Deadlocked (25 page)

Telling himself the new financial facts of his life was another out-of-body experience for him. Each day another piece of his life broke off and washed away. He couldn't stop the erosion, knowing that he could bottom out on death row praying for a phone call from the governor. Patrick Ortiz and Dixon Smith would fight over his legal carcass, leaving him picked clean when it was time for the next case. It was nothing personal, they would say. It was just business.

"But I'm innocent," Mason muttered, turning off his computer, wishing it mattered.

He called Dixon Smith, getting his voice mail, leaving a message asking for an update on his case. Hanging up, he cringed with the recognition that he was quickly becoming the worst kind of client—the pain in the ass that calls every day expecting a miracle.

His practice shut down, Mason resorted to throwing darts at the board hanging on the wall across the room. He tried different techniques—the high lob, the underhand, the side arm toss. After five minutes and no hits close to the inner ring, he gave up, leaving the darts scattered across the wall.

He opened the cabinet covering his dry erase board and wiped it clean, needing to take a fresh look at his case. Dixon Smith didn't want his help. Good for Smith. Mason wouldn't help Smith. He'd help himself. Start at the beginning, build the case, find the thread that would tie it together. Put it in a nice package and deliver it to Smith. If Smith didn't like it, Mason could find another lawyer. Although by that time, he'd probably qualify as one of Nancy Troy's public defender clients.

He listed the key players on the board—Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes, their son Nick; Ryan Kowalczyk and his mother, Mary. Whitney King and his mother, Victoria. And Father Steve. He added the names of the jurors from the King and Kowalczyk trial, drawing circles around the names of Janet Hook and Andrea Bracco, the two still unaccounted for.

With a red marker, he added Sandra Connelly's name to the board, feeling again the jolt from the stun gun, recoiling from the gunshots that struck Sandra, sensing the killer's hand on his, squeezing the trigger. His memory let loose the scrap of the killer's familiarity that had eluded him that night, teasing him ever since. The killer smelled but not like someone who'd missed a bath. Like someone who'd smoked enough to be stained with tobacco. It was the same smell that permeated Father Steve, as if his confessional was in the church's smoking section.

Mason stepped back from the board. The priest had been with King when King shot Nick. The priest was the last person to have seen Mary, giving Mason a line that Mary had gone to see her estranged husband. Father Steve had told Mason that his job included soliciting contributions to the church from King. Maybe, Mason thought, he was more bag man than fund-raiser, hiding behind his clerical collar. Still, Mason couldn't imagine a reason for Father Steve to kill Sandra. Then again, he couldn't shake the memory of that moment and his certainty that the killer was dipped in smoke. The priest was still the center of the wheel, everyone else a spoke.

The phone rang, Mason answering it, half-listening as he stared at the board.

"Lou, it's Dixon," his lawyer said.

"Yeah," Mason answered. "What's up?"

"You called me, man," Smith answered.

"Right. I did. I just wanted to know if you had anything new. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be one of those clients that make you wish you'd doubled the retainer. I know you'll call me when you have something to tell me."

"Hey, don't apologize," Smith said. "If it was my life, I'd be calling you every fifteen minutes. I was going to call you anyway. It's been a busy day."

Mason sat at his desk, turning his back to the board. "I'm listening."

"Ortiz has subpoenaed Blues, Whitney King, and Father Steve to testify before the grand jury. And you. I told him I'd accept service of your subpoena. He wants you Friday afternoon at three o'clock."

"Who else is going to testify?"

"The cops and the coroner," Smith answered.

"When do you want to get together to talk about my testimony?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Lou. You say anything in there except your name and the Fifth Amendment, you might as well check in to the penitentiary now and save the taxpayers their money. I'll meet you there."

"You're right. I've been practicing my lines. Is that it?"

"No. I talked to Whitney King. He said he didn't know anything about a meeting with you and Sandra."

"That's no surprise. What about the phone records?"

"If the phone companies didn't have lawyers, I'd have gotten the records today. Should still have them by Friday."

"It is what it is," Mason said.

"There's something else," Smith said. "It's the kind of thing Ortiz will leak to the press so get ready."

Mason's gut chilled. "What?"

"The coroner says the first bullet didn't kill Sandra. When she put her hands up, it deflected the bullet. The first shot did a lot of facial damage but exited through her cheek."

"The second shot?" Mason asked.

Smith said, "Fatal. Blew a hole in her heart." He paused, letting the news sink in. "Don't worry, Lou. It's all expert witness jive. There's a pathologist in New York who testifies in all the high-profile cases on the East Coast. I'll call him tomorrow. He requires twenty-five grand up front before he'll even look at a case, but I think we're going to need him."

"Sure. Whatever you say," Mason said, dropping the receiver in his lap, not hearing Smith say good-bye. He swiveled his chair back toward the board. All he could see was Sandra's name written in red.

Chapter 36

The minimum qualifications for the grand jurors who would decide whether to charge Mason with murder were that they had either registered to vote or had licensed a car. Those were the lists from which the grand jury was chosen to serve for a six-month term.

Mason knew that selecting a jury was one of the most critical parts of a trial. It was his chance to question potential jurors about anything that could reveal their bias against his client. Billed as a way to select a fair jury, it was, in reality, a way to de-select jurors who were likely to favor the other side.

When he selected a jury, Mason tried to learn as much as he could about each potential juror: where they lived, where they went to school, what they did for a living, what they thought about legal issues such as the death penalty and the burden of proof. He observed their body language, thought about the clothes they wore, and wondered if they watched PBS or
American Idol
and whether they read
USA Today
or
The Wall Street Journal.

The grand jury was different, chosen at random from the county's master list of jurors. Neither Mason nor his lawyer had any right to question them or to object to their selection. His fate was in the hands of twelve strangers whose names had been plucked from the public rolls.

On Friday, Mason chose a navy blue suit for his grand jury testimony, rejecting the black as too funereal and the gray as too bland. He picked a white shirt and a pale blue tie, hoping the ensemble shouted his innocence in muted tones. He was in the bathroom down the hall from the courtroom used by the grand jury studying his appearance in a mirror, only minutes left before he would testify. He caught a tic in the corner of his left eye, an involuntary betrayal of his less than steely nerves. Worried that the grand jurors would read the minispasm as a guilty plea, he massaged the spot, hoping it would pass.

That his life might depend on such trivial matters sent the tic momentarily into overdrive. He loved the courtroom arena, always getting juiced by the battle, never shrinking from the challenge. He embraced nervousness, knowing that it was born of anticipation, not fear. Beneath it all, he had an inner calm nurtured by his trust of the system. He believed in its fundamental fairness and he never doubted the wisdom of leaving life and death to a jury of one's peers.

Until today. Hearing his name called as the defendant and not the counsel of record changed everything. Now every weakness in the system jumped out at him like bogeymen at a haunted house. Prosecutors dealt from a stacked deck. Jurors had hidden agendas, waiting for a chance to star in the ultimate reality show. Defendants were presumed innocent but must have done something wrong to have been charged in the first place.

Grand jury proceedings were more frightening because they were secret. The jurors were prohibited from disclosing the witnesses' testimony or their vote on whether to indict.

Witnesses, however, were free to discuss their testimony after their appearance.

Whitney King had been the first witness that morning, holding a brief televised press conference afterward on the courthouse steps. Mason had watched from his office. The storm had left behind a city with temperatures in the low eighties, Mother Nature's apology for the brutal heat wave. Morning was even cooler, giving King a crisp appearance, the sun smiling over his shoulder.

"What did you tell the grand jury?" a reporter asked King.

"The truth," King answered. "When I was charged with a crime, I put my faith in the truth and I wasn't disappointed."

"At the arraignment, Lou Mason's lawyer said you were supposed to meet Mason and Sandra Connelly at your office. Is that true?" another reporter asked.

King shook his head. "No. I told the grand jury that I don't know anything about that."

"Why would Mason say that if it was so easy to prove he was lying?" a third reporter asked. The camera panned to the reporter. It was Sherri Thomas from Channel 6, no friend of Mason's. She had chased Mason throughout the Gina Davenport case, Mason refusing to feed her habit of distorted reporting aimed only at boosting her ratings. The camera swept back to King for his answer.

"Desperate people do desperate things," King said.

"Like Nick Byrnes trying to kill you?" Thomas asked.

King pursed his lips. "Nick Byrnes and I have more in common than you think," he said. "We've both been hurt by the murders of his parents. I understand that and that's why I'm not pressing charges against him. The doctors say he's going to be okay. I'm glad for that. It's time for both of us to move on."

"What about the disappearance of Mary Kowalczyk and the suspicious deaths of all those jurors who found you innocent? Why do so many people connected to you end up shot, missing, or dead?" yet another reporter asked.

The camera remained locked on King, but Mason recognized the reporter's voice. It was Rachel Firestone. Mason knew she wasn't covering the story. She was covering him. King's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing for an instant as he fought with his composure.

"Life is a fragile thing, Ms. Firestone. You'd do well to remember that," he answered.

Moments from his grand jury appearance, Mason repeated King's answer, rolling it around in his mind, testing it for elements of confession and threat. He owed Rachel a bottle of her favorite wine for taking the shot at King, especially since he knew her editors at the
Kansas City Star
would probably kick her to the classifieds for butting into a story that was off limits to her because of her friendship with Mason. He was grateful for what she had done, but didn't want her on Whitney King's short list of problems to be solved.

He took a last look in the bathroom mirror. The tic had submerged for the moment. He splashed cold water on his face, wiped it clean and winked at himself for luck.

The grand jury met in a courtroom on the sixth floor of the courthouse guarded by sheriff's deputies who kept out the curious. Dixon Smith was waiting for Mason outside the courtroom, greeting him with a firm handshake and a clap on the back. Smith guided him to a quiet alcove.

"I got the phone records this morning. There's no record of a call from Whitney to Sandra."

Mason leaned hard against the wall. "Maybe Whitney stole a cell phone so the call couldn't be traced to him."

"Negative," Smith said. "All of Sandra's incoming calls are accounted for except one that fits with your time frame.

There's no information identifying the source of that call,

only that it was received."

"How can that be?"

"I don't know yet. But, if Whitney used his phone, there would be a record of it. If he stole a cell phone, there would be a record on that account and on Sandra's bill. We can show Sandra received a call, but we can't prove who made it."

"Swell. Who am I following?" Mason asked.

"The priest," Smith answered. "Father Steve. I think Ortiz is going to use the shooting of Nick Byrnes as part of your motive. He'll tell the grand jury that you decided to take the law into your own hands or some bullshit like that."

"Were you here when Father Steve came out? Did you get close to him?"

"Not close enough to make confession. Why?"

"Did he smell like he'd been smoking?"

Smith thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess he did, now that you mention it. So what? Even a priest has to have a few vices."

"Remember I told you that there was something familiar about the killer but I couldn't put my finger on it? Well, I remembered. It's that smell."

Smith rolled his eyes. "Lou, you don't have enough problems, you want to accuse a priest of killing Sandra Connelly because he smokes?"

"It's all I've got," Mason said.

"Then we damn well better get something else. Now, remember the magic words—Fifth Amendment—and you'll be out of there in five minutes," Smith said.

"If I'm not, send in a search party," Mason said.

Smith gave him another pat and opened one of the heavy, double doors for Mason who stepped inside the courtroom, the door silently closing behind him, a small rush of air swooshing out of the room. Mason stood still for a moment, surveying the scene.

The courtroom was big, suitably grand for the stature of the jury. The judge's raised bench was vacant, flanked by the state flag on one side and the Stars and Stripes on the other. The Great Seal of the State of Missouri hung above the bench, two bears surrounding the inscription "United We Stand, Divided We Fall." It was a curious choice for a state that had been more slave than free when that phrase meant something.