Burners (10 page)

I
hadn’t slept well the night before, and when I got my first look at Jack Daniels seated in the courtroom on the second day, I knew I wasn’t the only one.

I’d spent the evening resisting the urge to log on and start digging through every bit of material about the case I could find for fear that my records could be searched at a later date. I drank my shot of rum after I got off the phone with Jim, poured myself another, and eventually fell asleep on my couch. I was five minutes late to court, but no one seemed to notice or care.

The courtroom smelled a little less fresh than the day before. At least someone had managed to turn on the air conditioning, though nowhere near high enough.

Bob, the world’s most enthusiastic juror seated next to me in the jury box, was much more into the morning than I could ever hope to be.

“This is a little like being at a boxing match, isn’t it?” The guy was genuinely excited about being here. Something must’ve gone very wrong during his childhood.

“Sure, Bob, one with lots of talking, very little action, and no blood.”

Bob furrowed his brow, then turned away. I had a feeling he’d keep to himself the rest of the day, and maybe even for the rest of the trial, though that was probably too much to hope for.

Marcia, the woman I’d met in the waiting room who wound up being the last juror chosen, turned to face me.

“My friends are so curious about all of this.” She was wearing a beige business suit that blended too well with her light features, a flowery but subtle fragrance, and looked as though she’d been professionally made up for hours. “Though, of course, I didn’t discuss any of the particulars with them,” she added, clearly intent on amending her first remark and wanting to make certain we all heard her.

I had always assumed jurors sat in silence after they were brought into the courtroom, and judging from the scowl on the face of the tall, bald man to our right, that might’ve usually been the case. He’d been glaring at Marcia as she was talking. I found myself staring at his ears, or his
left
ear, to be exact, though I assumed there was a matching one on the other side to balance the weight. It was as though someone had attached a sandal to the side of the guy’s head, and the way the outer ridge curved around I could easily imagine a trio of Cooper Minis racing in there—at least until they got stuck in the hair.

Its hypnotic effect was finally broken when Lipscomb got up from behind the prosecutor’s table and called the next witness. His name was Joel Luzinsky, a former marine who owned a high end cigar store called Smoke Em’ If You Have Em’, that was located directly across the street from the crime scene.

Luzinsky looked like one of those men who were athletic and tightly built in their youth, but not anymore. He had neatly cut hair that he was still figuring out how best to color without tipping off anyone who’d notice or care.

He testified that he’d seen Beniquez around the print shop just minutes before smoke began flowing from its side windows. The kid had been carrying a duffle bag in his right hand, and cradling two gasoline cans in his left. He was very specific about this.

The prosecution produced the olive green duffle bag and a pair of beat up, rusty cans and entered them into evidence, placing them on a dark oak table in front of the jury box. Lipscomb then showed how the cans easily fit into the duffle bag. They clanged against one another inside like a pair of wind chimes as she lifted the bag for all to see.

On the stand, Luzinsky appeared uneasy, like he’d rather be anywhere else. Maybe it was natural to feel that way. I sure as hell would. It didn’t help that he was a large man, bigger than the seat was made to accommodate. His meaty hands rested on the wood railing in front of him as he jostled in search of a comfortable position. I didn’t like his chances of finding one.

Lipscomb took the cans out of the duffle bag. They clattered again as she set them on the table.

“Were those the cans that you saw the defendant carrying, Mr. Luzinsky?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And is that the duffle bag?”

“That’s right.”

Luzinsky went on to repeat the time and date that he’d seen Beniquez skulking around the print shop, before Lipscomb turned him over to the defense.

“Are you certain that you specifically saw those two cans in the defendant’s possession?” Milledge asked as he stood and straightened his jacket, the same one he’d been wearing the day before.

Luzinsky did not hesitate. “Absolutely.”

“I mean, they’re just a couple of old gas cans, nothing special about them, is there?”

“I’m sure those were the ones, I remember the rust on them.” Luzinsky tightened his grip on the railing.

“And how far away were you from my client when you claim that you eagle-eyed those cans?”

“Objection, Your Honor, the defense—”

“I’ll rephrase. How far away were you when you say you
saw
my client carrying two gas cans?”

“I don’t know for sure, I was across the street. What is that? Maybe thirty, forty feet?”

“Well, you’re about halfway there. Would you believe it’s exactly seventy-two feet from the doorway of your store, where you’ve testified that you were standing, to Laserquick’s front door?” Milledge approached the jury box and made eye-contact with each of us. “That’s thirty-yards. You must have excellent vision.”

Despite being a man of limited ability within his profession, Milledge was doing a better than a fair job of putting the heat on the ex-marine.

But what did it matter whether or not Luzinsky had actually made out the individual rust spots on the two cans that were resting on the table in front of us? The defense had conceded the duffle bag belonged to Beniquez, and if the kid was walking around with gas cans in the vicinity of a fire, then maybe Jerry Rossiter was wrong.

Milledge fired off a few more questions, and generated two more objections from Lipscomb, in a vain attempt to shake Luzinsky’s certainty about what he’d seen. He took a few swipes at the man’s credibility, and pressed him about his relationship with the deceased.

“We were cordial, not friends, you know, but we waved to each other now and then. We were good.”

When Milledge finally dismissed Luzinsky, the man bolted to his feet, as quickly as someone his size could actually bolt, and hastily got off the stand. I watched him walk back toward the gallery, wondering whether he’d look over at the jury, or try to make eye-contact with Lipscomb.

But his gaze was locked on someone else. As Luzinsky made his way back to his seat in the third row he exchanged glances with Alice Braun. The two kept looking at one another, then turning away, only to reconnect like a magnet to steel.

I decided to keep an eye on Luzinsky and the widow, and was still watching them when Lipscomb called her next witness to the stand.

  
 

A
fter an awkward breakfast where the Hauppdorf’s stared at us without saying anything, Phin drove with me to the courthouse. At first, he was going to come in with me and watch from the gallery, but then he saw the cruisers and press trucks parked in front of the century old courthouse. Besides, there was a metal detector at the entrance, and he wouldn’t have been able to get his gun in. I had to leave mine in the car. Instead, Phin watched from outside, looking for anything suspicious.

When I walked into the building I was struck by how empty it was except for the dozen or so people milling around the entrance to the courtroom where the Beniquez trial was being held. It was unlike any courthouse I’d ever been in during a major trial.

“We’re a small community,” Lebanon explained as he tried to tame his hair with one hand while flipping through a cell phone with the other. “With our resources being as limited as they are, I thought it best to shuffle the schedule around so that this was the only case of any significance being held in the courthouse this morning.”

I nodded like I cared, which I didn’t, and asked, “So you promised I’d be the first witness called, that’s still the case, right?”

He was still poking at his phone.

“Reception in here is lousy. I’m one of the few people who are allowed to have a cell in the courtroom and it doesn’t do me much good anyhow. You did check yours at the metal detectors, didn’t you?”

Again, I nodded. “When will I be called?”

“Third, I believe. Maybe fourth.”

“That’s not what you told me—”

Lebanon snapped. “Look, Officer Daniels—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Fine,
Lieutenant
, we’ve already shifted our witness list around to accommodate you, now I would appreciate it if you’d get with the program,” Lebanon said and walked away.

I was poised to tear into him, but knew it wouldn’t do me much good. Officers James and Lewis were huddled near the door to the courtroom. I walked by them and slipped inside. In the past, when I’ve testified in trials, I’ve waited outside of the courtroom until they called me to the stand. But I was tired from lack of sleep, and still a little edgy. So I sat down, and no one told me I couldn’t.

The courtroom was nearly full, but I found a seat in the second row from back, next to a reporter and behind a tall Hispanic male who I made for a member of the defendant’s family. Chapa was staring at me from the jury box while trying to pretend he was listening to something a female juror was saying to him.