Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Mason asked, "What broke the deadlock?"

"I never found out. The jury sent a note to the judge saying they didn't want to talk with the lawyers after the case was over. Only time that's ever happened to me. I tried talking to them anyway, just in case there was any jury misconduct that would get Ryan a new trial. I called some of them. Went to see some others. Nobody would say a word. It's like they made a secret pact."

Eighteenth and Vine is an oasis on the east side of Kansas City, a part of town known more for being neglected than celebrated. The block had been restored to its 1930s heyday when it was a chamber in Kansas City's jazz heart. The refurbished Gem Theatre hosted new and old talent touring the country, reminiscent of the days when Basie, Ellington and their brethren blew sweet sounds and blue notes from its stage. Negro League Baseball, and Kansas City's jazz heritage split space in a museum across the street from the Gem. The strip is a stark contrast to the depleted blocks surrounding it, giving the whole place the feel of a Hollywood back lot.

"A secret pact?" Rachel Firestone asked Mason, sitting across from him at Camille's, their corner table giving Rachel a view of the rest of the room while Mason's view was limited to Rachel.

Mason preferred his view. Rachel was a redhead wonder, a beautiful woman whose flashing green eyes matched her effervescence. He felt better when he was with her. There was a time when he thought that meant he was in love. With Rachel, he'd learned that it meant she was a friend he could count on.

Camille's was a down home soul food restaurant, drawing on another tradition of Kansas City's African American community. Fried chicken and chops, ribs, ham hocks and beans, collard greens and corn, potatoes fried and mashed. Cakes, pies, and ice cream, all homemade. No little red hearts on the menu for the healthy selections. Plenty of cold beer, iced tea, and lemonade. It was the perfect cure for heat that rose like the tide from the streets to the rooftops, swamping the city.

"That's what Nancy Troy called it," Mason answered. "A secret pact."

Rachel asked, "How long did the jury deliberate?"

Mason said, "Three days. Both Harry and Nancy said the jury was deadlocked for the first two days. Then, something happened to break the logjam."

"If the jury took a vow of silence, how do Harry and Nancy know they were deadlocked?" Rachel asked.

Her question stumped Mason for a moment; the obvious contradiction had escaped him. He shrugged his shoulders. "It's an assumption, I guess. A jury doesn't deliberate for two days without being deadlocked."

"Yeah, I understand that," Rachel said. "But how did they know the jury was deadlocked? And why did they both tell you it was two days and not three? How do they know the jury wasn't just taking their time going over the evidence until they finally reached a verdict?"

Mason looked at her with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who'd just seen a magician pull a rabbit out of his ear but couldn't believe it even though he'd seen it with his own eyes.

"Maybe," he conceded. "Here's one thing I know for certain. One of the jurors, Sonni Efron, was murdered the same day Ryan was executed. I hate coincidences," Mason said. "But that's the kind I really hate."

Rachel's eyes switched from flashing to focused, her reporter's instinct boring in. "You think there's a connection?"

Mason shrugged. "Don't know. I'm going to track down the rest of the jurors and find out if the secret pact is still a secret. What did you dig up on Whitney King? I don't even know what the guy looks like."

"He's good looking," Rachel said. "If you like the rugged, muscled look. Which, I admit, is my kind of woman," she added, handing Mason a clipping. "He likes triathlons, extreme sports, that kind of thing. And he likes to win."

The clipping included a picture taken at a fund-raising triathlon, King holding his trophy in one hand and an oversize copy of his donation check in the other, the caption explaining that he'd come in first both as a competitor and a contributor.

"Which came first? The check or the trophy?" Mason asked.

"According to my friend who covers the society beat, he pays to win. The charities need the money. On this one, Whitney got help from a friendly stopwatch."

"Women?"

"He collects them. None of them last long. Word has it that he likes it rough. He's had a few complaints, but they always get settled quietly."

"What's he do for a living?" Mason asked.

"Runs the family business," Rachel said. "King Construction Company. Whitney's grandfather started it. Over the years, they've built everything from subdivisions to high-rise office buildings."

"When did his father die?" Mason asked.

Rachel slid another clipping across the table. "Week after the trial. Tragedy strikes again. Newspapers love stuff like that."

Mason read Christopher King's obituary, a litany of private club memberships. "How did he die?"

"Fell down the stairs," Rachel said. Mason's eyebrows bounced in astonishment. "No kidding," she said. "Number one cause of accidental deaths in the home. Falling down. I ever buy a house, it's gonna be a ranch. No two-story death traps for me."

"What about Whitney's mother?"

"The son's trial and the husband's death were too much for her. She fell apart. Whitney got her the penthouse at the loony bin. Golden Years Psychiatric Hospital in Lenexa. She's been there ever since."

Lenexa was a suburb of Kansas City across the state line in Johnson County, Kansas.

"Nice family," Mason said. "I can't wait to meet him."

"From your lips to God's ears," Rachel said, looking past Mason. "He's on his way to our table."

Mason took Rachel's word for it, resisting the temptation to turn around, catching Whitney's reflection off a parabolic mirror mounted in the corner of the ceiling, the distorted image squashing Whitney, doing the same to Sandra Connelly who followed a step behind.

King was dressed in black, just like Father Steve, except for the collar and the build. Father Steve was soft rolls and paunch. King was bounce-a-quarter-off-his-pecs buff, his silk shirt stretched across his chest, short sleeves straining against his biceps. Sandra, her toned and sculpted arms rippling from linen sleeves, was the perfect accessory.

"I understand you're looking for me," King said, standing at Mason's shoulder, forcing Mason to turn or stand. Mason did neither, leaving the newspaper clippings spread before him.

"Nope," Mason answered, watching King's funhouse image in the elevated mirror. "If I want you, I know how to find you. That's what your lawyer is for."

King glanced at the mirror. Mason ignored him, locked onto Rachel's green eyes, as Rachel bit her cheek. King flexed his fingers, wanting to make Mason turn and face him, the entire encounter all about who blinked first.

"Let's go, Whitney," Sandra said, her hand on his arm. King shook it off, laughing lightly.

"Mason," he said. "You sue me for those murders and I'll wipe your ass all over the courtroom."

"If I don't sue you, will you wipe my ass anyway? I could use the help," Mason said, keeping his back to King.

"Sandra told me all about you, Mason," King said, conceding the first skirmish, stepping between Mason and Rachel. Mason pushed back from the table, hands in his lap.

"Like I said," Mason told him. "That's what your lawyer is for."

"She said you were a smart-ass. Won't back down. Too stubborn to live. That sound about right?"

"Close. She got the stubborn part wrong. That's too stubborn to die."

King smiled, his perfect white teeth giving the grin its ice, his eyes narrowing. "On second thought, Mason, you go ahead and sue me. I'm going to enjoy cleaning your clock."