The Jury (31 page)

"All rise." Coats sweeps out from the hallway leading to his chambers and takes the bench. He sits, adjusts his glasses and opens the file handed to him by his clerk.

"I understand we have an arrangement in this matter. Are all counsel present?"

Tannery stands and states his appearance for the record. I rise for the defense.

"It's my understanding that you want to make a motion, Mr. Tannery." Coats looking at him over the top of his glasses.

The prosecutor glances over at me as if perhaps I will save him. This was not part of the deal, but that has all changed.

"Your Honor," says Tannery, "the people would like to move that the charges, all charges against the defendant in this case be dismissed, in the interest of justice."

"So ordered," says Coats.

"The defendant is discharged. He is free to go."

The outcry of voices behind us almost drowns out the judge's order. Suddenly, just like that, two months of trial come to an end, no answers, no one convicted in Kalista Jordan's murder, and David Crone is a free man.

The press swarm around the bar railing. Several of them head for the cameras outside. Tannery, still standing at his counsel table, is engulfed by pencil-wielding reporters.

"There will be a statement from the district attorney's office. I

have nothing further to say at this time." I can see him as they press in around him, Tannery trying to get his papers into his briefcase, using it like a shield trying to push his way out of the courtroom.

When I turn to look up, the bench is empty. Coats has already disappeared.

Crone seems dazed, perhaps not certain what he has just heard. Several people from the audience come forward, leaning over the railing to pat him on the back, offer their congratulations. He turns, doesn't recognize any of them, but smiles. He looks over at me.

"That's it?"

I nod.

"It's over?"

"Yes."

One of the sheriff's deputies comes up behind us and taps Crone on the shoulder.

"If you'll come this way, we'll get your clothes, your personal possessions."

When he stands, I'm afraid for a moment that he is going to collapse. He steadies himself with both hands on the edge of the table. Two of the other guards surround him and try to keep the press away. They still pummel him with questions.

"How does it feel?"

"Good," he says.

"Good."

"What are you going to do now?"

Crone looks at them. He doesn't have a clue.

"Will you be going back to the university?"

"I hope so."

"Do you have anything to say to the police who arrested you, or the D.A."s office?"

Crone just shakes his head.

Before they can ask any more questions, the deputies escort him toward the door leading to the jury room, where they disappear. From there they will take him back to the jail another way, not past the holding cells.

We are the last participants left, and the press descends on Harry and me.

"Do you consider this a victory?"

"My client is free. I consider that a good result."

"Do you have anything to say to Tanya Jordan, the victim's mother?"

"What can I say? She has suffered the violent death of her only child. Of course she has our sympathies."

I do not say this lightly, and in my mind's eye, at that moment, I have visions of Sarah.

"I cannot imagine what it must be like for a parent to lose a child in that way, even a child who is an adult. We hope and pray that the law will find the individual or individuals responsible for this and deal with them accordingly."

Harry puts the lid back on our last box of documents and sets it on the floor for the kid with the cart. One of the deputies will keep an eye on these until they are transported back to our office.

We fend off question all the way to the door, make our way through the reporters, out into the hallway. On the stairs outside we are confronted with microphones and cameras. One of the reporters asks for a statement.

"It is my belief that my client has been vindicated," I tell them.

"Would you have rather had a verdict from the jury?"

"I am satisfied with the result. Any day your client goes home a free man is a good day."

"Will Dr. Crone be returning to the university?"

"I'm assuming that he will, if he wishes to do so."

"Will they take him back?"

"I see no reason why they wouldn't." I opt for diplomacy rather than candor.

One of the reporters from a local station has me repeat a couple of the sound bites so that her camera, which was not functioning at the time, can pick this up, recorded for posterity.

Harry and I finally work our way clear.

"A fair day's work," he says.

"How did you know about the agent in the jail?"

"I didn't. But I sensed that Tate had something or he wouldn't have given in that easily."

"What about the civil claim?"

"I think we should take it slow and easy. Give Crone time to put things back together. Who knows, maybe the university will take him back. If so, any economic claim would be limited. Besides, I don't think he would have much of a case. They did find physical evidence in his house. There was evidence that he and Jordan had argued. There was certainly probable cause to arrest."

"His attorneys' fees alone are approaching seven figures," says Harry.

"You heard Coats in chambers."

"An angry judge. Ask him to evaluate the case tomorrow, you'll get a different answer. Besides, somehow I can't see Crone suing. I think he's had his fill of courtrooms for a while."

Harry looks tired.

"You want to grab a drink?" he says.

"I'd love to, but I have to pick up Sarah. I'll give you a call at home tonight."

He turns, heads toward his car, swinging his briefcase as he walks. From behind, looking at him in the fading light of day, Harry is the vision of a kindergarten kid on his way home from school.

chapter nineteen

I pick up Sarah at school, and we have dinner at the mall. She has plans to go to a friend's house for an overnight birthday party, so we do some shopping for a present and head home. She gathers up her things, showers and changes while I hone my skills as a gift wrapper.

By seven-thirty I drop her off at her friend's house and head for the office. I have learned to use downtime, when Sarah is away with others, to get work done so that I can maximize my time with her. My daughter is growing up in front of my eyes. There is not much time left. One day I will look and she will not be there, off at college or married.

I decide to straighten up the office, get a little work done so that I will be free to do something with her on Saturday.

The bright lights on Orange Avenue emit an ethereal glow in the evening mist that drifts in off the Pacific. Heavy traffic is backed up, Friday night, a constant stream of cars pulling into the parking lot across the street at the Del Coronado. Its wedding-cake roof, gingerbread and twinkling lights studded by palm trees, their palmettos swaying on ocean currents, exude an aura of fantasy;

spiderweb to the flies of tourists.

On the other side of the street, the quiet side, the blue neon sign for MiguePs Cocina flickers and buzzes as I walk under the adobe archway and through the garden leading to the office.

Harry and I are miles from lawyers' row here. Instead we have taken a small cabana in the courtyard amidst a number of other businesses. We peddle no image.

If clients want to pay for such luxuries, they can do it across the bridge in the large high-rise firms of the city.

Outside our office, the overhead light on the little cabana porch is on. There are the strains of music from the bar at Miguels, and the flicker of candlelight coming through the windows of the Brigantine as patrons settle in for dinner.

I climb the two steps to the wooden porch and work my key in the lock. I feel for the light switch in the dark and flip it. The overhead fluorescents flicker on, bathing the outer reception area in bright light.

The kid with the dolly has done his job. Six transfer boxes of documents are stacked against the wall, delivered from the courthouse. The lid is off of the one on top. It is lying on the receptionist's desk along with a bunch of papers strewn out next to it. Harry must have come back to the office after all, gotten tired and left. I'm wondering if he's at Miguel's or the bar at the Brigantine.

If so, he'll be back.

We have had to rent a large storage shed a few miles away to archive documents, and we are already running out of space. Monday the secretaries will go through these boxes with Harry, thin out the essentials, trash the rest and have the kid with his truck pack them away in storage. One of the secretaries will code the boxes with numbers and enter a description of the contents into a computer file so that if we have to go looking, we can find what we need. We will save these for at least six years. The friendliest client on the planet can sue you for malpractice. Lawyers on appeal in criminal cases will tell you that you have an obligation to admit to being incompetent counsel if that will help your client get out of the joint. I have never succumbed to this philosophy, though I will turn my records over to them without hesitation if they wish to look.

I leave the boxes and head for the disaster that is my office. I open the door, swinging it wide, turn on the light, stand and stare. For weeks I have been stacking up correspondence, putting things off until after Crone's trial. The surface of my desk looks like the floor of a pulp mill. There is paper everywhere.

It's always the problem, where to start? I hang my coat up, roll up my sleeves and start with the in basket. I grab a stack of papers, incoming letters. The secretary has opened each of these envelopes, the contents taken out and unfolded then stapled together in the upper left-hand corner along with the envelope in case a postmark date is critical. The basket is overloaded and separate stacks of unanswered letters lie in piles next to the wooden tray.

I work with the correspondence in one hand, a small portable dictating device in the other. The device is missing its mini-cassette. I check the drawer of my desk. I'm out.

I head out to the reception area and start rummaging through drawers for an empty cassette. That's when I hear it. The sound of a metal filing drawer sliding closed, then clicking shut. It comes from Harrys office down the hall.

He's slipped in, and I didn't see him.

I head toward the office, open the door; Harry is silhouetted, for some reason standing in the dark behind his desk.

"Why don't you turn the light on?"

He doesn't answer. I stand there smiling, Harry in the dark, some kind of a weird fucking thing on his head. The thought that enters my mind--latest Harry toy, shooting a bright beam of light onto his desk. His head comes up, and the beam catches me square in the eyes. I shield them with one hand. Then I realize it isn't Harry. The figure is too big, boxy shoulders, the rest of him lost in shadows. All I can see is an outline cast against the light coming in through the window from Miguel's behind him.

For a fleeting instant we are frozen, time and space, standing there looking, adrenaline beginning to lack in, fight or flight, chemistry acting.

He makes his decision, heads for the open window behind him, knee on the credenza. In an instant half of his body is through the open window, agile and quick for a man so large.

"Who the hell... ?" Careless bravado, I'm around the desk. I step on something large and soft. I trip, lash out with one hand at the intruders upper body before he can clear the window. I catch him by one hand just above the wrist.

The stupid things we do. I lose my grip, but my fingers latch onto something in his gloved hand, a file, papers. Bare skin against cloth, I win, the file comes free.

Before I realize what is happening, I feel the shock. With the other fist clenched he hits me dead center in the chest. The impact is like a freight train moving through. I sail back against the desk, hitting it with my butt, landing flat on my back on the top. The pressure in my sternum makes me think he's broken something. The last thing I see is the bright light on his head as it focuses on me, eyes blinded, blackness beneath the light. Then he is gone.

It takes an instant or two to gather myself, adrenaline doping the body, killing the pain. I stumble back to my feet, lean out the window. There is a fleeting beam of light bobbing through the bushes, and then it too is gone.

I stumble around the other side of the desk toward the front door, my forearms crossed, holding my chest, wheezing to catch my breath, fighting off the pain. I get to the door, open it; one foot in front of the other, I stagger out onto the porch. Bracing myself against the railing, I look in the direction of the arched gate, out toward the street. There is nothing. Music and voices of merriment are still coming from Miguel's. Whoever it was is gone.

It takes me a couple of minutes sitting in the outer office, my knees shaking, before I am certain nothing is broken. I remove my shirt and check my chest in the mirror of the bathroom. There is already a lump forming in the center. There is a sharp pain when I touch it, like a separation. By tomorrow I will have a bruise the size of Connecticut. There's a contusion on my back near the kidneys that

the jury

I didn't feel until now, where something sharp from the top of the desk caught me when I fell.

I walk slowly down the hall toward Harrys office to survey the damage. I steady myself by holding on to the walls, reach around the corner of the door for the light switch and turn it on.

Inside, the place is a mess. There are papers and files on the floor behind Harry's desk, part of the contents of one of the filing cabinets dumped there.

Books from the credenza have been knocked to the floor and a desk lamp lies next to them, its bulb shattered.

Its not until I enter the room with the lights on that I see him. There on the floor on the other side of the desk is Harry's crumpled body.

cmove around the desk, stepping on papers as I go, and kneel down behind Harrys body on the floor. He is curled in a fetal position, motionless.