Page 120 of The 1 Lawyer

“Is that right?” the judge asked the DA. When he confirmed it with a brief nod, Ostrov-Ronai said, “Mr. Penney, let me see those pictures again.”

I opened the phone, thumbed slowly through the images. As Judge Ostrov-Ronai studied them, she said, “And the man? It’s the same man in all those pictures, I think. Do you know who he is?”

“Sure, everyone in Biloxi knows him. He serves as personal bodyguard for Hiram Caro, the father-in-law of Iris Caro.”

Ostrov-Ronai’s brow furrowed. “You said you received these in an e-mail? Who from?”

I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “It was a phantom e-mail address. Subject line read ‘Connect the Dots.’ Given all the excitement this morning, I’m betting that the reporters out there got the same e-mail I did.”

Gordon-James swung around to face me. “An inflammatory smoking-gun e-mail in the middle of the murder trial? You sent it, Penney. Admit it.”

“I did not. I swear.”

It was the truth; I hadn’t sent it. The tech kid did. And he’d made sure he wasn’t on my internet server when it went out.

The DA turned to the judge. “This isn’t a problem for us, Judge. It has no bearing on this case. That video…” His voice failed him. After a moment, he rallied. “It isn’t related to the trial, has nothing to do with Stafford Lee Penney or the murder of Iris Caro.”

I said, “There’s a photo, a selfie, of that guy and Iris. Don’t know if you caught that.”

There was; we’d found one in the photo library, further back. But it was a wider shot, a picture of Joey with the whole Caro family: Hiram, Daniel, Iris.

Gordon-James ignored me. “Judge, you can’t take this seriously. An e-mail, really? No one sent it to me—don’t you think that’s significant? We don’t know the source of the information.”

“I can send it to you, Henry.” I sounded cool, unruffled. Which surprised me, because my stomach was churning. “Shall I forward it to you too, Judge?” Ostrov-Ronai nodded and gave me her e-mail address; I tapped the phone and sent the e-mail to both of them. Then I slipped the cell phone into my pocket and announced, “I request a mistrial, Your Honor.”

Gordon-James roared, “No!”

The judge looked at the DA like she thought he’d lost his mind. “Sit down, sir.”

The DA sat on the very edge of his seat. He gripped the arms of the chair. “I beg your pardon, Judge. But the defendant’s request is preposterous. There’s no basis for a mistrial, certainly not the sudden appearance of a mystery e-mail with no bearing on the case. The anonymity discredits it even if it was related. There’s nothing to support its validity.”

I had to admire his quick recovery. But this was no time to try to reach a consensus with the opposition. “Judge, the DA’s argument is disingenuous. Everyone in this courthouse knows that the trial’s been affected. Just take a look at the crowd out there.”

We could hear the buzz of voices as we sat in the judge’s chambers; people had obviously moved into the courtroom.

There was a soft rap at the door. Charlene, the bailiff, stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Judge. There’s some issue with the jurors. Four of them overheard something on the way into the courthouse this morning about new evidence. One of them has the idea they’ve found a video.”

Ostrov-Ronai closed her eyes. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah, she told the whole panel there’s video of Mr. Penney killing the murder victim, and she’s got everyone else worked up about it. They’ve got questions.”

I almost jumped out of my skin; I hadn’t anticipated that. “Good God, Judge! You understand what that means for the defense? How am I supposed to get a fair trial from that jury?”

“Well, this morning just gets worse and worse,” Ostrov-Ronai said. “Bailiff, tell the jurors we’re delayed. And they’re forbidden to discuss the issue.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” She shut the door behind her.

The judge took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.”

That was progress. A problem at trial is good for the defense, bad for the prosecution. And Ostrov-Ronai was calling me a gentleman. I felt a spark of hope—despite the fact that the jury empowered to decide my fate believed there was video proof that I was a killer.

The DA said in a strained voice, “You can instruct the jury to disregard, Judge. Remind them that they’ve sworn an oath to base their decision on the evidence alone. Poll them if you think it’s necessary.”

“You think that’s the remedy?” The judge swiveled her chair around and stared at a bookcase holding a set of law books—hardcovers that no one used for research anymore now that everything was online. We sat in silence while she thought it over. I had to fight to remain still. I wanted to push, but my instincts said it was best to hold my tongue. Let her reflect while she gazed at the set of books containing decades of case law.

At length, she swung the chair back around to the desk and said, “I’m no believer in beating a dead horse. Once a jury is tainted, that’s it. No point in keeping a jury locked up to reach a verdict that can’t stand.”

I wanted to leap out of that chair, shout, pump my fist in the air. Somehow, I kept my composure. I said, “I’ll make my request for mistrial on the record, Your Honor. In open court.”

---