Death of the Family Recipe (A Scotti Fitzgerald Murder Mystery Book 3) (26 page)

Zelda cackled. "Yeah, like that works. Joe’s been calling us too."

I frowned. "Crap, I guess that means we’re all stuck with this damn website."

Zelda grumped. "That would be an affirmative."

When Monday rolled around and Ted went off to work, I left right after him and drove to the Burbank County Courthouse. Whether I liked it or not, I was stuck helping on Atkinson’s jury selection. I didn’t mention it to Ted because it would only make him gnash his teeth and mutter about his husbandly and fatherly duties. And frankly, I was tired of being scolded.

I met Joe and Dan at the bistro across the street from the courthouse. Though it was a bright, sunny morning, it was a little cool for el fresco dining. Still, Dan and Joe sat at an outside table, heads bent in quiet discussion. I pulled out a chair and sat down. "Morning."

Joe grinned at me. "My, my Miss Scotti, don’t you clean up nice?

Courtesy of Ginny, I’d pulled together a presentable courthouse outfit — a simple black sweater over soft black trousers, topped with the turquoise jacket. A pair of low-heeled pumps and a large silver barrette to tame my curly mop finished the look. I smiled at Joe, then asked the waiter for a cup of herbal tea and gave him back his menu.

Dan smiled at my belly. "I see your youngster is coming along."

I patted my tummy. "Faster than I expected."

Dan speared a chunk of potato with his fork. "When is the blessed event?"

I shrugged. "May. Maybe sooner, since I’m carrying twins."

Dan grinned and slapped the table. "Isn’t that something? Two for the price of one."

I took a moment of maternal bliss and rubbed my belly. But this wasn’t a social visit, and I said, "So, what exactly are you expecting from me today?" Dan bristled at the quick change of topic. I shrugged. "I’d just like to be finished as quickly as possible. With the holidays and everything. You understand?"

Dan smiled and that smile was pure gold — no doubt juries thought so too. "Sure, I do Scotti, but you don’t want to rush justice." I almost laughed at Dan trying to play me, but instead I nodded. "Our objective today and through the process is to seat jurors sympathetic to our client."

I stirred my tea. "And my part is to sit at the table and show prospective jurors that a pregnant women isn’t afraid of your client?"

Joe frowned and nudged me with his foot under the table.

Dan kept smiling and held up his hands. "It’s all right. I understand why you might think that. A lot of my colleagues will exploit situations that are advantageous to their clients without batting an eye." He shook his head. "No, I want you there to watch the prospective jurors, particularly the female jurors." He reached across the table and patted my hand. "You’ll be seated so no one will know you’re pregnant anyways. Mostly, I’m looking for a female’s perspective."

I wanted to believe Dan because I admired and respected him. He’d helped me and Ted out of a couple of jams, so I felt I owed him. But he was playing me, and I didn’t like it. And the question of Atkinson asking me onto his case made me a little testy. "Why not Peggy then? Or a female attorney as a second chair?"

Joe said nothing, but his face flushed, and he clanged his silverware against his plate. Considering his trickery, I wasn’t impressed with his indignation.

Dan’s smile got tighter and thinner. "Peggy’s needed at the office, and I never use a second chair, female or otherwise."

I nodded, realizing I’d reached the threshold of pushing it. "How long do you expect the process to take?"

Dan shrugged. "We might wrap it up today — likely we’ll have a jury seated by Wednesday."

Even to me that estimate seemed optimistic, but Dan was the expert, and I took him at his world. We talked a little more, but according to him my only job was to watch prospective jurors and relay my impressions. I was aching to ask him about Atkinson’s request to have me on the case, but the timing was wrong. And they were already a little pissed at me. Dan paid the check, and we crossed the street to the courthouse.

Joe took a seat behind us in the gallery, leaving me and Dan to sit at the defense table — an empty chair between us. After we settled in, a bailiff brought Atkinson through a side door into the courtroom then escorted him to the defense table.

I turned to Joe and glared at him. He shook his head and waved a hand toward the table. Dan murmured an introduction, but I ignored Atkinson’s outstretched hand, nodded, then looked straight ahead. It was bad enough that they’d tricked me, but now they’d made me a liar to Ted. Technically, I hadn’t met with Atkinson, but technicalities mean little in real life. Only in the courtroom, apparently. I clutched the table, ready to jump to my feet, but the bailiff filed in the prospective jurors, so I crossed my arms over my chest and fumed silently.

The morning dragged on without one juror selected. In California, each side has twenty peremptory challenges — meaning either attorney can reject the juror without a reason. The attorneys may also reject a juror for cause — and each side took full advantage of those rules.

At lunch, when Dan stepped away from the table, I pounced on Joe. "How could you do that to me?"

He held up his hands. "Man’s got a right to be present during the jury selection of his own trial."

"And what about me? I didn’t have a right to know I’d be sitting next to him?"

Joe looked away. "T’ain’t nothing. You’re in a room full of people — not alone in a room facing off with him."

I clanged the spoon in my tea cup. "I promised Ted. Now I’m a liar, thanks to you."

Joe twisted his lips. "Only if you tell him."

I gaped at the man fond of urging me not to keep secrets from my husband. "You expect me to keep this from Ted?"

"That’s up to you. But like I said, you ain’t talking to Atkinson. You ain’t alone with him. Why get Ted worked up over nothing?"

If I hadn’t need Joe’s help on Rose’s case, I would’ve quit on the spot. But I did need his help. "So, when it’s convenient to you, keeping secrets from Ted is fine and dandy?" Joe drew his lips into a tight line. I sighed and let it go — jury selection would only last a couple more days, and I could handle it. "Fine, but you owe me, Joe Enders."

The afternoon session was no more fruitful than the morning session. Neither was Tuesday. Neither was Wednesday. The problem was all the media coverage Atkinson’s case had gotten and continued to get — even as they worked to seat a jury. The attorneys on both sides had trouble finding jurors who either didn’t feel influenced by the coverage or who didn’t have some kind of traumatic experience related to the facts of the case.

By Thursday, Dan filed a motion for a change of venue, contending that the jury pool in Burbank had been poisoned by press coverage and Atkinson was not able to get a fair trial there. The judge denied the motion but also faced facts. Seating a jury in a highly publicized case a few of weeks from the biggest holiday of the year would be an exercise in futility.

In a shocking decision, the judge ruled that the case would be carried over to January 5th, at which time he expected the attorneys to work earnestly to seat a jury. The current jury pool was dismissed, and the court adjourned.

And that decision got me officially off the case. At least as far as I was concerned. Neither Dan nor Joe would convince me to return to that courtroom in January. And like Joe had failed to tell me about Atkinson’s presence, I didn’t mention that I wouldn’t return for round two in the jury selection circus.

I turned to Joe, "I’ll call you tomorrow about Rose." Then I stormed out, not sure I even wanted his help on Rose’s case anymore.

<<>>

On the way home, I stopped at the mall to pick up a few Christmas things as I’d been doing all week. That way, when Ted came home and found shopping bags in the recycle bin, he drew his own conclusions. I’d also been baking batches of Christmas cookies in the evenings — picking up where Matt and I had left off. Given how much my circle of friends and family had grown in the last year, I still had plenty of cookie tins to fill. So each night, after court and mall shopping, I’d gone home and baked.

But on that final day in court, I made an unscheduled stop on my way home. I was so furious with Joe that I decided to leave him to the allures of the Atkinson case, while I pursued Rose’s case on my own. Clearly, I was the only one who cared what happened to my mother, so it was up to me to find the truth. And as much as that scared the shit out of me, it scared me more not to pursue it.

I punched Jennifer Scarpello’s address into the GPS system in my fancy new car and quickly found the little blue house on Brighton Street. Though it was late afternoon, the sun was making a quick getaway and gave me shadows from which to watch. I parked the car catty-corner to Jennifer’s house and switched off the engine.

Lights were on inside the house, and I saw shadows move behind the curtained windows. Was that her? Rose’s sister? My aunt? Or did I have an uncle and cousins too? Curiosity burned in me, and more than once I put my hand on the door handle, working up the nerve to step out. But I was afraid of the reaction I might get. Did Jennifer think of me as ancient history — a child long ago lost and forgotten? Did she think of me at all? Had she carried on in Rose’s search or buried it with her sister’s body in that cemetery a ten-minute drive away?

Jennifer’s porch light flicked on and the front door opened. I slouched in my seat, terrified she'd march across the street and force a confrontation I wasn’t ready to face. I couldn’t leave without drawing attention, so I waited.

A man and a woman stepped out on the small porch, embraced briefly then separated. The woman was a petite brunette and wore her hair in a loose bun — I couldn’t see her face but her posture made her the right age to be my aunt. She pulled a navy cardigan around her as she talked. The man was younger, dark-haired and tall, and I assumed he was Jennifer’s son.

After a few minutes of animated talk, Jennifer and the young man hugged again, then he walked to the dark blue Honda sedan parked in front of the house. He pulled a u-turn then stuck his hand out the window in a final wave goodbye. Jennifer remained on the porch and watched him drive away, then went back inside. I watched the house for a couple more minutes then opened my car door. It was time for a family reunion.

All the way up the driveway my legs trembled, and I thought my knees would buckle, but I made it to the front door. Daylight was all but gone and deep shadows fell across the lawn and porch, making me look over my shoulder for boogiemen or assailants.

Taking in a deep breath, I rang the bell. Footsteps approached from inside and paused as a face peered through the side window. I rang the bell again, resigned to wait as long as it took for my aunt to open her door. I raised my hand to ring the bell yet again, but the door opened slowly. My aunt stood behind the screen door, peering out at me. No resemblance to me or Rose, but her hair was curly like mine and she had the little divet at the end of her nose like I did. She put her hand to her heart and whispered. "Rose."

"Hello Aunt Jennifer."

Jennifer stepped back. "I’m sorry you must be mistaken. I don’t know you."

I put my hand on the door handle. "That’s understandable since you haven’t seen me since I was a baby."

Jennifer shook her head and stammered. "You have me confused with someone else." But she couldn’t stop staring at me. "Please."

"It’s no mistake. I look just like her — just like Rose."

Jennifer sighed and leaned her head on the door. "What do you want?"

I opened the screen door. "May I come in?"

Jennifer stared at me for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside so I could enter. She closed the door but didn’t invite me any further into the house, and we stood in the entry way. Looking at my mother’s sister didn’t fill me with love or relief, just prickly stabs of anxiety. "Don’t you have anything to say to me?"

Jennifer shrugged her narrow shoulders. "You do look like her." She tilted her head. "But you have your father’s eyes — the same brilliant blue."

I frowned. "That’s it? That’s all you have to say?"

Jennifer pulled her sweater tighter around herself and sighed. "My sister died a long time ago, but I don’t like to think of her." Her dark eyes shone with tears. "It’s too painful." She studied me for a moment. "Just looking at you breaks my heart."

Stunned to tears, I said, "Imagine how I feel." The little girl in me wanted a hug and a tearful reunion. I reached out a hand to her. "Please, won’t you tell me about my mother?"

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she backed away. "I can’t. I can’t."

Anger simmered up inside me. "Okay, talking about Rose hurts too much? Fine. But don’t you care about where I’ve been for the last twenty-nine years?" Jennifer stared at her slippered feet. "You’re not even curious to know what happened to me?"

Jennifer bowed her head and spoke softly, "I don’t know what to say."

I threw up my hands. "Fine, then let me do the talking." I smirked. "And since I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable time, I’ll give you the cliff notes. After I was found in St Daniel’s, I was taken into custody by Child Services. And then for the next eighteen years I was shuffled from foster home to foster home, to group home to foster home. The day I turned eighteen, I celebrated my ass off because I was finally free."