The Jury

chapter ten

Harry and I are alone, mired in our differing assessments of Tash and his story of the moment as the elevator doors slide closed behind us.

It is difficult to get a clear picture of Kalista Jordan. Everyone seems to have a different take, perceptions being what they are. According to Tash, she was a self-serving viper lying in wait.

Harry’s view is that Tash might be useful. “It may be our best defense. Putting the woman herself on trial.” Harry is talking about Kalista Jordan.

This is not a novel approach in criminal cases where defamation of the dead seems to thrive. Raise enough eyebrows in the jury box, and murder can become a victimless crime.

“The question is whether Tash’s take on her is accurate. An African-American woman and a high achiever, someone with the title of doctor in front of her name. There’s certainly nothing in her background that looks bad on paper,” I remind him.

“You’re thinking there was some jealousy on Tash’s part?”

“There is that possibility. She may have been ambitious, but that’s not a crime. We take off after her, and we’re going to alienate every woman on the jury. That’s just for starters. We haven’t even begun to consider the issue of race.”

“You think our friend Tash was troubled by the color of the woman’s skin?”

“I don’t know. But the way he talked, I think Tannery could make it sound that way. According to Tash, Jordan was predatory, but she’s the one who ended up dead. He tells us she was incompetent, but doesn’t give us any specifics. If we put him on the stand, Tannery is going to make it look as if Tash felt threatened, jealous of her position and access to Crone.”

“Maybe that’s not so bad,” says Harry.

I look at him, a question mark.

“We could put Tash on the stand and let him twist. The other man,” says Harry.

“You think Tash had something going with her?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” says Harry. “Question is whether we can sell it to the jury.”

“The man has the metabolism of a reptile,” I tell him.

“Maybe they got it on.”

“What? And Crone got between them? Tash got jealous?”

“Maybe,” says Harry. “Stuck his fangs in her. It’s better than what we have right now. Listen. Tash is an angry man. Angry with the system. Angry with Kalista Jordan. That anger is rooted in something besides mere loyalty to his boss.”

“And your point is?”

“Maybe he’s the proverbial angry white male. Maybe he can’t deal with a woman. Particularly a black woman. He sees her undercutting him with Crone.”

“So he kills her.”

“Stranger things have happened,” says Harry. “And who would have better access to Crone’s garage for the tensioning tool, or to his coat pocket for the cable ties?”

“It’s all good except for one thing: Tash has an ironclad alibi for the night Jordan disappeared.” According to police reports, Tash was at a meeting, a homeowners’ association gathering until close to midnight. After that, he went to a local coffee shop with two neighbors where they talked until nearly one in the morning.”

“That’s just it,” says Harry. “We don’t know exactly when she was killed. We only know when she was seen last.”

“Without something more, it would be a tough sell to a jury.”

From Harry’s look, he is chewing on this in silence as the elevator slows to a stop. He takes a step toward the door before I can grab his arm. The light overhead has stopped at two.

The doors slide apart, and Harry’s way is blocked by a soaring figure standing in the hall waiting to enter.

Harry looks up at the man with an expression one might use to estimate the altitude of a mountain, smiles and steps back out of the guy’s way. The man has to actually cant his head, just a little, off to one side in order to clear the header over the door.

When he looks up he is again smiling under the canister lights of the elevator car. Silent, he looks both of us in the eye, first Harry and then me. His expression is pleasant, passing the time. If I had to guess, I would say that William Epperson doesn’t place us.

We have been chasing him for more than six weeks, Harry specifically, trying to get a statement from him, some clue as to what he will say if he is put on the stand. Now fate has placed him in the elevator with us, and I can read it in Harry’s eyes, the look of opportunity.

Epperson is barred from the courtroom as a prospective witness, since his name appears on the prosecution’s list. In the weeks before trial Harry made several attempts to talk to the man, once at his apartment and two more times outside the D.A.’s office, all to no avail. Epperson had been shielded by investigators from the D.A.’s staff, and while they couldn’t order him not to talk to us, they made it clear that he was under no compulsion to do so.

Under these circumstances, most witnesses decide that the prudent course is silence. And so it is with Epperson. Several months have now passed. If he remembers us, he shows no sign of it.

Once inside the elevator, Epperson works his way to the left side of the car and leans against the wall, his head nearly touching the ceiling. I can see his reflection dancing in the gleaming brass plate that covers the inside of the elevator doors as they close. Harry and I stand there in silence, elevator etiquette, pretending to ignore the giant standing next to us.

Under the canister lights I finally look over and up, studying him, as he looks at me in the reflective doors. We descend.

Epperson is not what you would envision from the hurly-burly of basketball. He is big, a sinuous athletic build, his hair closely cropped. There most of the similarities of size end. He wears his clothes, shirt, tie and neatly pressed suit with a quiet dignity. You would have a difficult time seeing him in the key, jostling with the bad boys of the NBA.

The fine and delicate lines of his face, high cheekbones, look as if they were carved using a sculptor’s knife in earth-toned clay. He has a prominent chin that finds its strength below generous, sharply defined lips. These are closed in silence, causing you to guess at the tones that might issue from the voice that lies within. It is the kind of face that would prompt you to listen, the features of some ancient bronze mask. It would not be a reach to imagine that the blood of nobility runs through William Epperson’s veins, royalty of some timeless African tribe. He has the bearing and stature of a Tutsi warrior; perhaps the narrowing genetics of aristocracy that resulted in his stature, and left him with an inherited cardiac condition.

“Nice weather, huh?” Harry can’t restrain himself. He breaks the silence, confident that Epperson hasn’t made us.

The tall man looks down at him. There is nothing imperious or arrogant, only gentle eyes and a kind of confidence that comes with knowing you are probably the tallest man in this part of the state.

“It has been pretty nice, hasn’t it?” His voice fits the image, a deep resonance with no wasted effort.

More silence, and Harry has to work at it. “A regular Indian summer,” he says.

“I suppose.” Epperson is smiling. Tight-lipped, he looks at Harry.

I’m getting worried that my partner might pull the red button, jerk us to an emergency stop so he can give Epperson the third degree on the spot. Bad heart condition and all, the man could pound both of us through the floor like bent nails.

Harry now looks at him and engages the bigger man’s eyes directly. “Have we met?”

Epperson studies Harry for a brief second. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re Bill Epperson, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer him, but instead looks at Harry with an expression that says, Who wants to know?

“I saw you play a few years ago. High-school game back in Detroit. You scored forty points if I remember.”

“Thirty-four,” says Epperson.

Leave it to Harry. Master of the file trivia. He has combed all the documents, including the press clippings that earned Epperson his scholarship to Stanford. He gets the figures wrong just enough to make it believable.

“You were there?” Epperson leans away from the wall. You can read the gleam in his eye. His feet may be on the floor, but his mind is somewhere in that ethereal moment of fame and lost glory.

“Never forget it,” says Harry.

“You don’t look like you’d be from Motown.”

“Just visiting,” says Harry. “I have a sister back there. Lives in Ann Arbor.” Harry making it up as he goes. Now he has Epperson talking about the old days, his Detroit roots. “We ended up at the game. Lucky for us,” says Harry.

“Really?”

The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors begin to open.

Epperson is still smiling. He takes a step toward the opening. “Well, it was good meeting you.” Epperson heads out the elevator door.

“You know, my son would kill for an autograph.” Harry’s not going to let the conversation die that easily.

Before Epperson can turn around, Harry is on his tail, pen in hand.

“Would you mind?”

They step outside the elevator into the building’s lobby. Epperson is embarrassed. The first graceless moment I have seen. He’s not sure whether to take the pen, what to do. He holds his hands out, palms open as if warding off somebody wielding a knife, shaking his head, out of his depth.

“No. No. I really don’t do that.”

“Why not? You don’t have to charge me for it,” says Harry.

They both laugh.

“It’s just, I’m never asked.”

“Well, you are now.”

Not knowing what else to do, and not wanting to appear rude, Epperson looks at me, then takes Harry’s big Mont Blanc.

Suddenly he’s all thumbs. Can’t get the cap off. Harry explains that it is a fountain pen, and shows him how to unscrew it. They’re at a loss for something to sign. Finally Harry hands him one of the case files, a legal-sized manila folder. Fortunately he has the presence of mind to turn it over, so that the tab with the label is facing the other way, the one that reads PEOPLE V. DAVID CRONE.

“What’s your boy’s name?” Epperson is finally regaining some composure. He’s willing to personalize it.

This catches Harry flat-footed.

“What would you like me to say?”

“Just a signature would be great.” Let Harry think about it for a minute, and he’ll drag Epperson to a stationery store for a clean sheet of paper and have him put his John Hancock on it so that we can type an alibi for Crone above it.

“My boy won’t believe that I actually met you,” says Harry.

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-six,” says Harry.

With this, Epperson actually rocks on his heels. He lifts his gaze in mid-signature to check Harry out, to make sure all the gum balls are still in the machine. Epperson may be flattered, but his ego doesn’t match his stature. What in the hell does a twenty-six-year-old man want with an autograph from a has-been high-school star, even if he does hold a state record?

“High-school heroes were his big thing. He’s got a collection of autographs.” I’m waiting for Harry to say, People who never made it big-a truly rare collection, but he bites his lip.

“He never forgot that game.” Harry tries to patch it up. “He’s even told his boy about it.”

“Kids of his own. Really?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s funny how some things just make an impression. Sports moments,” says Harry. ” You always remember them. Like the catch made by Clark in the end zone. The Forty Niner playoff game they beat Dallas. The one that sent ’em to their first Super Bowl. You always remember it, don’t you?”

Epperson makes a face. Nods. He remembers.

“Well, that game where you scored forty points”-Harry’s back to inflating the numbers-“that’s the same kinda thing.”

Epperson hands Harry the signed folder and his pen. “Good meeting you,” he says. He shakes Harry’s hand and heads for the door.

“You know, I wonder, cuz he’s sure to ask me. .”

“Hmm?” Epperson stops again and turns.

“Why didn’t you play in college?” Anything to keep him talking.

“Injuries,” says Epperson.

Suddenly Harry turns toward me. “I told you it had to be something like that.”

Epperson’s looking at me now, wondering who the hell I am.

“We had a bet. I told him that you’d have been in the NBA unless you got hurt. He wouldn’t believe me. Oh, excuse me. You guys haven’t met.”

The fact that Harry hasn’t introduced himself doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Paul Madriani. Bill Epperson.”

Oh, shit. I do the best I can to smile.

Epperson looks at me, thinking about the name, taking time for it to register. Then it does. He’s not sure whether to hold out his hand.

“You’re the. .”

“The lawyer,” I say.

“Yeah. Listen, I gotta run. I’m late. Really.”

“I told Paul you’d have been a major star,” says Harry. “That you must have gotten injured somewhere along the way. What was it, knees?”

“Heart,” says Epperson. He’s still looking at me.

“You know, it’s a good thing we ran into you. We’d been meaning to call you anyway. The trial,” says Harry. “You don’t mind if we talk to you, do you? I mean, in fairness.”

The vacant look on his face makes it clear he doesn’t know what to say.

Harry doesn’t even slow down to take a breath. “The D.A.’s people didn’t tell you that you couldn’t talk to us, did they? Cuz if they did, they’re gonna be in big trouble with the judge,” says Harry.

“No. No. Nothing like that,” says Epperson. “They just said I didn’t have to talk to you.”

“Well, then, in the interests of fairness. .” Harry gives him one of his better looks, arched eyebrows over the top of his half-lense cheaters, with just enough of a pause. “You do want to be fair?”

“Oh. Oh, sure.”

“Great. Then why don’t we go get a cup of coffee?”

“I can’t right now. I’ve got a meeting.”

Harry and I are thinking the same thing-Yeah, with a telephone booth or his cell phone. Hotline to the D.A.’s office.

“Well, we can talk for a couple of minutes right here,” says Harry. He’s not about to let Epperson out of his clutches.

Harry looks at the signature on the manila folder one more time. “You know, my boy really is going to be happy.”

Epperson gives him a sick smile, wishing I’m sure that he’d taken the stairs.

Harry flips the folder open, finds a legal pad and has the cap off the pen again.

“You were a friend of Kalista Jordan’s?”

Epperson looks at us shifty-eyed, not sure if he should answer, then says: “Yeah, sure.”

“How long did you know her?”

Epperson thinks for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how long you knew her?”

“Five years. Maybe six. We met in college.”

“Good,” says Harry. A little encouragement.

“Did you meet socially, or were you in the same classes?”

“It was social.”

“Did you date?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that. We went out a few times.”

Harry with the pen in the file. “Dated,” he says.

“I didn’t say that. We had some mutual friends. We always went out with friends. I was a couple of years behind her.”

“Yeah, I always liked the older women, too,” says Harry. “Must be that maternal touch.”

If a black man can suffer from rosacea, I would say Epperson has it now.

Harry is scratching out notes on the yellow legal pad. “Why don’t we move over here?” He finds a ledge of polished granite that lines the wall of the foyer like a stone wainscot and lays the notepad on it for a harder surface.

“I really have to go,” says Epperson. “I’ll give you my card. You can call me at the office.”

Harry gives me a look like sure, and ignores him. Epperson doesn’t want to be rude. It is the only thing keeping him from walking on us.

“The night Kalista Jordan disappeared.” I cut to the chase. “You do remember that night?”

“Hard to forget,” he says. Epperson now looks down at me.

“You had dinner with her in the faculty dining room on the campus?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you overhear the conversation between Dr. Jordan and Dr. Crone that night?”

Epperson is now not sure if he should answer. “Listen, I don’t think we should be talking about this.”

“Why not?” asks Harry. “You don’t want to be unfair to the defendant do you?”

“No, but I don’t want to get in any trouble either.”

“How are you gonna get in trouble?” asks Harry. “Certainly not by telling us the truth.”

“Okay, sure,” he says. “They had a conversation.”

“Did you hear any of it?”

He shakes his head.

“Is that a no?” I ask.

“Crone took her by the arm. Moved her away from the table. I couldn’t hear any of it.”

“But you could see it?”

He nods.

“Was it a friendly conversation?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘friendly.’ He didn’t hit her, if that’s what you mean. They had some words.”

“An argument?”

“Probably. As I said, I couldn’t hear. They kept their voices down. At least Crone did.”

“So he didn’t shout at her?”

“Not that I heard.”

“But Kalista, what did she do? Did she raise her voice?”

“Might have,” he says. “I can’t remember.”

Harry can’t believe our good luck.

“Besides taking her arm to move her away for privacy, did Dr. Crone ever touch Kalista Jordan that evening? Did he put his hands on her?” I ask.

This is how I would couch the question in the courtroom, preface it with a little softening context.

“No. Not that I remember.”

I look to Harry to make sure he’s gotten every word, my question verbatim, and Epperson’s response. Harry would be the witness if Epperson says anything different on the stand, merely to verify the accuracy of his notes.

“Would you be willing to give us a signed statement to that effect?” Harry pounces on it.

“I don’t know if I could do that,” he says.

“Why not? We’d make it very brief. Just the questions we’ve asked you here. We could call to clarify over the phone if we have anything more.”

“Yeah. Right. You call me,” he says. “Right now, I have to go.”

“There is one more thing,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“Those papers. The ones Kali. .” I’m talking and suddenly I notice that he’s no longer looking at me. Instead his gaze is fixed on something in the distance, over my shoulder.

I turn and see that the elevator’s doors are open. Standing in front of them is Aaron Tash. He is taking a particular interest in the three of us on the other side of the foyer, though he doesn’t make a move to join us.

“Listen, I’m late for my meeting. Gotta go,” says Epperson.

“You will give us a signed statement? Under oath?” asks Harry.

Epperson is already halfway to the door. “Call me,” he says. With that he is gone, out the door, disappearing onto the sidewalk and around the corner in strides that Harry and I couldn’t match if we ran.

“You’d think we’d come down with a sudden case of the plague,” says Harry.

“Yeah.” I’m looking at Tash. “I wouldn’t be offering any odds that we’ll catch him at the office.