Baloney. As I ended the call, my suspicions about Shorty consumed me. Seized by paranoia, I pondered: maybe the Aryan Citizens wanted inside information on the Summers case and had tasked Shorty with the job of prying information from me.
My stomach twisted. I’d made it so easy for him. Easy as pie.
And where had I first encountered the mysterious juror number 3? In an orange booth at Shorty’s diner.
Closing my eyes, I indulged in another fit of self-loathing. I had fallen into bed with a manipulator, a man I barely knew. Bet he thought it was a hoot.
The tower clock struck one.
Chapter 22
BACK IN JUDGE Baylor’s courtroom, we resumed our positions. Sheriff Stark sat on the witness stand; I faced him, leaning on the lectern near the jury box; and the DA was poised at his counsel table. Darrien sat at the defense table alone, with his father keeping watch behind him.
Judge Baylor said to the sheriff, “Pat, let me remind you: you’re still under oath.”
“Yes, sir, Judge.”
“Miss Bozarth, you may continue.”
I needed to make some headway. “Sheriff Stark, I believe you’ve testified that you examined Jewel Shaw’s telephone.”
“I did.”
“And you looked through her photo history, the pictures on her cell phone. Correct?”
“Yes.”
I smiled, encouraging. “Sheriff, you have testified regarding photos of Jewel Shaw and my client. But there were other pictures on Ms. Shaw’s phone, isn’t that true?”
His eyes cut away from me. “She had a lot of pictures.”
“That’s true. And isn’t it also true, Sheriff, that a number of those shots depict Ms. Shaw in the company of men other than Darrien Summers?”
“They might have. I don’t know.”
I walked close to the witness stand. He was clamming up, afraid to give an answer that would hurt the state. “Oh, come on, Sheriff. Did you or did you not see pictures of Jewel Shaw with a variety of male companions on her cell phone?”
“I can’t remember every picture on her phone.”
He didn’t want to play ball with me. With a nod at the jury box, I walked to the DA’s counsel table and picked up State’s Exhibit 5, the phone that belonged to Jewel Shaw.
Lafayette demanded in a whisper, “What are you doing?”
I didn’t answer, just ripped the plastic cocoon off Jewel Shaw’s phone.
Lafayette jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense is tampering with the state’s exhibit!”
I held it up so that the judge—and the jury—could see it. “Your Honor, I’m not harming the exhibit in any way.”
Lafayette moved toward the bench with a full head of steam. “I want to know what Miss Bozarth intends to do with the state’s exhibit.”
Gonna make the sheriff eat his words.
“Use it to cross-examine this witness, Judge.”
In the days prior to trial, I had studied Jewel’s phone history; I knew the pictures on that phone. I had determined in advance precisely which ones I intended for the jury to see. Jewel Shaw hanging off a blond surfer type. Jewel Shaw in the nude, riding piggyback on a suntanned Hispanic man. Jewel Shaw lifting her shirt on Bourbon Street, with the caption “Begging for beads!”
At Lafayette’s insistence we approached the bench, and after a whispered consultation, Judge Baylor said I could proceed. With a cocky air, I walked the short distance to the podium. My excitement mounted; I was going to make headway with the phone information and initiate a tangible contribution to Darrien’s defense. I’d start taking charge—just as soon as I turned on Jewel’s phone and revealed its contents.
Holding the phone in my hand, I tried to turn it on.
The phone was dead.
As I stared at the dark screen, a voice in my head whispered: Karma. Or the ghost of Jewel Shaw.
Chapter 23
THAT DAY, COURT ran so long that the sun was setting when the state called its last witness. A shaft of light shining through the windows on the west side of the courtroom illuminated the faces of the jurors as they sat in the box. They looked strained, weary.
So was I.
Lafayette approached his final witness. “State your name, sir.”
“Stanley Forsythe.”
“And what is your occupation?”
“I’m a photographer. I have a studio here in Rosedale.”
“What kind of photography do you do, sir?”
“Weddings, graduation portraits, family portraits. My clients can have traditional sittings in my studio, but I also go out on location, take photos in natural settings.”
Lafayette grinned at him. “Like my daughter’s graduation picture? You went to the high school stadium as a background for her in her cheerleading uniform, ain’t that right?”
From my seat, I said: “Objection. Irrelevant.”
The judge adjusted his glasses. “Sustained.”
The DA glanced at me with a careless shrug of his shoulders. He’d made his point. He was a local baron, firmly woven into the tapestry of the community. I was the outsider.
Turning back to his witness, Lafayette said, “Sir, in February of this year, did you have occasion to be present at the Mardi Gras ball at the Williams County country club?”
“I did.”
“For what purpose were you there?”
“The club hired me to take photographs of the event. It’s an annual tradition.”
“Posed photos?”
“No. Candids. For the club newsletter.”
As he testified, I was doing a slow burn. I’d seen the photographer’s name on the state’s witness list, and tried to contact him half a dozen times, even going to his studio the Saturday before trial began. He wouldn’t talk to me.
The DA set up two easels near the witness stand, then picked up a large mounted exhibit from his counsel table.
Lafayette placed the exhibit on one of the easels. “Mr. Forsythe, I show you what’s been marked for identification as State’s Exhibit Thirty-three. Can you identify it for the jury, sir?”
Looking at the exhibit as Forsythe responded, I clutched the pen in my hand so hard that I cracked the plastic casing. The exhibit was a blown-up photograph of Jewel Shaw, taken at the ball. It was a full-length shot in a glorious riot of color: her purple dress, her shining golden hair, her laughing face behind the glittery green Mardi Gras mask. The image seemed to vibrate with life and vitality.
I cut my eyes at the jury, to measure the impact the photo had on them. They looked like mourners at the funeral service. My lone black juror was fumbling with a packet of Kleenex tissues. She wiped her eyes.
Lord help us.
Lafayette said, “Mr. Forsythe, what time was this photograph taken?”
“Ten fifteen p.m. My equipment records the times of each photograph.”
In a voice of deep solemnity, he asked, “Is State’s Exhibit Thirty-three a fair and accurate representation of Jewel Shaw at 10:15 on the night of her death?”
“It is.”
The DA turned to the bench. “Your Honor, the state offers State’s Exhibit Thirty-three into evidence.”
“Miss Bozarth?”
I didn’t huddle in conference with Darrien. I wanted the moment to pass as quickly as possible. “No objection.”
Lafayette walked back to the prosecution table and hefted a second exhibit, identical in size.
He placed the exhibit on the second easel. It was an image that had been admitted into evidence earlier: State’s Exhibit 10. Jewel Shaw lay dead in her bloodstained dress in cabana 6, her arm dangling off the chaise. Her sightless eyes were open. Blood matted the golden hair and the green and gold beads at her neck.
Lafayette bowed his head, like a man preparing to launch into prayer.
“No further questions.”
Chapter 24
“YOUR HONOR, THE state rests.”
Lafayette’s voice rang with self-satisfaction.
Judge Baylor said, “It’s been a long day. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll recess until tomorrow morning.”
When he stood to leave the bench, I rose, and remained standing as the sequestered jury passed by my counsel table. Keeping my posture rigidly erect, I tried to make eye contact with the jurors, but they all avoided my gaze—with one exception: juror number 3. He smiled, showing his teeth. I narrowed my eyes, thinking: I know all about you, Mr. Aryan Citizen.
As the courtroom emptied out, Darrien slumped down in his chair. “Ruby, it looks bad.”