“Overruled,” Judge Baylor said, his voice stern. “The defense will have the opportunity to speak in defendant’s opening.” Judge Baylor pointed his gavel at me. “And Miss Bozarth, inform your client that I will not tolerate any further outbursts.”
Returning to my seat, I leaned in to Darrien. “Darrien, you can’t do that. Don’t jump out of your chair, don’t say anything. Just talk through me.”
His eyes were frantic. “They’re lying about me.”
“We’ll fix it, when they see the pictures. Calm down, act cool. Shouting out like that doesn’t help. Think about what you learned in your criminology classes.”
After a long pause, he nodded and settled back into his chair. I turned my attention to the jury. As Lafayette continued his description of the evidence—the slashes in the dress, Darrien’s bloodstained jacket, the text sent from Jewel to Darrien, and the pictures of their sexual exploits—my spirits sank. The jurors were eyeing the defense table with increasing suspicion. When he described the coroner’s report, and said the medical examiner would show the location of all thirteen wounds, the suspicion turned to anger. The jurors only broke eye contact with the DA to glare at Darrien. Or to glare at me.
The oldsters on the panel, half a dozen men and women with gray hair, had already convicted Darrien in their minds. I scanned the faces of the younger jurors, searching for some holdouts upon whom I might focus my advocacy. A woman in her thirties looked distressed but uncertain; she might listen to me. The lone black juror’s face was solemn. And then, there was juror number 3, the man with the birthmark.
Maybe I stared at him too long; maybe I sent him a vibe. His eyes cut away from Lafayette and met mine.
He blinked twice, without expression.
Leaning forward in my seat, I tried to make a silent bid for his support.
His mouth twitched and he looked away, refocusing on the prosecutor.
I clenched the arms of my chair. Was he laughing at me?
“Miss Bozarth?”
I looked up. The judge was addressing me. Had I not heard him?
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“The district attorney has finished his opening. Do you wish to give your statement now, or reserve it for later?”
I stood and gazed at the closed and suspicious faces of our jurors. If I spoke now, I might be able to win some of them back. But to do so, I’d have to tip my hand, and reveal my trial strategy to Lafayette.
I swallowed. “Your Honor, we’ll reserve it. For later.”
The judge checked his watch. “We’ll recess. Court will reconvene in twenty minutes.” He struck the gavel.
Darrien tugged at my jacket. “Why didn’t you say anything for me? Speak up on my behalf?”
I whispered, “We’ll have our chance; I’ll do it later, at the end of the state’s evidence and the start of our case.”
I was ready to explain further when a hand reached from behind the counsel table and squeezed my shoulder with an iron grip.
Twisting around in my chair, I saw Oscar Summers, Darrien’s father. “Are you trying to hang my boy?”
Chapter 18
AFTER THE BAILIFF cuffed Darrien and escorted him to the holding cell, I made a beeline for the hallway. Oscar Summers followed.
As I dodged behind the Coke machine, he started in on me.
“What are you trying to do in there?”
“Mr. Summers, please keep your voice down.”
“I want to make sure you can hear me. Why aren’t you fighting for my boy?”
I beckoned for him to stand beside me, so that the soda machine could block our confrontation from curiosity seekers who were roaming the halls. He stepped in close to me, effectively trapping me between the humming red machine and the wall.
“Mr. Summers, you’ve got to understand how the process works. The state goes first; they have the burden of proof. They put on their case. Then we have our turn. I’ll make an opening statement and put on our evidence, call our witnesses.”
He moved in closer. I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“By the time you get around to defending Darrien, those twelve people gonna have their minds made up.” He pointed a finger at the courtroom. “Did you pick that jury? Eleven white people, only one black one, a woman. Why’d you do that?”
It wouldn’t calm him to hear that I shared his apprehensions.
“It’s Williams County citizens who have sworn they’ll base a verdict on the evidence. We just have to play the hand we’re dealt.”
A young woman walked up and slipped coins into the Coke machine. Oscar Summers started to speak, but I gave a quick shake of my head. After the woman’s can fell from the machine with a clunk and she wandered off, he spoke again, in a soft voice that held a hint of a warning.
“That talk about playing your hand? I don’t see that you’re risking anything. But my boy’s life is at stake. And you promised me.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “You said you’d set my boy free. I’m holding you to that.”
When he reminded me of my rash promise, I shut my eyes, a childish reflex. I tried to move away, but my back was literally against the wall.
Get a grip, I thought.
I raised my chin. “I was wrong to tell you that, Mr. Summers. I can only promise that I’ll do my best. But I shouldn’t have made any guarantee. There are no guarantees at trial.”
His face contorted. “You can’t take it back.”
He was getting loud again. I glanced down the hallway; people were turning to stare.
“You can’t tell me that, then take it back. My son’s life—we’re talking about Darrien’s life.”
I tried to ease around him, sliding my shoulders against the Coke machine, but he blocked me with his arm. “This conversation isn’t over.”
I heard change jingle in the Coke machine again. A head peered around the side; it was Shorty.
“Everything okay, Ruby?”
I took a deep breath and pasted a smile on my face.
“Hey, there! Shorty, this is Oscar Summers, Darrien’s dad. Mr. Summers, have you met Shorty Morgan? He has the diner on the square.”
Oscar Summers’s arm dropped back to his side. He gave a grudging nod. “I go there sometimes.”
Shorty held his hand out. “I appreciate your business, sir. And let me say: you’ve got a fine lawyer here. Ruby Bozarth is going to kick some ass in that courtroom.”
Summers suffered the handshake, but didn’t acknowledge the endorsement on my behalf. Shorty pushed a button and picked up a can of Coke from the dispenser. He held it out to me.
“You thirsty, Ruby?”
Gratefully, I popped the top and swigged from the can.
Oscar Summers remained at my side. I said, “Let’s talk later, okay? I’ll share my strategy with you as soon as I get a chance.”
He left us then, and I sagged against the side of the red machine, grateful for its support even though it buzzed like a beehive.
Shorty leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m a basket case. I want to run and hide.”
His fingers rubbed the back of my neck. “You’re going to be just fine. The diner will be overflowing when the judge breaks for lunch, so I’ll save a seat for you at the counter. I’ll put a Reserved sign on your favorite stool.”
It was nice to have someone looking out for me. I felt my eyes begin to sting. Covering my weakness with a smirk, I asked whether fried chicken was on the day’s menu.
“Oh, hell no. Good thing, too. I know what you’ll do for a plate of fried chicken.”
I gasped with mock outrage but didn’t have a chance to make a snappy comeback. The bailiff shouted down the hall, “Court back in session, Miss Bozarth.”
Chapter 19
THAT MORNING, PATRICK Stark, the sheriff of Williams County, sat on the witness stand. He was a squat figure of a man whose tan uniform barely covered his paunch, and his ginger hair was combed over with a pouf.