If he paid attention, he could hear well.
To his left were two Hispanics: one from Mexico and the other from El Salvador. They were speaking in what they thought were hushed tones, but his ear was so attuned to the nuance of speech, they might as well have been shouting through a loudspeaker. They were jabbering on in rapid-fire Spanish about the news, specifically the horrendous murders in the West Valley. He had heard several different renditions of that story about the billionaire developer, his wife, and his son gunned down in their multiacre ranch.
How freakin’ ironic was that? All that money and the poor schmuck couldn’t buy himself some loyal security. But that was the problem with money. It attracted all sorts of misfits and cretins, but usually small-time con artists didn’t murder. In his limited experience, homicides of big shots were done by other big shots—respectable people in deep shit with something dear to lose.
He continued to eavesdrop on the Spanish conversation and chuckled to himself. The two bozos kept calling Guy Kaffey, the slain billionaire, Señor Café—which translated into English as Mr. Coffee. Like the guy was a small appliance. As the men continued to talk, their voices dropped a notch. To him, it was strange that the two men were attempting a private conversation, but they clearly needed to talk. He could hear the urgency in their voices. And they probably had to be in these hallowed hallways—as witnesses, defendants, or plaintiffs. People didn’t hang around for the commissary food.
There were strict rules for jurors on overhearing conversation revolving around current cases. That kind of eavesdropping could influence outcome. But he felt there was nothing wrong with listening in on casual conversation.
The woman on his right had hung up her cell phone. She sounded like she was now going through her purse. Her rifling was almost drowning out the Spanish conversation, which was becoming so inaudible that he was actually straining to make out the words. Not that their yapping was important to him, but now it was a point of pride.
Like the limbo song—how low can you go?
They were still talking about the Kaffey murder, and something about the intensity of the conversation drew his interest. Ever so slightly, he turned his head in the direction of the sound to absorb a couple more decibels. His ears perked up as it became clear that the men were speaking about the killings from personal knowledge.
The Mexican was talking about a man named José Pinon who had gone missing, and el patrón, the boss, was looking for him in Mexico.
“Because he fucked it up with the son,” the Mexican told the El Salvadorian.
“¿Qué pasa?” El Salvadorian asked. What happened?
The Mexican’s voice was full of contempt. “He ran out of bullets.”
“Ay … estúpido!” the El Salvadorian said. “So why didn’t somebody else finish him off?”
“’Cause José’s a retard. He says he asked Martin to do it, but me? I don’t hear nothing about that. I think he’s covering his own stupid ass and he can kiss that good-bye. Martin is really pissed.”
The El Salvadorian said. “Martin es malo.”
Martin is bad.
“Muy malo,” the Mexican said, “pero no tan malo como el patrón.”
But not as bad as the boss.
The El Salvadorian agreed with that assessment. He said, “José es un hombre muerte.”
José is a dead man.
“Realmente absolutamente muerte,” the Mexican added. “Hora para que el diga sus rezos.”
Really dead. Time for him to say his prayers.
He heard a bailiff call out a jury panel, and the men stopped talking. The woman with the throaty voice had closed her purse and was walking away from him. Immediately, he turned on his handheld radio and began to follow her as she moved to the other side of the hallway. After a few moments, when he felt they were sufficiently far enough away from the two Hispanics, he took a big step forward and tapped her on the shoulder.
Abruptly, Rina turned around and found herself face-to-face with Sunglasses Tom. “Yes?”
“Excuse me,” he said. “My name is Brett Harriman and I work for the courthouse as a translator. I believe you’re on the panel of one of my cases.” When she didn’t answer him, he said, “I want to assure you that what I’m about to ask of you has nothing to do with that case.”
Rina stared at him and waited for him to continue.
“Um … this is awkward.” He paused. “I know that this sounds really odd, but could you do me a favor?”
Finally she spoke. “It depends on what it is.” Rina sized up the man. Brett Harriman née Smiling Tom seemed nervous. She couldn’t see his eyes under the sunglasses, but his demeanor was jumpy.
He dropped his voice to a whisper, but he still sounded like an actor. “Please, please. Whatever you do, don’t stare at the spot that I’m going to ask you to look at. And whisper, okay?”
Rina paused. “What on earth is going on?”
“I’m getting to that. The spot where you were standing just a few moments ago talking on your cell. A few feet away are two Hispanic men talking … don’t stare at them.”
“I’m not—”
“Without staring at them and acting as casual as you can, can you describe them to me?”
Involuntarily Rina glanced at the men, then turned her eyes away. When she looked back up, the two men were deep in conversation and hadn’t appeared to notice her. She sneaked in a few passing looks and returned her questioning eyes to Tom/Brett, who wasn’t reacting to her perplexity.
And when it finally occurred to her why he was acting so stoic, she almost hit her head and said, Duh! The indoor sunglasses should have been a giveaway, but he had always moved so seamlessly and without any help.
Tom Cruise/Brett Harriman was blind.
She wanted to ask him about it, but that would have been rude. Instead, she whispered, “Why do you want to know about the men?”
He whispered back, “Just describe them to me, please.”
Rina took a quick snapshot. The men looked to be in their twenties, ordinary in size with the one on the right being slightly bigger than the one on the left. Bigger had on a black polo shirt. Smaller, who was doing most of the talking, was garbed in a Lakers’ T-shirt. They both had shaved heads and tattoos on their arms, but the drawings were not professionally done. The homemade ink embedded under their skin looked more like discoloration rather than human artwork—a snake, a tiger head, a B12—someone was a vitamin nut.
Rina said softly, “I realize you’re sight impaired, but why do you want to know what those two men look like?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I’m sorry, but if you want me to help, you have to tell me what you’re after.”
“It’s personal …” Harriman heard the bailiff call group 23. “Forget it! That’s my panel, I’ve got to go.” He softened his voice. “It’s all probably nonsense anyway.”
He turned on his handheld radio, put an ear pod in his ear, and walked away, leaving Rina confused and curious. She managed to sneak in another sidelong glance at the men. What arm was showing wasn’t overly muscular, but they did have meaty hands. They had on jeans and rubber-soled shoes. If she had to guess, she’d say that they probably worked construction.
When they announced her panel, Rina lined up with the rest of her group outside the courtroom, and they began their number countdown to identify who was present. They were missing juror number