I opened my mouth to answer, but Lafayette jumped in. “I hate to do it, Judge, but I’m going to have to ask for a mistrial.”
“No, no, no,” I said, leaning forward on the seat of the wingback chair. “Not good enough. The defense requests a judgment of acquittal.”
The DA gnawed on a thumbnail. “No way. You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m totally serious.” I crossed my legs, swinging my left foot and displaying a shoe with a heel that was worn down to the metal stud. “I’m serious as a heart attack.”
“We have an alternate,” Judge Baylor said.
Lafayette shot us a look of disbelief. “Is that what you want? Just proceed with the trial like nothing happened?”
“Oh, something definitely happened,” I said. Both men focused on me. “I have other witnesses I can call. Got ten character witnesses out in the hall. And while they’re testifying about what a fine young man Darrien Summers is, I’ll betcha the jury will be thinking about juror number three. Wondering where he is.”
The DA shifted his eyes away from mine, so I tapped him on the arm.
“Don’t you think that they’ll be wondering why that juror ran off after I showed the picture of him at the Mardi Gras ball? And called him on Jewel Shaw’s phone?”
Judge Baylor sighed. “Sweet Jesus.” He stood abruptly, jerking the zipper of his black robe. He yanked the robe off and threw it over his chair, then loosened his tie.
He turned to the DA. “Tom, what do you know about this guy? What’s his name?”
“Troy Hampton,” I said.
“I don’t know him,” Lafayette said.
“Didn’t you try to get rid of him? Strike him for cause?”
Lafayette pulled at his thumbnail. “I don’t know him personally; I’ve seen him around. Didn’t particularly want him on the jury. Not comfortable with his politics.”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “Politics? What kind of politics?”
Lafayette shifted in his seat. “Not politics, exactly. Associations.”
“And what might those be?”
“Some ultra-conservative views, I guess. Stuff I’m not personally comfortable with.”
I snapped. “Thomas Lafayette—were you aware of any hate group activity on his part? Sounds like you were. And yet you remained silent about it during voir dire, when he testified under oath that my client’s race wouldn’t have any bearing on his verdict.”
Lafayette and Judge Baylor exchanged a look. When the DA spoke, he chose his words carefully.
“I didn’t have any hard evidence of the guy’s activities. In my position, I hear a lot of things. But it’s vital that I exercise discretion.”
“Baloney,” I said. “Judge Baylor, I want to make a request for judgment of acquittal, and I want it on the record.”
“Fine.” He shook the Advil bottle again.
“And I need to make a record regarding the DA’s prior knowledge of juror number three’s ‘political associations.’”
“I object to that,” Lafayette said. “I don’t like that.”
“I don’t care whether you like it.”
A timid knock sounded on the inner door. Grace opened the door just wide enough to poke her head through.
“Judge Baylor?”
“What?”
His voice was so loud that her head jerked back and hit the door frame. She spoke in a whisper. “The sheriff is coming. He needs to see you.”
“Good. Send him in.” In a more civilized tone, he added, “Thank you, Grace.”
We sat in silence for long minutes as we waited for Sheriff Stark to arrive. The heel of my shoe had developed a wobble. When I reached down to investigate, it fell off onto the floor.
Shit.
While I struggled to stick the heel back on, the sheriff walked in. When I saw him, the heel slipped from my fingers, unheeded by anyone, including me.
Stark was sweating, though the day was cool. Damp spots showed on the front and back of his tan shirt, and his armpits were soaked.
“We got the car.”
“Good. Where is he?” the judge said.
“No, not him. The car. It was deserted, sitting on a side road on the east end of town.”
The judge sighed, a soft exhale. “Well, I’ll issue a warrant. Contempt of court, leaving the trial when he’d sworn to serve. One of your deputies can try to run him down.”
He stood and picked up the black robe. “Let’s get back to court. Miss Bozarth, you can make your request on the record, but with all due respect, ma’am, I’m inclined to follow the DA’s recommendation. I believe I’ll declare a mistrial.”
The disappointment might have knocked me over, had I not been seated. I ducked my head, picking up my fallen heel. By some miracle, I successfully jammed it into place.
Sheriff Stark cleared his throat. “Judge, I impounded that car and did an inventory search of the vehicle. Like Tom told me.”
I glanced at Lafayette. He wouldn’t look at me.
“What did you find. Drugs? A million dollars? A dead body?” The judge pulled a face as he zipped up his robe.
“No, sir, Your Honor. Didn’t expect to find nothing. But in the trunk, I looked under the tire well. Danged if I didn’t see something strange.”
“What?”
He held a small trash bag. I’d been so busy with my shoe, I hadn’t noticed it. Reaching inside, the sheriff pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag.
“I think it’s one of those Mardi Gras masks.”
I leaned forward to get a better look. It was smashed in places, the worse for wear. But it was a green Mardi Gras mask, with the remnant of a blood-stained feather.
Just like the mask Jewel Shaw had worn at the Mardi Gras ball.
Chapter 30
IT WAS COLD outside the county jail. I pulled my suit jacket tightly around me as I lingered by the back door.
When I’d initially arrived at the jailhouse exit, I stood alone; but a crowd shortly began to gather. TV news vans pulled up to the curb. A local reporter for the Rosedale weekly paper hurried across the street, waving his arm.
I twisted my head his way, unable to discern whether the newsman was waving at me. A body slammed into me from the back, lifting me off the sidewalk and swinging me off the ground.
I let out a shriek. But when he set me on my feet, I was relieved to see that the unexpected embrace came from Oscar Summers. He was beaming. Traces of tears tracked down his cheeks. “You did it. You kept your promise.”
Oh, Lord—that promise. I’d never be so foolhardy again. But this time, I’d lucked out. I returned his hug, gasping as he nearly squeezed the wind out of me.
In the doorway of the exit, Darrien appeared. TV cameras zoomed in, and photographers pushed toward him. He searched the faces in the crowd, then Oscar shouldered through the media crush and clutched his son to his chest.
A reporter jostled me. “Can you give me your reaction to the judge’s decision?”
I hadn’t prepared anything clever to say. “I’m delighted,” I said, smiling, as Darrien moved through the crowd of press and extended his hand. I grasped it; he put an arm around me and we grinned like crazy at each other.
The reporter persisted. “Is that all?”
My head was muddled by the crazy day, but I pulled it together sufficiently to add: “My client’s innocence has been established. Judge Baylor entered a judgment of acquittal. Darrien Summers has been cleared. Today, justice has been served in Mississippi.”
They shouted more questions, begging Darrien for a statement, but he turned to his father and said, “I just want to go home, Dad.”
Oscar Summers gave a decided nod. To me, he said, “Miss Bozarth, some friends and family are coming by the house. We’d be proud to have you join us.”
I took his hand. “I’ll drop by later on, Mr. Summers. Y’all are so kind to include me. But a friend wants to meet me for supper first.”
Minutes later, I was maneuvering my battered car up the private drive of the Williams County country club. I entered the club and walked up a flight of stairs into the dining room.
The club manager, Bert Owens, was holding a whispered conversation with two men. When I walked into the room, he strode toward me.
“Ma’am, this club is for members only.”