Burners

Jury duty is not how newspaper reporter Alex Chapa (Killing Red, Mourn the Living) wants to spend his day. But when he learns Chicago Homicide cop Jacqueline Daniels (Whiskey Sour, Shaken) will play a key role in the trial, his curiosity gets the better of him—with potentially lethal results.

Part whodunnit mystery, part courtroom thriller, Burners is the second team-up between Chapa and Daniels (after Floaters). Loaded with suspense, humor, and twists, Burners is a perfect introduction to two bestselling authors, while also a treat for longtime fans.

Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Epilogue

Also by JA Konrath
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Also by Henry Perez

Copyright

  

I
went through the whole routine again.

First I looked up at the clock perched above the door that led to the rest of the building, then down to my watch—no clue why I felt compelled to check one against the other—then a quick glance at the door to the courtroom, followed by yet another survey of the other folks in the room.

Only thirteen of us were left, many more open seats now than people to fill them. It hadn’t been that way when this process began more than four hours ago. I had managed to drop into the last chair available. I edged out some guy who looked like a college professor circa 1975, complete with tweed sports jacket and patches on the elbows. He’d frowned when I beat him to the seat, like I gave a damn what he thought. But when his name was part of the next group called, the professor gave me a self-satisfied smirk.

 There were around seventy potential jurors at the beginning. The questionnaire that we each filled out was most likely the reason a group of more than two dozen had been immediately sent back to their lives without being called into the courtroom. I had felt certain that a couple of my written answers would have led to a quick dismissal. But no such luck.

We’d been told to turn off our cell phones, so the room was quiet, had been most of the morning except for the occasional yawn and the sound of magazine pages being turned. From time to time one stranger would try to strike up a conversation with another, but that, thankfully, never lasted very long.

I went through my mental checklist of responses, the ones I’d been working on for more than a week. Each was designed to anticipate a likely question. As a whole, they were intended to deliver only one possible conclusion to this unwelcome experience—I would be thanked for taking the time to do my civic duty, then shown the door.

The court officer reappeared. He was a squat, heavyset man who looked like he hadn’t had an interesting moment in his entire life.

He called out the next name, not a group this time, from a clipboard he was holding.

“Martin Gustafson.”

A man with narrow shoulders and a strong chin got up from his seat in the far corner. He took off the dark green cap he’d been wearing, the way he probably did when walking into church for a mid-week trip to the confessional, and held it against his chest. His shirt was old, collar frayed along the bottom edge, but it had been neatly pressed. Martin may not have had much luck in life, but on this day he was trying his best.

I watched him disappear through the door, hoping he’d be the last one called, then returned to prepping my responses.

I’ve been a journalist for fifteen years—
That was true.

In my work, I’ve covered a great many trials, most of which have ended in a conviction—
Also true.

I believe that the police get it right nearly all of the time, and that anyone charged with a major crime is always there for a reason—
Umm, sort of, a little true. Sometimes.

My experiences as a journalist make it impossible for me to be objective where accused criminals are concerned
—A complete lie. Objectivity is the core of good reporting, and I happen to be a damn good reporter.

I was hoping it would not get that far, but if I had to… I’d killed a lot of long hours sitting in courtrooms as part of my job. But there was no way I was going to sacrifice weeks, perhaps months, to jury duty.

What I was not willing to do, however, was go down the racist road. Could not do it. Besides, with a last name like Chapa, and a birth certificate from Havana, Cuba, claiming a deep-seeded hatred of Latinos would never wash. And I had a pretty good idea which trial this jury selection was for. If I was right, the accused was a young male named Tony Beniquez, who, if convicted, would be gone for a very long time.

“Have you ever done this before?”

She was an attractive blonde, mid-thirties. Her high-impact makeup job looked professional.

“You mean sit in a room with a bunch of strangers who don’t want to be there anymore than I do? Probably. Give me a minute and I’ll come up with an example.”