Steve Martini - The Jury

“What?”

“There’s no form,” says Harry. “You’d think these people would come up with some kind of a form you could look for if there was a dispute. But they don’t seem to want to do that,” he says.

“For obvious reasons,” I say.

“Right. So what do they do? They just send a letter to the vice chancellor. That’s if we’re lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes it’s just an e-mail message asking for a review of the grant and a ruling on an item.”

“Let me guess. There are no copies of the e-mail messages in your pile of papers?”

Harry nods. “Academic confidentiality,” says Harry. “You can’t look at anybody’s e-mail without a specific subpoena.”

Before I can say a word, he goes on: “I’ve already prepared one for Jordan, Crone and Epperson. Problem is, Jordan’s computer was re-programmed after she was killed. The cops got into it, took what they wanted, all under the careful eyes of university lawyers. Then they turned it back in to the university. God knows where it is now. I looked at their evidence sheet. There was nothing in the e-mails that came remotely close to a complaint on funding.

“Crone’s machine is still collecting dust in his office,” says Harry. “But it’s not likely he would have complained about anything. And Epperson. I assume he has his. So we’ll take a look.”

“There must be a server somewhere.”

“Paul, listen. I’m tired. Worn out.”

“It is the university’s e-mail system, right?”

Harry nods.

“There ought to be something in a server somewhere if Jordan complained about funding. See if we can subpoena the server?”

“Fine,” says Harry. A long sigh. He makes a note. I can always tell when Harry’s hit the wall. I’m treading on thin ice.

“Too bad there was no federal money involved,” he says. “In the grant.”

“Why’s that?”

Before he can answer, the phone rings. I look at it. It’s the back line. This number is not listed. Both of us thinking the same thing-Epperson calling.

I pick it up. “Hello. Law office.”

“Is Harry Hinds there?”

I don’t recognize the voice on the other end, but it’s not Epperson.

“Who’s calling?”

“Max Sheen.”

“Just a second.” I start to hand the phone to Harry.

“What did you mean, ‘too bad there was no federal money’?”

“Who is it?” he says.

I hold the phone back.

“If there were federal funds, it’s more likely there would have been an audit at some point.”

“Ah.”

“Who is it?” he asks.

“The press calling. Your friend Sheen.” I hand him the phone.

Harry takes it. “Hello.”

I continue looking through the stack of papers on my desk, part of the original grant proposal. There are entire lines of typed print blocked out by black marker. Classified material. No doubt information subject to protection as trade secrets. Arriving at conclusions is going to be like putting a jigsaw puzzle together without all the pieces.

“Why? What’s happening?” asks Harry. There’s a tone of urgency to his voice that causes me to look up.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head at me. Doesn’t answer.

“When?”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s happening?” I ask.

Harry cups his hand over the mouthpiece to the receiver.

“Epperson is dead.”

IN THIS ANCIENT INDIAN VILLAGE OF COSOY

DISCOVERED AND NAMED SAN MIGUEL BY CABRILLO IN 1542

VISITED AND CHRISTENED SAN DIEGO DE ALCALA

BY VIZCAINO IN 1602

HERE THE FIRST CITIZEN

FRAY JUNIPERO SERRA

PLANTED CIVILIZATION IN CALIFORNIA

HERE HE FIRST RAISED THE CROSS-HERE BEGAN

THE FIRST MISSION

HERE FOUNDED THE FIRST TOWN, SAN DIEGO, JULY 16, 1769

The original native inhabitants of the place might quibble over how well those seeds of civilization took, especially if they could see the macabre scene here tonight.

William Epperson’s body twists in the dark, damp air of early morning, suspended from a rope around his neck that is looped over the horizontal beam of the massive brick cross that forms the monument.

The bronze plaque with its words to the friar rests embedded in the white plaster covering the base beneath the giant cross that stands thirty feet high, faced with red brick.

By the time Harry and I arrive, the medical examiner’s office is setting up a ladder, an extension affair lent to them by the fire department that is on the scene with two of its trucks and several big portable lights.

Even from a distance, I can see Epperson’s body. Harry and I park at the top of the hill on the street near the colonnade. We slipped in this way to avoid the emergency lights all along the road down below. We drove up past Old Town and came in through the park at the top of the hill. It takes us five minutes to hike down, avoiding the roots of eucalyptus trees and the depressions in the ground obscured by the angle of the bright lights aimed up from the cross and shining in our eyes from below.

Both Harry and I come out of the woods with one arm up to shade our eyes from the light.

As we get closer, I can see the rope and crude noose, rough hemp, and hear it strain under the weight and over the hush of voices, as Epperson twists slowy in the still, damp air and the evidence techs work beneath him around the base.

He is clothed in a white dress shirt and suit pants, one shoe on, the other lying on the ground, as if shot by gravity from his foot when the body stopped at the end of the rope. The line suspending him is tied off around the bottom of the brick cross, just above the rectangular base with its plaque.

A painter’s ladder, which looks to be ten or twelve feet in length, is tipped over, lying on its side near the path that fronts the monument.

It is a picture worth a thousand words, all of them screaming one thing-suicide, all of it bathed in bright floodlights with the SID, the Scientific Investigation Division, crime-scene folks, working it and looking for a different message.

One of them is examining the soil near the foot of the base, casting light at different angles over the ground, looking for impressions, footprints, though I doubt they will find much. The compacted river-bottom sand is as hard as concrete.

Several cops are working farther up the hill. They have laid out police lines of yellow tape from tree to tree. One of the uniforms stops us as we approach the tape.

It takes a couple of minutes to explain why we are here, the dead man being a witness in a case we are trying. He takes my business card. This seems to work its way from hand to hand up the hierarchy, until it gets to somebody in a suit farther down the hill. If the man is impressed, he doesn’t show it. Gives us a look, then back to the card. Words exchanged with one of the uniformed officers that I cannot hear.

We cool our heels.

Harry nudges me in the ribs with an elbow. When I look over, he nods, off in the direction of the parking lot down below toward the museum that sits on the opposite hill.

The lot is crowded with police cruisers, emergency vehicles with strobes flashing, blue, red and amber, enough color to spike blood pressure even if it isn’t in a rearview mirror.

Getting out of one of the cars is Evan Tannery. He stops to talk to the brass clustered in the parking lot, spending most of his time and attention on an older guy, gray hair, in a uniform. He seems to be in charge. Tannery is pumping him for information. They huddle for several seconds, the cop motioning with his arm up toward the hill behind us.

Until that moment I hadn’t seen it. Parked in the shadows under a eucalyptus on a narrow service road leading up the hill toward the cross is the dark blue van I’d seen Epperson driving earlier that day. The cops have staked it off with yellow tape and one of the fingerprint guys is giving it a going-over with dust on the driver’s-side door handle and window, spreading the graphite liberally with a brush and blowing every few seconds searching for latents.