Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Samantha boosted herself onto one of the unmade beds. "You live in an upside down world," she said. "Whitney King is acquitted of murder and you want me to believe that not only is he guilty but that he's spent the last fifteen years knocking off the jurors who set him free. Then, you're found next to the dead body of King's lawyer holding your gun which just happens to be the murder weapon, and you admit that you shot Sandra Connelly, and you want me to believe that you're innocent."

"Look who's talking. You get an anonymous death threat against my client and that's enough for you to indict Whitney King. Welcome to my world."

"It's not just the phone call," Samantha said.

"What else?"

She took a deep breath. "We've been running down what happened to the jurors. It's got some people in the department nervous. Nobody likes the odds that all those deaths are unrelated. It would make that jury the unluckiest group of people in history."

"Can you tie King to any of the killings?"

"Eight murders spread out over ten years, some of them committed in different cities. The bullets recovered from the shootings all came from different guns. That's a lot of loose ends to tie up, but we're working on it."

"What about the last two jurors? Have you found either of them?" Mason asked.

"We're looking," she answered.

"But not in the right places," Mason said.

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Janet Hook was twenty-four at the time of King's trial. She was a single black woman who had dropped out of high school. Serving on that jury was the longest job she'd ever had. We found her sister, Shawana James."

"And I'm guessing Shawana doesn't know where Janet is, right?"

"Right or she's not saying."

"You got an address for Shawana?" Mason asked.

Samantha flipped to another page in her notepad, hesitating a moment. "Why not," she said, copying the address for Mason.

"What about the other one, Andrea Bracco. I think she was a secretary," Mason said.

"Twenty-seven at the time of the trial," Samantha said. "She worked for an insurance broker. A week after the trial she stopped coming to work. They never saw her again and no one else has either. She was single. No family we can find. It's like she never existed."

"Have you talked to King yet?"

Samantha slid off the bed. "Nope. We can't find him."

"That's what makes you nervous, isn't it?" Mason asked.

She opened the door, propping her heel against it. "Yeah. Now how about letting me talk to your client?"

"Me first," Mason told Samantha when they reached Nick's room.

"C'mon, Lou," she said, shaking her head and stepping between Mason and the door. "No more games!"

Al Kolatch rolled out of his chair, lumbering toward them, Samantha raising her hand and shaking her head again, this time at her partner. Kolatch shrugged his shoulders, stuck a toothpick between his teeth, and returned to his seat.

"Representing my client isn't a game, Sam. You forget. The first time I've spoken to him since he was shot was when he called me thirty minutes ago. I'll let you talk to him after I find out what he's going to say. Besides, it will be easier for him to handle the death threat if I tell him about it."

She drew a short breath, sliding out of Mason's way. "Fine, but don't take too long."

"Relax. You're talking to a guy who gets paid by the hour," Mason said. "Everything I do takes too long."

Nick Brynes lay on his back, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle, his depleted body looking like he had melted into the sheets. His blond hair was matted, his skin was the color of dirty water, and both of his arms were plumbed with IVs. Another tube draining his wound ran from his chest to a bag on the side of his bed.

A television tuned to MTV hung from the ceiling in a corner, the sound broadcast from a remote speaker pinned to the mattress next to his pillow. The music was harsh and tinny, though Mason couldn't tell whether that was the result of the poor speaker or whether it was supposed to sound that way.

Nick brightened when Mason walked in, aiming the remote control at the television, trading the muffled music for a blank screen.

"Hey, Mr. Mason. Thanks for coming," he said, his raspy voice the result of spending a week with a tube down his throat while he was in ICU. "Have a seat."

Mason pulled a chair toward the end of the bed so Nick could see him without having to move. Looking at the IV lines in Nick's arms, Mason flashed back to Ryan's execution, wondering if Nick had an appreciation for irony.

"How you feelin'?" Mason asked him.

"You want the answer I give my grandma?"

Mason smiled. "Nope. We'd both know you're lying and she probably knows it too. You feel up to talking about what happened?"

"Is that why the cops are here? Did they arrest Whitney King for shooting me? Nobody has told me anything. My grandparents told them not to, I guess."

"Where is your grandmother?" Mason asked, ducking Nick's questions. "I thought she'd gotten her own room here."

Nick said, "My grandpa made her go home after I got out of intensive care. She'll be back, but I wish she'd stay home. All she does is sit in that chair and stare at me like I'm dead and it's my fault. I can't stand it."

"Cut her some slack, Nick. She doesn't know what else to do."

"Well, it wasn't my fault."

"Whitney King says you threatened him with the gun and that it went off when he tried to take it away from you. Is that what happened?"

Nick's eyes widened. "Partly, but not really," he said, softly thumping the mattress with his hand. "I can't believe that guy gets away with everything. They didn't arrest him did they? They're going to let him get away with it again! I can't believe it!"

"Nick, tell me what happened," Mason repeated.

Nick closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, opening them again. He reached for the bed's controls, raising himself until he was almost sitting up straight.

"After I left your office that day, I was really hot. Mr. Bluestone made it sound like there was nothing I could do, not without taking the chance something would happen to my grandparents. I wasn't going to let King get away with killing my parents a second time. I went home and got my grandfather's gun. Then I just drove around and hung out trying to figure out what to do. I got King's home phone number from directory assistance and I called him. I told him I wanted to settle things with him once and for all. He told me to meet him at his office in thirty minutes. He was waiting for me outside when I got there."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I knew he killed my parents and he laughed and said what are you going to do about it, kid. He didn't even deny it. He said that since the jury found him innocent no one could touch him. He said I'd be sorry if I sued him. I got so mad," Nick said, his eyes filling, his face showing some color. "I pulled the gun out and he laughed again. We were only a few feet apart and the next thing I knew he grabbed it and shot me. I thought I was gonna die," he added softly.

"What about the priest?" Mason asked. "Father Steve said he saw the whole thing and that the gun went off accidentally."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nick said. "I never saw a priest."

"Sure you did," Mason told him. "Father Steve. He was the priest at Ryan's execution. Short, kind of dumpy. Smells like an ashtray and wears a collar."

"I would have remembered, Mr. Mason," Nick said. "Honest. There was no one else there."

Mason rose, locked his fingers behind his head, and paced the few steps from the bed to the window and back again. Father Steve had corroborated King's claim of self-defense. The priest had explained to Mason that he had gone to King's office to ask for money for the church. Though it was possible Nick had simply forgotten some of the details of what had happened, this was too big a detail to forget.