growing belief in the jury conspiracy. As some of the enthusiasm drained out of my system, I leaned back against my chair, tapping my index finger against the edge of the desk. Graham Keller’s face was smiling at me from the computer screen, giving me the creeps. Even the dead guy was taunting me over my as yet unsubstantiated suspicions. I could almost hear him clucking his tongue. Common sense and reasons I’d seen thus far dictated that Keller, Vasquez, and Marcus Evans had all died from explainable causes or accidents.
But I still couldn’t get past the tingle in my gut. Something wasn’t right. Me, probably. There was a distinct possibility that I was making a mountain out of a mole hill. I knew the M.E. had reviewed the Evans and the Keller deaths and hadn’t found anything suspicious.
Reaching for the phone, I figured it was worth a shot to check on the Vasquez accident. Just one last shot, and then I’d leave it alone. I flipped through my Rolodex, absently aware of the fact that I was about due for a manicure. My polish wasn’t chipped or anything, I’m just a firm believer in preventive personal beautification.
My call was answered on the third ring.
“Hi Trena,” I greeted, relieved that she was the one I’d reached.
Trena Halpern, one of the clerks over at the morgue, and I have chatted dozens of times. She’s my go-to girl when I need a rush on duplicate death certificates or a heads-up that the M.E.’s findings might cause me some grief. A lot of insurance companies won’t pay out benefits if the deceased committed suicide, so Trena has become a valuable contact over the years. She’s nice, and generally comfortable telling tales out of school, mainly because I did simple wills for her parents gratis.
“Hi, Finley. How are you?”
I could almost see her twisting strands of auburn hair around her forefinger. Then again, I’d develop a lot of nervous ticks if I spent eight hours a day surrounded by dead bodies.
“I’m good. You?”
“My nineteen-year-old daughter just had her nipple pierced. My son wrote a pro–gay marriage paper for his English class. Wasn’t real popular with the nuns at St. Ig-natius Boys Latin.”
Whoa. Wrong question. “Uh, sorry.”
“Not as sorry as he is. I grounded him until he gets his first gray hair because I lost a half day’s work so the principal and the priest could lecture me on family values.
They worked in a dig about me being the problem. They seem to forget that my husband divorced me. ” Trena let out a long sigh. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I’m working on an estate.” Technically true. “I’m hoping you’ll share anything you’ve got. Totally off the record, of course.”
“I’ve already, er, shared with one person today, so sure.
Got a name?”
“José Vasquez,” I said, then read off the date of death I’d gotten from the obituary.
“Hang on.”
I cradled the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I rolled my chair over to the tower of boxes. Remembering the juror questionnaires were in the top box, I quickly found the file and took it back to my desk.
José’s was the second one in the pile. While I waited for Trena, I scanned the three-page document. The most no-50 Rhonda Pollero table thing about José’s answers was poor penmanship. I deciphered enough of it to know that he was a naturalized citizen who’d come to the United States from Guatemala.
He was married to Rosita, had four young children, and had started his landscaping business just a year before the Hall trial.
According to his answers, he’d never been arrested, never served on a jury. His closest and only connection to the justice system was a cousin who’d been convicted of spousal abuse in the late 1990s. José had taken the time to scribble in that he’d been a witness against his cousin.
“Got it,” Trena said, slightly out of breath. I heard the sound of papers being shuffled before she continued. “Died as a result of
But I still couldn’t get past the tingle in my gut. Something wasn’t right. Me, probably. There was a distinct possibility that I was making a mountain out of a mole hill. I knew the M.E. had reviewed the Evans and the Keller deaths and hadn’t found anything suspicious.
Reaching for the phone, I figured it was worth a shot to check on the Vasquez accident. Just one last shot, and then I’d leave it alone. I flipped through my Rolodex, absently aware of the fact that I was about due for a manicure. My polish wasn’t chipped or anything, I’m just a firm believer in preventive personal beautification.
My call was answered on the third ring.
“Hi Trena,” I greeted, relieved that she was the one I’d reached.
Trena Halpern, one of the clerks over at the morgue, and I have chatted dozens of times. She’s my go-to girl when I need a rush on duplicate death certificates or a heads-up that the M.E.’s findings might cause me some grief. A lot of insurance companies won’t pay out benefits if the deceased committed suicide, so Trena has become a valuable contact over the years. She’s nice, and generally comfortable telling tales out of school, mainly because I did simple wills for her parents gratis.
“Hi, Finley. How are you?”
I could almost see her twisting strands of auburn hair around her forefinger. Then again, I’d develop a lot of nervous ticks if I spent eight hours a day surrounded by dead bodies.
“I’m good. You?”
“My nineteen-year-old daughter just had her nipple pierced. My son wrote a pro–gay marriage paper for his English class. Wasn’t real popular with the nuns at St. Ig-natius Boys Latin.”
Whoa. Wrong question. “Uh, sorry.”
“Not as sorry as he is. I grounded him until he gets his first gray hair because I lost a half day’s work so the principal and the priest could lecture me on family values.
They worked in a dig about me being the problem. They seem to forget that my husband divorced me. ” Trena let out a long sigh. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I’m working on an estate.” Technically true. “I’m hoping you’ll share anything you’ve got. Totally off the record, of course.”
“I’ve already, er, shared with one person today, so sure.
Got a name?”
“José Vasquez,” I said, then read off the date of death I’d gotten from the obituary.
“Hang on.”
I cradled the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I rolled my chair over to the tower of boxes. Remembering the juror questionnaires were in the top box, I quickly found the file and took it back to my desk.
José’s was the second one in the pile. While I waited for Trena, I scanned the three-page document. The most no-50 Rhonda Pollero table thing about José’s answers was poor penmanship. I deciphered enough of it to know that he was a naturalized citizen who’d come to the United States from Guatemala.
He was married to Rosita, had four young children, and had started his landscaping business just a year before the Hall trial.
According to his answers, he’d never been arrested, never served on a jury. His closest and only connection to the justice system was a cousin who’d been convicted of spousal abuse in the late 1990s. José had taken the time to scribble in that he’d been a witness against his cousin.
“Got it,” Trena said, slightly out of breath. I heard the sound of papers being shuffled before she continued. “Died as a result of
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