Twenty-Nine and a Half Reasons
Page 44
“Mr. Burnett.” Deveraux’s tone was icy. “How do you know the defendant, Bruce Decker?”
“I’ve known Bruce since he was a baby. He growed up a few houses down from me, the house on the corner. He lived with his parents, that’s them right out there.” He pointed to a middle-aged couple who were suffering from a serious lack of sleep, judging from the dark circles under their eyes. “He lived with them until a month or two before he killed Frank Mitchell.”
Mr. Yates jumped out of his seat like his pants were on fire. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation.”
“Sustained.” The judge faced us. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement about the defendant murdering Mr. Mitchell.” He turned back to Mr. Deveraux. “Continue.”
Deveraux shook his body, just a smidge, as if trying to shake off cooties. “So Bruce Decker moved out?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why he moved out?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”
Mr. Deveraux looked like a bulldog with a fresh bone he didn’t want to let go of. “I believe the witness has information he received directly from Bruce Decker’s parents.”
The judge sighed. “Overruled, but rephrase the question.”
“Did Bruce Decker’s parents tell you why he moved out?”
“Yeah, they sure did. They kicked his sorry ass out because they was tired of all the trouble he kept getting into.”
“You mean his criminal record?”
“If it weren’t one thing, it was another. That boy mooched off of them his entire life and his parents were tired of it.”
“Do you know where he moved to?”
“I ain’t got a clue.”
“Did Mr. Decker know Frank Mitchell?”
“Of course he did. They were neighbors! What kind of fool question was that?”
“Did Mr. Decker ever steal from his neighbors?”
“Bruce kept to his side of street.”
Mr. Deveraux crossed his arms. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Questions. Questions. That damned nuisance,” Elmer Burnett pointed his finger at Bruce, “killed Frank Mitchell, yet instead of sendin’ him to jail like he deserves, all you people are doing is asking questions!”
“Mr. Burnett!” Judge McClary banged his gavel.
“I’m sick of answering yer damned questions. Hell, even that girl over there came snoopin’ around asking questions last night!” He pointed his finger at me and all the blood in my body rushed to my toes.
Oh, crappy doodles.
Everyone fell silent as every eye landed on me.
Then the courtroom burst with shouting.
“Her?” Mr. Deveraux shrieked, pointing to me.
“Objection, Your Honor!” Mr. Yates shouted.
“You and your damned objections!” Mr. Burnett growled, now pointing his cane instead of his finger. “Stuff your objections up your—”
“Order in the court!” Judge McClary banged his gavel repeatedly. “I said order in the court. The next person to say a word is not only thrown out but thrown into lockup.”
I tried not to hyperventilate.
The judge glared at me. “Mr. Burnett, are you saying you spoke to that juror in the middle of the front row last night? The one wearing a blue dress?”
“That’s her. She came snoopin’ around Frank’s house asking a pissload of questions.”
Someone in the middle of the audience gasped.
The judge banged his gavel, his face turning red. “I warned you, not one word! Bailiff Spencer, take that man from the gallery down to county lockup.”
Now I was terrified, my body vibrating like an unbalanced washing machine.
Judge McClary’s eyes turned to me. “Were you at the victim’s house last night?”
I couldn’t lie. For one thing, Mr. Burnett would say I was and for another, I was under oath and would be perjuring myself. I had to come clean. “Yes, Your Honor.”
A few people covered their mouths with their hands in an attempt to stifle their surprise.
The judge’s face turned beet red.
“Your Honor, your blood pressure,” the bailiff said in a low voice.
“Bailiff, throw yourself in lockup!”
“Judge McClary?” the bailiff wheezed.
“I warned you all!” His voice bellowed throughout the room. He turned his attention back to me. “Did you or did you not know what you were doing was against the law?”
“I did, Your Honor.” I squeaked.
“What? Do you think you’re Angela Lansbury?”
“Who?”
“Angela Lansbury. Murder She Wrote.” His face turned darker, a nice purpley-red shade, when he saw the confusion on my face. “You don’t know about Murder She Wrote?”
I shook my head.
“What in the Sam Hill is happening to our country when young people don’t know who Angela Lansbury is?” He took a deep breath, then narrowed his eyes. “What made you decide to investigate this case, Ms. Gardner? Was Mr. Deveraux not presenting enough evidence for you to find a conviction so you decided to find your own?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then why?”
“I think he’s innocent.”
“You what?”
The room erupted in chaos, jail time be damned.
Judge McClary banged his gavel so hard it flew out of his hands and through air, smacking Mr. Yates in the middle of his forehead.
“I’ve known Bruce since he was a baby. He growed up a few houses down from me, the house on the corner. He lived with his parents, that’s them right out there.” He pointed to a middle-aged couple who were suffering from a serious lack of sleep, judging from the dark circles under their eyes. “He lived with them until a month or two before he killed Frank Mitchell.”
Mr. Yates jumped out of his seat like his pants were on fire. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation.”
“Sustained.” The judge faced us. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement about the defendant murdering Mr. Mitchell.” He turned back to Mr. Deveraux. “Continue.”
Deveraux shook his body, just a smidge, as if trying to shake off cooties. “So Bruce Decker moved out?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why he moved out?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”
Mr. Deveraux looked like a bulldog with a fresh bone he didn’t want to let go of. “I believe the witness has information he received directly from Bruce Decker’s parents.”
The judge sighed. “Overruled, but rephrase the question.”
“Did Bruce Decker’s parents tell you why he moved out?”
“Yeah, they sure did. They kicked his sorry ass out because they was tired of all the trouble he kept getting into.”
“You mean his criminal record?”
“If it weren’t one thing, it was another. That boy mooched off of them his entire life and his parents were tired of it.”
“Do you know where he moved to?”
“I ain’t got a clue.”
“Did Mr. Decker know Frank Mitchell?”
“Of course he did. They were neighbors! What kind of fool question was that?”
“Did Mr. Decker ever steal from his neighbors?”
“Bruce kept to his side of street.”
Mr. Deveraux crossed his arms. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Questions. Questions. That damned nuisance,” Elmer Burnett pointed his finger at Bruce, “killed Frank Mitchell, yet instead of sendin’ him to jail like he deserves, all you people are doing is asking questions!”
“Mr. Burnett!” Judge McClary banged his gavel.
“I’m sick of answering yer damned questions. Hell, even that girl over there came snoopin’ around asking questions last night!” He pointed his finger at me and all the blood in my body rushed to my toes.
Oh, crappy doodles.
Everyone fell silent as every eye landed on me.
Then the courtroom burst with shouting.
“Her?” Mr. Deveraux shrieked, pointing to me.
“Objection, Your Honor!” Mr. Yates shouted.
“You and your damned objections!” Mr. Burnett growled, now pointing his cane instead of his finger. “Stuff your objections up your—”
“Order in the court!” Judge McClary banged his gavel repeatedly. “I said order in the court. The next person to say a word is not only thrown out but thrown into lockup.”
I tried not to hyperventilate.
The judge glared at me. “Mr. Burnett, are you saying you spoke to that juror in the middle of the front row last night? The one wearing a blue dress?”
“That’s her. She came snoopin’ around Frank’s house asking a pissload of questions.”
Someone in the middle of the audience gasped.
The judge banged his gavel, his face turning red. “I warned you, not one word! Bailiff Spencer, take that man from the gallery down to county lockup.”
Now I was terrified, my body vibrating like an unbalanced washing machine.
Judge McClary’s eyes turned to me. “Were you at the victim’s house last night?”
I couldn’t lie. For one thing, Mr. Burnett would say I was and for another, I was under oath and would be perjuring myself. I had to come clean. “Yes, Your Honor.”
A few people covered their mouths with their hands in an attempt to stifle their surprise.
The judge’s face turned beet red.
“Your Honor, your blood pressure,” the bailiff said in a low voice.
“Bailiff, throw yourself in lockup!”
“Judge McClary?” the bailiff wheezed.
“I warned you all!” His voice bellowed throughout the room. He turned his attention back to me. “Did you or did you not know what you were doing was against the law?”
“I did, Your Honor.” I squeaked.
“What? Do you think you’re Angela Lansbury?”
“Who?”
“Angela Lansbury. Murder She Wrote.” His face turned darker, a nice purpley-red shade, when he saw the confusion on my face. “You don’t know about Murder She Wrote?”
I shook my head.
“What in the Sam Hill is happening to our country when young people don’t know who Angela Lansbury is?” He took a deep breath, then narrowed his eyes. “What made you decide to investigate this case, Ms. Gardner? Was Mr. Deveraux not presenting enough evidence for you to find a conviction so you decided to find your own?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then why?”
“I think he’s innocent.”
“You what?”
The room erupted in chaos, jail time be damned.
Judge McClary banged his gavel so hard it flew out of his hands and through air, smacking Mr. Yates in the middle of his forehead.
