The kid’s in a panic. Tell him to take a breath.
“Calm down, Johnny. Okay? If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
Johnny’s look made me feel naïve, and I realized that if I were arrested for a murder I didn’t commit, I probably wouldn’t have much faith in the system either.
“My uncle’s the only guy who believed in me. He’s the only person who ever stood up for me.”
“It’s up to a jury to decide who’s guilty or innocent. That’s why we have a justice system,” I replied, even though I knew it probably sounded like a platitude to Johnny.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Jack?” I silently asked. “What do I do here?”
You said it yourself. It’s up to a jury . . .
“What are you saying?” I silently asked. “Turn him over to the cops?”
No. Your little gang of cornball yahoos. Have him tell his story to them. See if he’s believable. Get a whiff of how his case’ll play out on the witness stand.
I met Johnny’s scared, brown eyes. “Listen,” I told him, “you have your side of these events, right?”
“Yeah . . . ,” he replied warily.
“Then I want you to tell it.”
“But the cops—”
“Not to the police—not yet, anyway. You uncle is on his way over here. I want you to tell your side of events to him, Sadie, me, and a few other people whom he trusts.”
Johnny looked doubtful.
“Just think of us as a jury of your peers . . .”
“I OBJECT!” BELLOWED Seymour Tarnish, jumping to his feet.
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “You object to what? I haven’t said a word.”
“I object to getting the wobbly folding chair. You got another one stashed around here, Pen?”
“Sure, Seymour.”
“That’s what you get for showing up last,” said Milner, who was busy with wife Linda, setting out Cooper Family pastries around the coffee urn.
I dragged out several more chairs—deciding we needed one or two near the wooden podium, as well. Earlier, I had set up more chairs than a typical meeting would require, but this was certainly not going to be a typical gathering of the Quindicott Business Owners Association. Usually the subject of our merry band of bold commercial entrepreneurs was the town’s parking woes. Lately a popular topic has been the draconian sanitation rules imposed by the city council, along with the tickets that go with them—the newest ploy by the municipal zoning witch (don’t ask) to squeeze Quindicott’s small business owners just a little bit drier. But no matter what issue was on the table, within an hour the conversation usually veered into a spirited discussion of the pastry of the evening, politics, books, or just local gossip shared over coffee.
But not tonight. Tonight, by mutual consent, we would decide whether or not to turn a young man over to the authorities who would undoubtedly pin a murder rap or two on him—maybe even three. To my relief, everyone had agreed with my plan to hold a mock trial and decide if Johnny Napp should go to the police and turn himself in, or if we had enough evidence to believe Johnny innocent, and hide him away until—hopefully—the real culprit’s identity would be revealed.
Before the meeting even started, I’d been on pins and needles waiting for the Quibblers to arrive. A few minutes after my aunt came downstairs, Fiona and Brainert appeared, followed by Milner Logan and his wife, Linda Cooper-Logan.
Like his wife and her shades-of-Annie-Lennox spiky hair, Milner had held on to some fashion trends of his own youth—albeit a decade before Linda’s. He wore a small gold hoop in his left ear and his hair in a long ponytail, now more wiry salt-and-pepper than midnight black. Milner was quarter-blood Narragansett Native American, and he frequented our store for crime novels, noir thrillers, and the occasional front-list Tony Hillerman. Linda preferred her big best-selling authors like James Patterson and Stuart Woods, but she was also game for reading anything Sadie or I might recommend.
Mr. Koh and the newest addition to our club—his eighteen-year-old daughter, Joyce, who had graduated high school in May and was helping him run his store for one last summer before college—showed up with a ten-pack of soft drinks. Bud Napp showed his face just as the meeting was scheduled to start, and Seymour, typically, arrived fifteen minutes late.
As soon as Bud called the meeting to order, I moved we postpone all outstanding business. Brainert seconded the motion. Then I told them everything I knew about Angel Stark’s death, Victoria Banks’s possible abduction, and the disappearance of Johnny Napp. Despite protestations from Bud, I also revealed Johnny’s identity, his felony conviction, and his connection—rightly or wrongly—with the Bethany Banks murder.
While the Quibblers were digesting that vast array of facts, I went to the office where I’d stashed Johnny until I could make my case. I knew that the true test of how things would go would be the Quibblers’ reaction when I sprang Johnny on them—and told them my plan. The look of relief on Bud Napp’s grizzled face when he saw Johnny made it all worthwhile. The shock, surprise, and consternation on everyone else’s face when they saw Johnny was not as comforting, however.
Then I told them my plan to hold a mock judicial hearing to determine Johnny’s immediate fate. “Bud and I are both heavily involved, so we’ll be witnesses. Brainert will take to the podium as presiding judge. Johnny can present his case and we can weigh the evidence.”
“Let me defend the kid,” said Bud. “I know he’s done nothing.”
“But you’re too close to the case, Bud,” Milner pointed out. “You’d do better as a character witness.”
“How about a prosecutor?” said Linda Cooper. “We need a prosecutor.”
I scanned the room, focused in on Fiona Finch and the predatory peregrine falcon pin she wore on her blouse. “How about Fiona? She’s read enough true crime novels to channel Vincent Bugliosi. And she’s read Angel Stark’s book—”
“Cover to cover,” Fiona said with the Cheshire cat grin of a motivated attorney.
“Great idea, Pen,” said Brainert. “Fiona, no doubt, will be dogged. However, I must correct you before the jury.”
“Correct me?” I asked. “For what?”
“Evoking the name Charles Manson, as you did when you mentioned Los Angeles prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi, can be construed as prejudicial.”
For a moment I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake in my choice of judge.
Nah, doll, said Jack in my head. He’s as pompous an ass as most judges I’ve dealt with. Maybe the attitude comes with the robes.
“Brainert’s not wearing any robes,” I silently noted.
Judge Parker cleared his throat. “Since we have a prosecutor, we need a defense attorney as well,” he declared. “Someone who can press Johnny’s case, and stand up to the prosecution.”
Not even her husband could stand up to Fiona Finch. But one of our number did go toe-to-toe with her on a regular basis. Brainert sent his glance across the room. “Someone like . . .” His gaze stopped on Seymour.
“Why me?” whined Seymour.
“Brainert ignored the plea and pounded on the podium with his hand. “Order! Order!” he cried. “Consider yourself appointed, Tarnish. Now take you seat next to the defendant and we’ll get this procedure underway.”
“Goodness,” said Sadie. “Brainert is certainly taking his judge role seriously.”
As Seymour unfolded his new chair, I took a seat among the jurists. Though I still had doubts about how the rest of the evening would go, I felt a little better now that Jack was looking on over my shoulder—or wherever the heck he was looking on from. Suddenly, I was shaken from my thoughts by Brainert pounding on the podium with a hammer he’d dug out of the desk in the storage room.