The Murder List Page 12

  Deke’s sister Latrelle, her dark hair spilling over her turtleneck, had been the first through the door. Officer Suddeth had stepped aside, allowing her to claim a seat in the front row.

  “I love you.” Deke mouthed the words to her, his voice barely audible.

  “You, too.” Latrelle made a valiant attempt to smile as she whispered her response, then leaned forward on the wooden pew. Moved as close as she could to the waist-high bar that separated spectators from participants. Reached out a hand.

  Suddeth stepped in front of her. Blocked her view of her brother. And his view of her. On purpose, had to be. Even through the officer’s chunky navy-blue bulk, Jack heard the young woman gasp. He pushed his chair back. Stood. What a jerk.

  “Come on, Suddeth,” Jack said. “You’re gonna be that guy?”

  “Just doing my job.” Suddeth, his back to the audience now, stayed put, as if facing Jack down.

  “Your job?” Jack said. “So your job is to act like a complete—”

  “Sir? You have a problem?” Suddeth interrupted, eyes narrowing, instantly combative. “If you’d like to step—”

  “Court!” The bailiff called out, interrupting.

  The buzz from the spectators stopped. The court clerk entered the courtroom through the back door, splitting a spread-winged decorative wooden eagle in half as she did. The eagle clicked back into place, hiding the door again, as the clerk climbed the three steps to her file-stacked desk in front of the judge’s bench. The bailiff’s opening announcement meant they had ten more minutes before the judge showed. Still no Gardiner.

  Hell with this. Jack blew out a breath and took his seat at the table again, leaving Suddeth mid-sentence. Sweating this kind of small stuff was the least of Jack’s concerns. He felt the officer’s presence—and animosity—ease away. Deke had half turned back toward the spectators. He’d put one hand over his heart. Held it there. Latrelle, locking eyes, did the same thing.

  Clea jabbed an elbow at her cameraman, then brazenly pointed at the pantomime of familial devotion, Latrelle and Deke’s mute attempt at connection. The woman actually twirled her forefinger to make sure the photographer understood he should roll on it, capture it. Crap. Was everyone here only interested in how they could parlay this trial to further their own careers? Yeah. They were. They all were. Including him.

  Latrelle touched four fingers to her thumb, then opened and closed them quickly several times. As if making a shadow puppet talk. She raised her eyebrows, questioning, as she kept repeating the gesture.

  Will you testify? Jack knew that’s what she was asking.

  Clea couldn’t take her eyes off the two. After what Jack had told her at Gallery about Deke wanting to take the stand, she’d probably decoded what they were “discussing.” Whatever Deke answered, Clea could text out her scoop instantly. What made it worse, Jack had to admit it was partly his own fault.

  But Deke didn’t pantomime back. He turned to Jack instead.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered. “Are you sure I shouldn’t?”

  RACHEL NORTH

  I stood at the head of the conference table in the jury room, exasperated at Juror Nine, a lunk who wore a Patriots jersey every day. “I’ve told you, Gil. And told you. We’re not allowed to take that into account.”

  Court officers Grace and Kurt—we were on a first-name basis now—had set up a blank whiteboard behind me, now balanced precariously on a flimsy metal easel. “The fact that the defendant did not testify,” I went on, “cannot be held against him.”

  “Ever hear of the … which amendment is it, dear?” Juror Two, Momo Peretz, looked up from her knitting. Miss Marple from Manhattan, I wanted to call her. Smarter than she appeared. “Fifth,” she answered her own constitutional question. “He has the right to remain silent.”

  “Hell with that.” I was surprised to hear the teacher swear as she chimed in to the deliberations, perhaps for the first time. Delia Tibbalt’s wrenny voice clashed with her language. “That man slashed that poor doctor’s throat. And took her money to make it look like it was a stranger. If he hadn’t, don’t you think he’d want to tell us that? I certainly would. If he doesn’t talk, he’s hiding something. If you’ve got nothing that’ll incriminate you, you talk. If you do, you don’t.”

  I tuned out for a fraction of a second, buried in annoyance. I was used to running meetings at the statehouse, where nitpicking politicians and their pushy staffers were determined to cultivate their personal glory. This squabbling jury almost made me miss them.

  “The judge has named you foreperson, Miss North,” Court officer Grace O’Brien had told me earlier. “And here’s what you get.” She’d then presented me with four dry-erase markers, a pile of yellow legal pads, and two boxes of brand-new black Bic pens. “Any questions, buzz this thing.” She’d shown me a buzzer mounted under the conference table. “Easy-peasy. Lunch at one. Out at five. No phone calls. Got it?”

  “But how did…? Why…? Shouldn’t it be…?” I’d failed to finish any sentences. The last thing I’d expected—more than last, it hadn’t even entered my mind—was that Judge Saunders would appoint me to lead this jury. Perhaps she saw something in me, leadership or competence, which—okay. Apparently refusing the job wasn’t an option. “Never mind,” I’d said. “Fine. I’ll do it.” And now here we were, four hours into deliberations, and Patriots-jersey guy had accelerated into full “he’s guilty” mode.

  Yesterday had gone by in a constant stream of people talking. The two lawyers gave their closing arguments—I was betting the reporters called them “impassioned”—and the judge gave us her instructions. Which I bet the reporters called “incredibly confusing.”

  Then the court clerk had carried in a little barrel on a wire stand, spun it, and the judge had spun it again, opened a flap in the side, and pulled out tokens to select the three alternate jurors. Roni Wollaskay was already permanently out of the picture. I’d hoped nothing was wrong. I’d follow up, maybe, keep in touch.

  Would it be frustrating to be an alternate, after listening to the whole darn trial, not to be part of the twelve who make a decision? Personally, I’d feel off the hook. But now the stay-at-home mom and the unemployed poet and the bespectacled accountant would have to hang out in a separate room and only be called in if one of us jurors died or something. At this point, I was almost wishing I could fake my own death. I had to get out of here. I’d need to work all weekend.

  “That he’s guilty isn’t the only diagnosis for why he’s decided not to testify.” Annette Hix had apparently decoded Delia Tibbalt’s off-the-tracks train of thought. “Maybe he has a criminal record and doesn’t want to be asked about it. Even though that doesn’t mean he killed that poor woman, it might make us not like him.”

  “Well, we don’t like him,” Delia said. “I don’t, anyway. Does he have a criminal record?”

  “It’s not about ‘liking,’ dear,” Momo said. “It’s about the law.”

  “Well, the law says you can’t kill people.”

  “No one is arguing that,” Annette said.

  “Let’s move on.” I stepped in, trying to smile. According to what Danielle Zander said she’d seen on TV, this guy did have a criminal record, but I couldn’t say anything about that. I had to herd these cats and get them to a verdict. Even though I was nervous about the office, especially now that Dani was out of town with the senator, I felt a profound responsibility. A person’s life was at stake, and somehow, through the random choice of this uncaring universe, I was in charge.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JACK KIRKLAND

  When his cell phone rang, Jack almost couldn’t place the sound. His brain struggled for equilibrium, grasping at possibilities, knowing what he was waiting for was one click away. He stared at the glass front of the sandwich machine in the courthouse vending room, at his sandwich that was properly paid for but stuck halfway down. Like his life. The news he’d get in the phone call—good or bad?—already existed, but not yet in hi
s world. He could answer or not answer, but it didn’t matter. Nothing he could do now mattered. It was only what those twelve jurors thought that mattered.

  A fraction of Jack’s brain continued trying to coax the jury via the power of the universe or some force of personal will. They didn’t prove his guilt. I did my job. Set him free. Let me win.

  All that before the phone began its second ring.

  “Kirkland,” he said. Plus, it was Friday. Jurors wanted to go home. Be done with it.

  “Where are you?”

  Clea.

  Jack tried to tamp down his anger. Failed. He hadn’t called her yesterday. Might never call her again. She’d reported that damn story about Deke’s criminal record, put it all over TV. Because the world was only about Clea. The jurors had dutifully answered the judge’s morning question, as they always did—no, they hadn’t watched TV. But who knew what was true? And now they were deliberating, and Clea damn well knew a ringing phone was all he cared about. All that mattered.

  Unless she had a good reason.

  “Why?” he said. “Have you heard something?”

  “About your trial?”

  She was trying to piss him off. Trying to.

  “No.” He couldn’t resist. Didn’t even try to rein in his sarcasm. “About the existence of Santa Claus.”

  “Just tell me where you are,” she said. “I’m in the courthouse again.”

  Jack’s vision went dark. All he needed.

  “I’m at the vending machines. And I need to keep the phone line open.” He should have stopped there, he knew it, but he’d crossed the Clea bridge, in so many ways. “As you well know.”

  “I do,” she said.

  He heard her voice through the phone, but also in person. Looked up. Saw her. Go away, he thought.

  “Clea.” He clicked off his phone, kept it clutched in his hand as he tried to read her face. She was in full TV makeup, extra eyelashes, her trademark red hair—she insisted it was auburn—perfectly in place. But why was she here? She had to know he was furious.

  Clea stood in the doorway of the vending area, the struggling lights from a soda machine flickering shadows on her face. Three grimy yellow-topped round tables, five chairs at one and none at the others, sat empty, but Jack made no move to ask her to join him. He’d get the sandwich and pace the halls, or go back and sit with Deke in the attorney-client room. What she was going to do, he didn’t know. Or care.

  “You have a minute?” She pushed back an insistent lock of hair that had fallen over one eye. “I know the timing is awful and everything, but there can’t be a verdict this fast, and I…”

  “A minute for what?” Jack banged the front of the sandwich machine, wished he could kick the thing. “You want to trash my client on TV again? Use me for information again?”

  “It was correct, wasn’t it? And my boss loved it.” Clea paused, pressed her lips together, as if deciding whether to reveal a secret. “Anyway. Water under the bridge. Long story short. I got the job.”

  “The? Job?”

  “In Chicago? The investigative slot? You never listen to me. The job.” She craned her neck to look out the doorway and down the corridor. Apparently saw no one. When she turned back to him, she had her palms, as if in prayer, under her chin. “It’s official. I’m on my way to the station to give them my two-weeks’. But Jack? You’re the very first to know.”

  She opened her arms, as if to receive a congratulatory hug. Or maybe an ovation.

  “That’s great.” An honest answer. It meant the Clea situation was solved. There was nothing he could do about her cheap-ass story. But good riddance to the storyteller.

  “You want me to leave?” She cocked her head, like she did, looked at him with that pouty face she used when she wanted something.

  Was that the phone? Jack pulled it from his pocket, checked. It wasn’t. Put it back. His sandwich remained stuck. “Isn’t it what you want?” Really? They were having this conversation now? “It’s your career … thing. Ambition. Goal.”

  “There are other goals in life, Jack.” Clea checked outside the doorway again, again apparently saw no one. She came closer to him, touched his arm with a pale pink fingernail. “I could stay, you know, if you want. Tell them no. For … personal reasons.”

  Jack remembered a long-ago class called Negotiation, Mediation, and Arbitration. The objective of such discussions, between parties who had opposite goals, was to end with neither side being happy. When both sides were equally disappointed, that meant the decision was fair.

  It also required both sides to bargain in good faith. For Clea, there was apparently no such thing.

  “Did you really get a job offer?” Jack reached into his trousers pocket for change. Fed it into the soda machine. Ran his finger down the selection numbers and letters. Wondered why life had to be so complicated.

  Clea did not say a word.

  D-4. Jack pushed the buttons. The Coke can clattered down the chute.

  “What do you mean by that?” Clea finally asked. “‘Really’ get an ‘offer’?”

  Jack ripped open the tab top. The hiss of the release was the loudest sound in the bleak little room. No one had cleaned the mustard-colored walls, apparently, since the no-smoking ban was instituted.

  “What would be the point of my telling you I had,” she went on, “if I hadn’t?”

  “You tell me.” Jack took a sip. He was being a jerk, he knew it, but she deserved it. She’d milked him for information. Used him. Plastered his client’s criminal record all over TV.

  “You complete … asshole,” Clea said.

  “Me?” Jack said. “Who knows. Maybe in Chicago you’ll meet a nice news director you can sweet-talk into giving you the plum assignments. Or maybe you’ve already done that.”

  “Maybe you’ll find someone who thinks you’re as smart as you do,” Clea said.

  Jack saluted her with his Coke can.

  “And you know what?” Clea’s voice had thinned to a bitter whisper. “You know what? When I get famous in Chicago, you know what my life’s ambition is gonna be? To come back to Boston and investigate the hell out of you.”

  He’d been right all along. This woman was all about getting what she wanted. He was better off—putting it mildly—without her.

  “Be my guest,” he said. “Though you already have, if you recollect, been my guest. Many times. And that might not augur well for the objectivity of your ‘investigation.’”

  Jack’s cell phone rang.

  “I’ve written everything down, you know,” Clea said.

  A noise from behind him. Then a click. And a thud.

  “Oooh. Your sandwich.” Clea pointed at it with one finger. “Looks awesome. And Jack? I hope your guy fries. He’s guilty as hell.”

  Jack ignored Clea, ignored her threats, ignored the ham-and-cheese packet now taunting him from the bottom of the machine. Cared only about that ringing phone.

  “Kirkland,” he said.

  RACHEL NORTH

  I marched my jury troops down the second-floor hallway and through the open dark-paneled door into the jury box, each of us scrutinized by a dour-faced Grace. This had not been a fun morning. We’d decided to send two questions to the judge. Now everyone was being called in to hear her answers. The light in the open courtroom was softer, and the air not so full of venom and cynicism.

  As foreperson, I’d been told to move from jury seat four, center front, to jury seat number one, closest to the judge. That gave me a better view of the white-faced countenance of Deacon Davis, whose life we held in our squabbling hands. If a jury could have squabbling hands. I took my seat, thinking about the four hours of bitter deliberation so far. I missed Roni Wollaskay, my only connection to sanity. With her gone, I could rely only on Momo, whose caramel-and-cream afghan was growing by the hour, our own Madame Defarge.

  Behind me, Juror Nine, Patriots guy, banged his thuggy toe against the back of my chair. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and refused to be baited
. He’d been an outright “guilty” since the beginning of deliberations. Moments after our first round of coffee was poured, I’d vetoed his demand to simply “take a damn vote, find him guilty, and get out of here.”

  And now Gil reminded me, with his annoying foot, that I was only one voice. I was a “not guilty,” probably, so far, as were Momo and the scientist, Larry Rosenberg. The others seemed to be leaning toward guilty. But we’d been stuck on a question none of us could answer. Davis was accused of robbing Dr. Georgina Oreoso and then killing her at an ATM. Was there testimony that Deacon Davis had an ATM card for that bank? Someone argued that was a perfect and innocent reason for him to be there, because what if he was withdrawing money?

  Someone else had parried with another intriguing question. If he’d been there simply to get cash out of his account, wouldn’t he have witnessed the murder? And if he had, why wasn’t the real murderer on trial?

  I also wondered about that broken surveillance video the bank official had testified about. Maybe Deacon Davis disabled it himself, somehow? Or someone did? Surveillance video was a slam dunk these days. If I was going to kill someone, Patriots guy for instance, I’d make sure in advance that no one could see it on tape.

  Deacon Davis—murderer or not—was whispering in his lawyer’s ear. The lawyer, Kirkland, looking haggard but kind of handsome, kept his arm across the back of his client’s chair, nodding in response. He patted his client’s back. Good guy, I thought. Tough job. And he’d seemed very convincing. Wonder if Kirkland knew what happened? I’d seen on TV that a lawyer wasn’t supposed to let his client lie on the witness stand. Maybe that was why Davis hadn’t testified.