She smiled. “Shorty said to take care of you. I’ll get you a sweet tea too, hon, in a to-go cup.”
Lord, yes. Sweet tea. When she delivered it, the bell jingled over the front door. I glanced over my shoulder. It was Judge Baylor’s bailiff, leading the jury. The twelve jurors followed him in single file.
Shorty pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen and called to the bailiff. “I’ve got the back room all set up for you.”
As Shorty scooted around the counter, the bailiff said, “Judge says he don’t want you sending a waitress in there. I’ll take their order and bring it out.”
“We’ll take good care of you.” Shorty shouldered his way into the aisle. To the line of jurors, he said, “Good to see y’all today.”
“Shorty, no talking to the jurors. They’re sequestered.”
I swiveled my stool to face them as they filed past me on their way to Shorty’s private dining room. I couldn’t speak to them, but I was determined to make eye contact and offer up a smile.
Several jurors cut their eyes away from me or glanced without response. But an older man gave me a nod. That was progress. The younger woman I’d pinned my hopes on smiled at me.
Shorty was an arm’s length away from me. As the last of the line filed past, I trained my smile on juror number 3, the port-wine man.
But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Shorty.
Shorty didn’t speak to the juror. But he extended his hand.
Not so strange, I thought. Juror number 3 was a regular customer.
But as the juror grasped Shorty’s outstretched hand and pumped it, he mouthed something to Shorty. Shorty nodded and backed away.
As the jury disappeared into the back room, I called out to Shorty. I wanted to ask what juror number 3 had said to him. But he turned away from me and ducked into the kitchen.
Seemed like Shorty and the juror had more than a casual connection. Maybe it could work to my client’s advantage. I opened my briefcase and dug out the jury selection file. I zeroed in on juror number 3: his name was Troy Ellsworth Hampton. Shorty had never mentioned him.
Pulling out my phone, I tried a Google search. It was a shot in the dark, but the name was sufficiently uncommon that I might get a hit. What the search revealed nearly knocked me off my stool.
Because juror number 3 appeared on the Facebook page for the Council of Aryan Citizens of Mississippi. A post showing a picture of the recent installation of new officers bore his image. It was unmistakable. The birthmark made him instantly recognizable.
And scanning a list of individuals present at the installation, I saw a familiar name: Clarence Palmer Morgan Jr.
I dropped the phone into my briefcase. What on earth was Shorty doing in a hate group?
And what the hell was a card-carrying white supremacist doing on my jury?
A wave of anxiety seized me; I had to get out of the diner. The waitress set the plate with my cheeseburger on the counter just as I grabbed my bag and slipped off the stool.
“Ruby! You’re not leaving? Hon, that’s your order.”
I just shook my head and headed for the door. Behind me, she called, “Ruby! You want it to go?”
I pushed through customers who were waiting for a table. Before I reached the exit, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Turning to see who had touched me, I was confronted by the angry face of a rail-thin middle-aged woman dressed in black, with diamond studs in her ears.
Oh, shit. Jewel Shaw’s mother.
“I know you,” she said in a breathy whisper.
My head was spinning; I had neither the time nor the inclination to go around the ring with Jewel’s mother.
“Beg pardon.” Because I was trying to be polite. “I have to go.”
She clutched the jacket of my suit. Dear God, I thought, don’t let her pull the buttons off.
“You are trying to disgrace my daughter. I heard you. No decent person would speak ill of the dead like that.”
I pulled away and managed to get my hand on the door. But before I made my exit, she had the last word.
“Don’t fool yourself—people remember. You’re that Bozarth girl. Your mama was a cleaning lady—just like a Negro. You were trash then, and you’re still trash.”
Chapter 21
THE WORD TRASH echoed inside my head as I tore across the street. I was so shaken by the revelations at lunch that I failed to see a car approaching at a fast clip. It swerved to avoid hitting me, and the driver laid on his horn and gave me the one-finger salute.
Mrs. Shaw’s furious insult should not have been at the forefront of my thoughts. I had bigger things to think about, matters of profound significance to my client. And to me.
When I reached the front of the county courthouse, I dropped onto a cold stone step and tried to figure out what I should do with the information I’d stumbled upon. My head was buzzing; it prevented me from thinking clearly. My primary focus should be exposing juror number 3 as a liar who was unfit to serve on the jury. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Shorty; why would he associate with the Aryan Citizens? Which led to the follow-up: did I have a lick of sense when it came to choosing my romantic partners?
I heard Mrs. Shaw’s whispery voice again. Trash.
I literally shook myself and pulled my phone out of the briefcase. Suzanne. I should call Suzanne Greene. She’d know what to do.
When she picked up, the sound of her voice helped to calm me down.
I spoke with the phone pressed close to my face. “Suzanne, I’ve uncovered something about one of my jurors. I think I need a mistrial.”
“Mercy, girl. What’s going on? Which one?”
“Juror number three: Troy Hampton. He’s an officer of a white supremacist group.”
Suzanne’s voice crackled through the line. “Is he KKK?”
“No, it’s another one: Aryan Citizens of Mississippi.”
“Different name, idea’s the same,” Suzanne said in a weary voice.
I hunched over the phone. “Suzanne, I covered the race issue in voir dire, and he didn’t respond. He was under oath. I’m going to see Judge Baylor and tell him what I know.”
I stood up on the step, brushing off the back of my skirt. But Suzanne’s voice in my ear brought me up short.
“No—don’t do that. You keep that card up your sleeve for now.”
On Suzanne’s end of the line, I could hear the clatter of plates in the background; she was probably at the Dixie Buffet. My empty stomach twisted. With a pang, I regretted leaving my cheeseburger behind at Shorty’s—and there was no way I’d be darkening the door of his business again.
I spoke softly into the phone, since people were coming up the steps. “Suzanne, why wouldn’t I go to the judge?”
Her voice was sharp. “Let this play out. Do more research on juror number three; get your ducks in a row. If you win at trial, you’ll never need to use it; Darrien will walk. But if you lose, juror number three has given you a basis for a motion for new trial, and fodder for a successful appeal. You have an ace up your sleeve, but hold on till you need it. If you play it now, best you can hope for is a mistrial, and you’ll have to start the trial process over again from scratch.”
I walked to the courthouse entrance with slow steps. People were returning from the noon break. The recess was almost over.
“I’ll do what you recommend, Suzanne.”
“Good.” She was chewing. “Get back in there and keep swinging. Anything else I can help you with today?”
I ducked behind a stone pillar so I couldn’t be overheard. “One more thing. What do you know about Shorty Morgan? He owns the diner on the square here in Rosedale.”
In the moment of silence before she replied, my heartbeat accelerated.
“Shorty? Let me think. Nice young man, I’ve heard. Fries good chicken.”
Her bare bones commendation wasn’t enough to reassure me. What had I hoped she might reveal? That Shorty had an identical twin who was a racist and had stolen Shorty’s identity?