"Been drinking?" he asked.
"Oh, you know, couple of beers at the casino."
The cop checked Derrick's eyes with a blinding flashlight, then made him walk a straight line and touch his nose with his fingers. Derrick was obviously drunk. He was handcuffed and taken to jail. He consented to a breath test and registered .18.
There were lots of questions about the cash stuffed in his pockets. The explanation made sense-he'd had a good night at the casino. But he had no job. He lived with a brother. No criminal record. The jailer listed his cash and other pocket items and locked it all away in a vault.
Derrick sat on a top bunk in the drunk tank, with two winos moaning on the floor. A phone would not help because he couldn't call Angel direct. A five-hour stay was mandatory for drunk drivers. He had to reach Angel before she left for court.
THE PHONE woke Swanson at three-thirty Monday morning. The voice on the other end was thick and groggy, the words slurred but obviously belonging to Beverly Monk. "Welcome to the Big Apple," she said loudly, then laughed crazily, bombed out of her mind.
"Where are you?" Swanson demanded. "I've got the money."
"Later," she said, then he heard two angry male voices in the background. "We'll do it later." Someone turned up the music.
"I need the information fast."
"And I need the money."
"Great. Tell me when and where."
"Oh, I don't know," she said, then yelled an obscenity at someone in the room.
Swanson gripped the receiver tighter. "Look, Beverly, listen to me. You remember that little coffee shop where we met last time?"
"Yeah, I think."
"On Eighth, near Balducci's."
"Oh yeah."
"Good. Meet me there as soon as you can."
"How soon is that?" she asked, then erupted in laughter.
Swanson was patient. "How about seven o'clock?"
"What time is it now?"
"Three-thirty."
"Wow."
"Look, why don't I come get you right now? Tell me where you are, and I'll grab a cab."
"Naw, I'm okay. Just having some fun."
"You're drunk."
"So."
"So, if you want this four thousand bucks, you'd better stay sober enough to meet me."
"I'll be there, baby. What's your name again?"
"Swanson."
"Right, Swanson. I'll be there at seven, or close to it." She laughed as she hung up.
Swanson didn't bother to sleep again.
AT FIVE-THIRTY, Marvis Maples presented himself to the jailer and asked if he could collect his brother Derrick. The five hours were up. The jailer retrieved Derrick from the drunk tank, then unlocked a metal tray and placed it on the counter. Derrick inventoried the contents of the tray-eleven thousand dollars in cash, car keys, pocketknife, lip balm-as his brother stared in disbelief.
In the parking lot, Marvis asked about the cash and Derrick explained he'd had a good night at the crap tables. He gave Marvis two hundred dollars and asked if he could borrow his car. Marvis took the money and agreed to wait at the jail until Derrick's car was brought from the city lot.
Derrick raced to Pass Christian and parked behind the Siesta Inn just as the sky was dawning in the east. He crouched low, in case anyone happened by, and sneaked through shrubbery until he came to the window of Angel's room. It was locked, of course, and he began pecking on it. There was no response, and so he picked up a small rock and tapped louder. Daylight was landing all around him, and he was beginning to panic.
"Freeze!" came a loud voice very near his back.
Derrick jerked around to see Chuck, the uniformed deputy, aiming a long shiny black pistol at his forehead. He waved the gun. "Get away from that window! Hands up."
Derrick raised his hands and stepped through the shrubbery. "On the ground" was the next command, and Derrick went spread-eagle on the cold sidewalk, hands behind him. Chuck radioed for help.
Marvis was still loitering around the jail waiting for Derrick's car when his brother returned for his second arrest of the night.
Angel slept through it all.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It was a shame the juror who'd been the most diligent, listened more carefully than the others, remembered more of what had been said, and obeyed every one of Judge Harkin's rules would be the last one bumped and thus prevented from affecting the verdict.
As reliable as the clock itself, Mrs. Herman Grimes arrived in the dining room at exactly seven-fifteen, took a tray, and began gathering the same breakfast items she had been gathering for almost two weeks. Bran cereal, skim milk, and a banana for Herman. Cornflakes, two percent milk, a strip of bacon, and apple juice for herself. As he often did, Nicholas met her at the buffet and offered to help. He still prepared Herman's coffee throughout the day in the jury room, and he felt obligated to help in the morning. Two sugars and one cream for Herman. Black for Mrs. Grimes. They chatted about whether or not they were packed and ready to go. She seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of eating dinner at home Monday night.
The mood had been downright festive throughout the morning as Nicholas and Henry Vu held court at the dining table and greeted the early stragglers. They were going home!
Mrs. Grimes reached for the silverware, and Nicholas quickly dropped four small tablets into Herman's coffee while saying something about the lawyers. It wouldn't kill him. It was Methergine, an obscure prescription drug used primarily in emergency rooms to revive bodies which were all but dead. Herman would be a sick man for four hours, then recover completely.
As he often did, Nicholas followed her down the hall to their room, carrying the tray and chatting on about this and that. She thanked him generously; such a nice young man.
The commotion hit thirty minutes later, and Nicholas was in the middle of it. Mrs. Grimes stepped into the hallway and yelled at Chuck, who was sitting at his post, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Nicholas heard her call, and rushed from his room. Something was wrong with Herman!
Lou Dell and Willis arrived amid panicked voices, and soon most of the jurors were outside the Grimeses' room, where the door was open and people were swarming. Herman was on the bathroom floor, bent double at the waist, clutching his stomach and in terrible pain. Mrs. Grimes and Chuck crouched over him. Lou Dell ran to the phone and called 911. Nicholas said gravely to Rikki Coleman that it was chest pains, maybe a heart attack. Herman had already had one, six years earlier.
Within minutes, everyone knew Herman was suffering from cardiac arrest.
The paramedics arrived with a stretcher, and Chuck pushed the other jurors farther down the hall. Herman was stabilized and given oxygen. His blood pressure was only slightly above normal. Mrs. Grimes said repeatedly it reminded her of his first heart attack.
They rolled him out and pushed him rapidly down the hall. In the confusion, Nicholas managed to knock over Herman's coffee cup.
The sirens wailed as Herman was sped away. The jurors retreated to their rooms to try and settle their frazzled nerves. Lou Dell called Judge Harkin to tell him Herman had fallen violently ill. The consensus was he'd had another heart attack.
"They're dropping like flies," she said, then went on to recollect how she'd never lost so many jurors in her eighteen years as the jury madam. Harkin cut her off.
HE REALLY didn't expect her to arrive promptly at seven for coffee and the cash. Just a few hours earlier she'd been smashed and gave no indication of relenting, so how could he expect her to keep this appointment. He ate a long breakfast and read the first of many newspapers. Eight o'clock came and went. He moved to a better table near the window so he could watch the people on the sidewalk hustle by.