Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

He did the same with a few of the jurors' names, shooting craps each time, cursing Mickey until he figured out how to cancel the Internet service. At least he was back on track with the one approach that made sense. Find a juror. One that was alive. One that would tell the truth.

Giving the computer another chance, Mason logged onto the city's Web site, clicking his way to the vital records page, certain he could do a quick search of death certificates for the jurors. They had lived in Kansas City at the time of the trial. If they had died in Kansas City since, the city would have a record of it. The city did, but he had to mail in his request with the date of death and the deceased's Social Security number, and wait four to six weeks for a response. The Web site was a cyberspace version of you can't get there from here.

He left a message for Rachel Firestone who called him back ten minutes later. "What's going on?" she asked.

"How far back do the paper's obituary records go?" Mason asked.

"Like everything else. To the beginning of time. You should read Moses's obit. It takes up five books."

"Jewish newspaper humor must be an acquired taste," Mason told her. "If I give you a list of names, can you check to see if they made the obituary page?"

"As long as I can write about it if it's a good story."

"I've got eight names. They all show up, you can write a book," he said, giving her the information.

"Okay. I surrender. Who are they?" Rachel asked.

"They were jurors on the King and Kowalczyk case. The other four jurors are dead. Two of them in accidents that don't pass the smell test. Two of them shot to death. In the face. Sonni Efron was one of them."

Rachel whistled. "What are the odds?"

"Don't try to figure the over-under. Just run down the names. Let's see who's vertical and who's horizontal."

Mason wanted to talk to Whitney King. He wanted to hear King's story about shooting Nick Byrnes. He wanted King to explain his relationship with Father Steve. He wanted to watch King's reaction when he asked King about Mary Kowalczyk's disappearance. He wanted to talk to King in private, off-the-record, counting on King's arrogance to tell him more than he would in front of witnesses, even if he were under oath. Especially under oath.

Mason threw another dart at the wall, knowing he couldn't talk to King. Knowing that he couldn't drop in on King at his office, arrange to run into him at the gym, or invite him over for dinner. Not because King wouldn't talk to him. Mason bet he would. Mason couldn't talk to King because the Model Rules of Professional Conduct for lawyers prohibited a lawyer from communicating directly with an adverse party that the lawyer knows is represented by counsel.

Any communications had to be in the presence of the adverse party's lawyer unless the lawyer agreed otherwise. Sandra Connelly was King's lawyer and would never agree to let Mason go one-on-one with Whitney King.

Mason plucked the darts from the wall, paced off ten steps, turned, and fired again, this time hitting the center of the dart board and laughing. Not at his lucky shot, but at the absurdity of worrying whether talking to a killer without his lawyer violated the Model Rules of Professional Conduct. Killers should have such problems, Mason thought. Rule number one of the Model Rules for Murderers. A murderer shall be prohibited from killing members of more than one generation of a family.

Each state had a disciplinary committee that reviewed complaints against lawyers for violating the Model Rules. Mason imagined a similar body for murderers, made up of the best and the brightest killers, admission by secret handshake, no doubt bloody. A liberal-minded committee certain to extend the prohibition to include kidnapping and crippling family members of prior victims because if killers started hoarding their victims, there wouldn't be enough for everyone else.

Mason unleashed his last dart, wondering where he could get a radar gun to clock his speed. He picked up his phone and punched in Sandra Connelly's number, not surprised to find her in her office on Saturday.

"I want to talk to your client," Mason said. "Without you."

"Lou?" Sandra asked.

"The one and only," he answered.

"Are you drunk or just out of your mind?"

"Do you have a preference?" he asked her.

"If you're drunk, you'll sober up. If you're out of your mind, there's not much I can do for you."

"I'm serious, Sandra. I want to talk to Whitney King alone."

"What possible reason would I have to agree to that?" she asked.

"I want to know what happened with Nick Brynes. I don't want a sanitized version that passes through your filter and gets me nowhere. I want the truth."

"In the first place, I'll ignore the implication that I would let a client lie to you or anyone else. In the second place, if I agreed, I'd be committing malpractice and you know it. In the third place, who the hell do you think you are that the rules don't apply to you?"

Mason took a deep breath. Sandra was right and he knew it. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you what. Just let me talk to him. You can sit next to him and tell him to shut up anytime you want."

"You know, Lou. There's a procedure for this. It's called filing a lawsuit. Then you can subpoena my client to give a deposition and ask him anything you want. Why should I give you two bites at the apple?"

"Because there isn't time. Mary Kowalczyk is missing. I need to know what King knows about that too."

"Why would you think he knows anything about it? You can't blame him for everything that happens to your clients. If you lost your client, call the police, not me."

"Listen, Sandra. I know it's your job to defend Whitney, but let me give you a game summary so far. He killed Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes. Four out of the twelve jurors who let him get away with it are dead, the last one shot to death this week. Whitney shot Nick Byrnes and my money says he did it because he could, not because he had to. Mary hired me to put a legal beating on your boy and then she disappears. And I'm leaving out the potshots at my living room window and late night heavy breathing phone calls, both courtesy of your client. Are you getting the picture here?"

"I'm getting a picture of someone who I used to think was a pretty good lawyer who needs to get a grip. When you get one, call me," she said, hanging up.

That went well, Mason said to himself, hands on his hips, surveying his office. He was stuck and didn't have the traction to get moving. Even if he did, he had no idea which direction to go. The phone rang and he grabbed it, hoping Sandra had reconsidered.

"Hello?" Mason asked.

"This here is Albert from the cemetery. I'm looking for a fella name of Lou Mason."

"Hi, Albert. I'm Mason."

"You the one what gimme twenty dollars to call you if someone visited your momma and daddy's grave?"

"That's me," Mason said. "I was there the other day. Asked you about someone leaving a rock on their headstone. You told me about Sonni Efron's funeral. I gave you a business card with the money."

"Okay, then," Albert said. "I guess it's you."

"It's me. What do you got for me, Albert?"

"Someone come by this morning. Left another of them rocks, a real smooth one, shiny too. But I left it alone. I'm

not messing with nobody's grave. I just dig 'em."

"Did you get a look at the person?"

"No, sir. I surely didn't. They was too far away. Looked like a woman though, course you can't really tell the way some people dress and all, and the sun was kinda of in my eyes."

Mason sighed. Albert's call was another wisp of information that evaporated without adding anything. "Thanks for calling, Albert. She shows up again, there's another fifty if you get a name."