something short and simple for a last look, settling on a thin file labeled JURY.
The file contained a single sheet of paper, the verdict form signed by all twelve jurors, each signature telling its own story. Four were left handed, judging from the slant at which they wrote. Some signed in small letters, hiding among the others as they probably did in the jury room. A couple used bold strokes, penning their names with the certainty of founding fathers. A few were feminine, given to soft strokes. One of these caught his eye as he said it aloud: Sonni Efron.
Mason stared at the verdict form, pacing around his office, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves into the name of someone who hadn't been murdered two days ago and buried that morning. He stopped in front of the dry erase board, a siren from the street shrieking into his open window as an ambulance raced by, the coincidence of Sonni Efron's murder and Ryan Kowalczyk's execution occurring on the same day more stunning than the siren.
Mason didn't believe in coincidence any more than he believed in King Tut's curse. Legend had it that those who entered Tut's tomb were cursed to die horrible deaths, many of them doing so, their deaths serving the legend if nothing else. That a juror who condemned Ryan Kowalczyk to death for murder would suffer the same fate couldn't be the result of jury duty, a modern equivalent of Tut's curse.
Mason knew that. He knew that many crimes were random, the victim and the perpetrator connected by nothing more than fatal coincidence. Bad timing, nothing more. Yet Sonni Efron's murder felt like another shift in the earth beneath his feet, another small tremor rippling under him, adding to the aftershocks of Ryan's execution, the stone on his parents' grave, his aunt's admonition to forget about his parents' deaths, and Blues's refusal to help Mary Kowalczyk. Feeling the heat, Mason added Sonni's name to the board, closing the cabinet doors, shutting the questions about her murder inside.
"Done for the day?" Sandra Connelly asked.
Mason turned around. Sandra was framed in the doorway to his office, one hand on a cocked hip, the only woman he knew who looked good in this weather. They had been partners at Sullivan & Christenson, ridden out of the firm on the same rail, tied together in a killing spree that nearly claimed them both. Afterward, Mason retreated to a solo practice, shunning the limelight even when his cases shined the spotlight on him. Sandra sought out the beacons, leveraging her notoriety to land big clients with big cases, delivering victories, crushing the opposition.
Her hair was shorter now, a shade darker, her body sleek and full at the same time, her mouth still turned in a smug twist that promised a rough ride you'd thank her for. A ride she had offered to Mason that he had declined, though just barely. Horses sweat, men perspire, and women glow, Claire once told him. Sandra had the glow, beating back the heat. A purse on one shoulder, a briefcase slung from the other. A knife in both, Mason bet, counting on Sandra not to have changed that much.
"All in and all done," Mason answered. "Grab a deck chair, enjoy the ocean breeze," he said, retrieving two bottles of Boulevard Beer from his refrigerator, glad the chill hadn't left the glass.
Sandra chose the sofa, kicking off her heels, leaning against the cushions, rubbing the bottle against her neck, beneath her chin. She was wearing wheat-colored linen slacks with a pale pink blouse, open at the throat, a chunk of diamond dropped on a thin gold chain perched just above the swell of her tanned breasts. Mason chose the neutral zone behind his desk, feet on the floor, bottle unopened.
"Nice office," Sandra said, taking a quick inventory, then a short draw on the beer, Mason not answering, letting Sandra take her time. "Cute paperweight," she said aiming the bottle at the gun on his desk.
"Cigarette lighter," Mason explained, putting the gun back in the drawer.
The file contained a single sheet of paper, the verdict form signed by all twelve jurors, each signature telling its own story. Four were left handed, judging from the slant at which they wrote. Some signed in small letters, hiding among the others as they probably did in the jury room. A couple used bold strokes, penning their names with the certainty of founding fathers. A few were feminine, given to soft strokes. One of these caught his eye as he said it aloud: Sonni Efron.
Mason stared at the verdict form, pacing around his office, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves into the name of someone who hadn't been murdered two days ago and buried that morning. He stopped in front of the dry erase board, a siren from the street shrieking into his open window as an ambulance raced by, the coincidence of Sonni Efron's murder and Ryan Kowalczyk's execution occurring on the same day more stunning than the siren.
Mason didn't believe in coincidence any more than he believed in King Tut's curse. Legend had it that those who entered Tut's tomb were cursed to die horrible deaths, many of them doing so, their deaths serving the legend if nothing else. That a juror who condemned Ryan Kowalczyk to death for murder would suffer the same fate couldn't be the result of jury duty, a modern equivalent of Tut's curse.
Mason knew that. He knew that many crimes were random, the victim and the perpetrator connected by nothing more than fatal coincidence. Bad timing, nothing more. Yet Sonni Efron's murder felt like another shift in the earth beneath his feet, another small tremor rippling under him, adding to the aftershocks of Ryan's execution, the stone on his parents' grave, his aunt's admonition to forget about his parents' deaths, and Blues's refusal to help Mary Kowalczyk. Feeling the heat, Mason added Sonni's name to the board, closing the cabinet doors, shutting the questions about her murder inside.
"Done for the day?" Sandra Connelly asked.
Mason turned around. Sandra was framed in the doorway to his office, one hand on a cocked hip, the only woman he knew who looked good in this weather. They had been partners at Sullivan & Christenson, ridden out of the firm on the same rail, tied together in a killing spree that nearly claimed them both. Afterward, Mason retreated to a solo practice, shunning the limelight even when his cases shined the spotlight on him. Sandra sought out the beacons, leveraging her notoriety to land big clients with big cases, delivering victories, crushing the opposition.
Her hair was shorter now, a shade darker, her body sleek and full at the same time, her mouth still turned in a smug twist that promised a rough ride you'd thank her for. A ride she had offered to Mason that he had declined, though just barely. Horses sweat, men perspire, and women glow, Claire once told him. Sandra had the glow, beating back the heat. A purse on one shoulder, a briefcase slung from the other. A knife in both, Mason bet, counting on Sandra not to have changed that much.
"All in and all done," Mason answered. "Grab a deck chair, enjoy the ocean breeze," he said, retrieving two bottles of Boulevard Beer from his refrigerator, glad the chill hadn't left the glass.
Sandra chose the sofa, kicking off her heels, leaning against the cushions, rubbing the bottle against her neck, beneath her chin. She was wearing wheat-colored linen slacks with a pale pink blouse, open at the throat, a chunk of diamond dropped on a thin gold chain perched just above the swell of her tanned breasts. Mason chose the neutral zone behind his desk, feet on the floor, bottle unopened.
"Nice office," Sandra said, taking a quick inventory, then a short draw on the beer, Mason not answering, letting Sandra take her time. "Cute paperweight," she said aiming the bottle at the gun on his desk.
"Cigarette lighter," Mason explained, putting the gun back in the drawer.
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