“I was a Sigma Nu, back in undergrad. How about you, Miss Bozarth? Which sorority did you pledge?”
Was there a murder case, or had he called me in to take a trip down memory lane?
God, I wanted a piece of Nicorette. My hand itched to reach down and dig for the box inside my briefcase.
I said, “No sorority. Not my scene. Your Honor, your clerk said—”
He tilted back in his chair and propped his feet on the shiny desktop. “How’d you happen to come to Rosedale to hang your shingle?”
I answered by rote. “I like small towns, sir. Grew up in them.”
Actually, one of the places I’d lived as a kid was right here in Rosedale. But I wasn’t inclined to tell him the whole story.
I also did not confide that I’d had a cushy job lined up after graduation at a big law firm in Jackson. A generous offer that disappeared when I broke off my engagement with my ex-fiancé, Lee Greene, whose family knew a whole lot of people in Mississippi.
It still gave me satisfaction to recall the shocked look he wore when I threw the diamond ring in his face. The Coach briefcase he gave me, though, was another matter. A woman has to be practical.
“Whereabouts?”
“Sir?”
“Where’d you grow up?”
Was he digging, or just being polite? Was there a chance that he knew I’d spent time in Rosedale? I shifted my weight in the uncomfortable chair. “All over. We moved around Mississippi. Even spent a while across the river in Arkansas.”
I fell silent but tried to send him a telepathic message: Don’t you dare ask me what my daddy did for a living. Because the fact was, I didn’t know. I was the product of a one-night stand following a concert. Mom was taken with my biological father because she thought he kinda looked like Garth Brooks. “That’s where you get your shiny brown hair,” she’d say, and kiss the top of my head.
“Well, Miss Bozarth, y’all being new to town puts you in a prime position for the Summers case. You’ll be more comfortable handling the defense, since you don’t have a history with the victim and her family.” He shook his head, his mouth turned down in an expression of deep regret. “Jewel Shaw was a Kappa at Ole Miss.”
Finally. “Exactly what kind of case are you talking about, Your Honor?”
“State v. Darrien Summers. He’s been charged with the murder of Jewel Shaw. It happened over at the country club, if you can believe it.”
I was poised so close to the edge of my wooden seat that I was in danger of falling onto the floor.
“But Judge Baylor, what’s this got to do with me?” When he frowned, I added hastily, “Sir, I don’t mean to sound impertinent. But I don’t represent Mr. Summers.”
“Oh, yes you do.” He dropped his feet back onto the floor. “I appointed you this morning.”
A wave of panic washed over me and I let out a nervous laugh.
“Your Honor, I’m not qualified. I’ve only tried one case before a jury—it was a misdemeanor. I’ve never handled a felony defense.”
While I spoke, he began to smile at me. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. My clerk tells me you’ve been begging for appointments.”
It was true. I had—but not appointments like this. “For guardianships. I told your clerk I wanted to serve as guardian ad litem in family law matters.”
“In fact, Grace told me you’d been complaining about it, saying it was downright unfair that I hadn’t given you an appointment yet. Now I am.” He smirked.
I should have known that his clerk would repeat my rash words. But I’d been angling for GAL work for months, and he kept handing the guardianships to the same two lawyers. “Judge, if you have a guardianship, I’m more than ready to take it on. But not a murder. I don’t have any background in that kind of case.”
“Miss Bozarth, if you want to learn how to swim, you’re going to have to jump in the water.” His tone was benevolent.
My heart beat so fast, it was hard to breathe. “I have to decline. Respectfully. I respectfully decline.”
The kindly expression disappeared. “You, ma’am, are a member of the Mississippi Bar. And when you became a member, you swore an oath.” He tossed a file at me. “I expect you to honor your obligations as an attorney licensed to practice law in this state.”
I picked up the file with a shaking hand. Opening it, I skimmed through the judge’s docket sheet.
“Your Honor, it says here that Darrien Summers is represented by the public defender.”
“Was. Was represented. The public defender withdrew. Look at the most recent docket entry. The defendant is represented by you, Miss Bozarth.” The judge turned to the phone on his desk and pushed a button. “I’m ready for my next appointment, Grace. We’re all wrapped up here.”
Clearly, I was dismissed. I stood, my briefcase in one hand, the file in the other. Judge Baylor gestured toward the file I held. “You can keep that copy. It’ll bring you up to date.”
As I tottered toward his office door, a thought struck me. I turned around.
“Beg pardon, Your Honor, but why did the public defender withdraw?”
“Oooooh,” he sighed. “Well, the defendant took a swing at him the last time they appeared in court. Tried to punch him out. The attorney could hardly be expected to continue representation, under the circumstances.”
Judge Baylor winked at me. “Y’all be careful, now. Watch your back.”
Chapter 3
A MURDER CASE. I had a murder case.
I walked out of the judge’s office in a fog, heading for the courthouse stairway. I grasped the banister at the top of the stairs with a sweaty palm.
Get a grip.
I was going to have to pull it together. Gotta deal.
Directly across the hall from Judge Baylor’s chambers was a door painted in bold black letters: THOMAS LAFAYETTE, DISTRICT ATTORNEY. I left the stairway and headed for that door.
Because if this was really happening, and I was actually representing a man charged with murder, I needed to know the evidence the state had against him. Lifting my chin, I walked into the DA’s office.
“I need to see Mr. Lafayette.”
The receptionist gave me a glance as she clicked her computer mouse. “He’s got a tight schedule this week. If you email him directly, he might be able to squeeze you in.”
“I need to see him today. I’ve been appointed to represent Darrien Summers.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she looked up from the computer screen, picked up the phone, and pushed a button. “Tom, there’s a woman out here, says she represents Darrien Summers.”
The door to his inner office flew open. A forty-year-old man in a pinstriped suit with a deep dimple in his chin leaned in the door frame, looking me up and down.
He laughed. “Well, get on in here, and let’s get acquainted.”
In his office, I took a seat facing his desk and sat up straight, trying to look professional.
“Mr. Lafayette, I’m Ruby Bozarth.”
“Call me Tom.” He plucked a business card from a brass display on his desk and handed it to me. I checked my pockets, hoping to find a card of my own to offer in return, but I only found the button.
“So, Ruby, you set up shop across from the courthouse, right? In the old Ben Franklin store? I can’t believe we haven’t met.”
Lafayette had a speech impediment, just a slight emphasis on the letter S—a tendency to hiss.
“I haven’t done too much criminal litigation.” Did I imagine it, or were his eyes unusually wide set?
He picked up a fountain pen, twirling it in his fingers. “I didn’t think Baylor would find anyone fool enough to take this on. Do you realize we’re set for trial in two weeks?”
My stomach did a flop. I had a spasm of such intense nausea, I was afraid I might vomit on his carpet.
I swallowed. “I’ll get a continuance.”
He laughed again. My hand itched to punch his dimpled chin.
“Well, I guess you can ask Baylor for a continuance. But asking ain’t getting. The judge doesn’t intend to let this case languish on the docket. Summers won’t plead, and the community wants justice.” He set the pen down. “How much are they paying you?”