial.”

I gave him my best tough-girl face. “Are you one of those people? Maybe I should let the sheriff know.”

He hung up the phone and walked away with a nasty smirk. When I put the receiver in place, my hand was shaking. I hoped he didn’t see it.





Chapter 7



BACK AT MY office, I sat at my desk, picking at a loose strip of plywood on the desktop while I stared at my phone.

I picked the phone up, dialed the Jackson area code. Put it down again.

I’d sworn that I would never again dial Lee Greene’s number. But here I sat, preparing to push those numbers once again.