Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Rachel answered, "Nope. But, you'll like the trend. He was shot in the face."

"Why am I not surprised? I'd rather hold out for the heart attack," Mason said.

"Check this out," Rachel said. "Martella Garvey and Judith Dwyer are both dead. Garvey disappeared one day. Her body was found six months later, beaten to death. Same story for Dwyer. But, you'll be glad to know that Lisa Braun died of cancer two years ago."

"Son of a bitch," Mason said. "Aren't the cops paying attention? Doesn't anybody notice that this jury has a worse survival rate than a new sitcom?"

"No reason to. Martella Garvey was killed in Kansas City. Judith Dwyer moved to Chicago and was killed there. Besides, nine deaths spread out over the last fifteen years in different cities won't attract any attention. And the odds are against the cops finding out the victims served on the same jury since people generally don't include jury service in obituaries."

"Still," Mason said, "nine out of twelve jurors are dead. Only two from natural causes. That leaves Janet Hook, Frances Peterson, and Andrea Bracco."

"It's hard to believe," Rachel said. "But, who would want to kill those jurors? Ryan Kowalczyk was in jail. Whitney King was found innocent. I don't get it."

"Remember, Nancy Troy said the jury made a pact not to talk about the case."

"You told me. It still doesn't make sense. Why would they have needed a pact?" Rachel asked.

"If the jury was fixed, they'd have to keep it quiet."

"You mean the entire jury was bribed to find Whitney innocent? That's nuts! How are you going to bribe all twelve people and keep it quiet?"

"I don't know how you bribe all twelve of them, but I do know how you keep it quiet. Kill them. I've got to find the last three jurors."

On Monday evening, Mason had picked ribs up on his way home from the office. Tuffy gave him another nudge, earning the last rib, trotting off to enjoy it alone. The Channel 6 reporter recapped the victim list from the weekend's violence, adding them to the day's top story about a residential real estate agent lured to an unoccupied house and shot to death. The woman's name was Frances Peterson. Police have no suspects, the reporter said.

Mason nearly choked on his rib. He grabbed the list of jurors from the file he'd brought home, running his finger down the page. Frances Peterson. White. Age thirty-six. Lived in Brookside. Divorced. Two kids. Residential real estate agent. Fifteen-year-old information that he bet was still accurate.

Mason reached for the phone, catching Samantha Greer at home.

"Who's working the Frances Peterson case?" he asked her.

"Don't you ever say hello anymore? Or even I'm sorry to bother you at home again? And, by the way, I got the report on your parents' accident and faxed it to your office. You must have already left or I'm sure you would have thanked me."

"Thank you and hello. I'm sorry to bother you at home again. Nine out of twelve jurors in the King case are dead.

Only two from natural causes. Frances Peterson is the tenth. Was she shot in the face like Sonni Efron?" Mason asked. Samantha didn't answer, Mason hearing her catch her

breath. "Jesus Christ, Lou," she said. "I'll get back to you." The phone rang as Mason set it down. "Lou, it's Sandra. We need to talk." "You've got that right," he told her, smiling grimly. "I'll

be at my office." Mason pulled out of his driveway. The sun was setting but the heat was rising.

By the time Mason got to his office, the sun was melting the horizon, long shadows advancing in its wake, an orange volcanic rim around the sky. The pale blue neon spelling out Blues on Broadway above the door to the bar was faint competition for the celestial light. Cars were lined up in front, the bar's cool, dark comfort calling people in off the street.

Blues was playing his baby grand when he came in the back way. The clear notes rode over the bar chatter, air-conditioning for the soul, before slipping out the door. Mason paused for an instant, trying to place the tune. Blues jammed with the bass player, trading riffs. Blues had bought the bar when he got tired of playing someone else's gigs; he now played as much for himself as for the people who paid for the pleasure.

Taking the stairs two at a time, keeping the pace down the hall, fumbling with his key, Mason pushed the door to his office out of the way, not bothering to turn on the light. The pages of the accident report quivered in the fax machine, rippled by the breeze from the open door, Mason's hands trembled as he picked them up.

It was a Missouri Uniform Traffic Accident Report. Said so in large print across the top of the first page. The report was divided into sections, beginning with the names, addresses, phone numbers, sex, race, and age of the driver and passenger. John Mason. White, male, age thirty-three. Linda Mason. White female, age thirty. Next there were a series of boxes to be checked off for every detail. Road conditions- wet. Weather-rain. Time-11:00 P.M. And on it went, Mason scanning and double-checking the multiple choice rendition of life and death, disappointed when he saw that the box for witnesses was empty.

The second page ended with a narrative description by the investigating officer and another box labeled Cause. Mason repeated the officer's conclusion, slumping onto the sofa, not believing the sound of his own voice.

"Intentional," Mason said. "What the hell is that?"

"A word that means on purpose, not an accident. A necessary element of every major felony," Sandra Connelly said from the doorway to Mason's office.

She was wearing slacks and a blouse that passed for business casual during a heat wave, the blouse open at the throat, veins in her neck taut against her skin. Mason looked up, forgetting that he'd told her to meet him at his office.

Dead jurors and missing clients had suddenly become nuisances, as had Sandra's appearance on his doorstep. The meaning of the accident report sliced through Mason. "Intentional," the investigating police officer had concluded, meaning that Mason's father had driven through a guard rail and into a ravine on purpose, the only possible purpose being to kill himself and Mason's mother.

For a moment, he didn't blame Claire for not telling him. Nothing she could have said would have softened the blow. She cast life's harsh realities as the brutal truth, shielding her clients from things that would only curse them, no matter how true they were. That's what she'd done for him.

In the next instant, he rejected her, resenting her for cutting him off from a truth he couldn't have imagined. The man that had given him life had taken his own life and his mother's. The fantasy images he'd conjured as a boy of his grand and glorious pop haunted him in a flash of humiliation.

The scar on Mason's chest tightened, like he was being stabbed again, only this time from the inside out. He slipped his hand between the buttons of his shirt, massaging the scar.

"Lou," Sandra said. "Are you all right? I've seen CEOs doing the perp walk that looked better than you do."

Mason folded the pages of the accident report, and put them in the top drawer of his desk. He was burning up, flushed with shock, anger, and shame. The obvious questions banged inside his head, making him dizzy. How could his father do such a thing? What had happened between his parents? What did it mean for him all these years later?

He took a bottle of water from the refrigerator behind his desk, and drank half of it, stalling for time. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Sandra, or anyone else.

"It's the heat," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting the sweat. "I know you wanted to get together, but something's come up. I'll give you a call in the morning. We'll have lunch."