In our conferences with the Greene family, I’d expressed my concern about being outmatched by Keet. Lee Sr. had seconded the emotion. Suzanne waved my concern away; she claimed that juries like a fresh, young warrior.
And my client’s mother had also brushed off my concerns—on a different basis. No one will take that prosecutor seriously, for goodness’ sake. I don’t think I need to explain why.
She didn’t. Her meaning was crystal clear: Mrs. Greene thought he would be disregarded because he was black. Every time that woman opened her mouth, I thanked the gods that I was not a member of the Greene family. I had dodged that silver bullet.
Facing Isaac Keet in the passageway, I said, “So what were you and the judge chatting about this morning? Do y’all run late like this in Vicksburg? We like to start on time here in Rosedale. Of course, we’re just a small town—”
He cut me off. “You’re right; I was talking with the judge. I had to share some news—shocking news—about a law enforcement associate. That’s why we’re running late.” He glanced up and stared at the overhead light in silence for a moment. When I opened my mouth, he spoke again before I had the chance.
“Before the start of evidence, I’ll give you another shot. Does your client want to plead guilty?”
I pulled a face of disbelief. “Are we back to this? How many times have I told you? This case is overcharged. Capital murder, for the accidental death of a sex worker with a drug history?”
Keet ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, which was starting to gray. “Yes, seems like you mentioned that.”
“I think it’s terrible, absolutely offensive, the way district attorneys abuse the capital murder charge. You file these death penalty cases to scare the defendant into a plea bargain. You use the charge as a club to beat them over the head. How do you sleep at night?”
The smile flashed again. “Like a baby.”
His taunt made me even more irate. “Has it occurred to you that the state can’t show a motive in this case?”
He shrugged. I went on, my voice rising.
“No motive. Why on earth would Lee Greene want to kill this woman? The Rosedale jury is going to see right through your paper-thin case. I haven’t kept it a secret from you: I have a witness who will testify that the deceased prostitute was involved in drugs as well as the sex trade.”
He leaned back against the wall. In a voice that was not unkind, Keet said, “My last plea offer was a reduced charge: voluntary manslaughter. If Greene will plead to manslaughter, I’ll recommend five years. That’s the best I can do.”
I shook my head. “No way. My client didn’t kill her.”
Keet said, “Aren’t you going to communicate the offer to your client? In Vicksburg, the defense attorneys usually let their clients decide.” There was an edge in his voice. “But as you say—this isn’t Vicksburg.”
I frowned. He always made me feel like a kid. “I’ll tell him. But I know what he’ll say.”
“Good. Tell him pretty quick, Ruby. The offer is good today only.”
Keet held a folded sheet of paper; he opened it and stared at the sheet. It was upside down, from my angle, but I recognized it at a glance. It was the defense witness list, a disclosure that I had provided to Keet prior to trial.
In a quiet voice, he said, “Before we start with opening statements, I feel duty-bound to share some crucial information with you.”
I let out an impatient huff. I was sick of the delays; it was time to get moving.
“What?”
Keet examined my witness list for another moment. Running his finger under a name, he said in a grave voice, “One of your witnesses won’t be testifying.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because he’s dead.”
Chapter 46
HE WAS DEAD. Gone, just like that. Keet told me he’d been shot to death in his vehicle, the late-model Volvo I’d seen outside the sketchy bar. He was at the side of the road, just outside of Rosedale. Probably appearing in response to the pink subpoena that he had been served to testify for the defense.
I sat in court, trying to get my head around it. When Isaac Keet stood to present his opening statement, my hand slipped into my briefcase to rummage inside it. My right hand moved of its own volition like Thing, the disembodied hand that would send my mama into gales of laughter when we watched reruns of The Addams Family.
The hand was hunting for a box of Nicorette gum in my bag, because I needed a shot of nicotine. I needed it bad. But there was nothing hidden in the recesses of my bag, since I’d nobly decided to swear off the gum.
My client was giving me a quizzical look, which brought me back to the business at hand. I ceased digging in the briefcase and sat up straight in my chair, with my eyes glued to the DA’s back. To occupy my hands, I grasped a felt-tipped pen and uncapped it.
Isaac Keet said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is what the evidence will show.”
Beside me at the counsel table, Lee held a pen as well: a Montblanc fountain pen. He scrawled on a legal pad without looking down, then pushed the pad in front of me. It read: Vice cop dead? What will you do?
Lee was echoing my thoughts. The same refrain had pounded in my head since Keet dropped the bomb on me outside the judge’s chambers. I was so shell-shocked by the news of my star witness’s demise, my mind was frozen in question mark mode.
How would I launch a defense without my star witness? Detective Guion was an encyclopedia of information about the life and times of Monae Prince.
That vice cop was my smoking gun. But he was dead. And dead men tell no tales.
Forcing my attention to the DA, I tried to focus. He was describing the state’s charge against my client, and when he spoke Lee’s name, he wheeled around and pointed a finger at him.
Lee was prepared. It’s an old prosecutor’s trick, confronting the accused with the finger of guilt. Lee raised his chin and stared calmly at Keet.
Keet turned back to the jury. “The victim of the crime was Miss Monae Prince. Ladies and gentlemen, in the course of this trial, there are some difficult facts you’ll have to hear about Miss Prince.”
I cut my eyes at Lee. He scrawled on the pad again: Suck the poison???
It sounded like Keet was gearing up to suck the snakebite in opening statement. I had wondered how he would handle the issue of Monae Prince’s occupation. When preparing my own notes for opening statement, I’d tried to predict whether the district attorney would be forthcoming in front of the jury or whether he would play coy.
Keet grasped the sides of the podium that faced the jury box. I could see the tendons in the back of his hands.
“Miss Prince had been lured to the hotel room in Vicksburg—the hotel room of the defendant, Lee Greene—for a reason that will appall y’all, ladies and gentlemen. She was there because Lee Greene solicited her services for the purpose of prostitution.”
“Objection,” I said, starting to rise. I had evidence to the contrary; the hooker was Cary Reynolds’s idea, not Lee’s. But Judge Ashley dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Overruled. The defense will have its turn shortly, Ms. Bozarth.”
I sat.
Isaac Keet’s voice rolled out like spun silk as he continued his statement to the jury. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Monae was in the company of the defendant that night as a call girl. A prostitute for hire. But, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Prince wasn’t only a call girl. No, indeed.”
I leaned forward, curious to hear what was coming. So did several of the jurors.
“She was a young girl. Monae Prince was an adolescent, a girl of tender years. If life was always fair, Monae would have been living with a family who loved and cared for her. But life can be hard. She was a girl living in dire poverty, without protection or support of family. And she was only seventeen years old. Seventeen, ladies and gentlemen.”
I kept my poker face intact when he beat the point home about Monae’s tender age because I knew better. At the time of her death, Monae Prince was old enough to vote and buy booze in Mississippi. The Vicksburg vice detective had said so.