CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

At nine A.M., the judge’s clerk told Parker and Kwon that the judge wished them to know that all the jurors were present and deliberations had begun again. In the defense conference room, Parker and Kyra sat well apart, which was now their habit, without speaking. She read a book, he struggled with his morning Wordle, trying to guess the five-letter daily word in fewer than the six allowed attempts. He got it the third time, which lifted his mood, so he opened his text app and sent Dugan a long string of triangular turd emojis. He’ll know I’m just fuckin’ with him, but we need some answers here.

Just before lunch, Justice Zannis summoned them after receiving a second note. The jury wanted to read the testimony of the prosecution’s Columbia witnesses, the ones who recounted Kyra’s harsh view of her estranged husband. They also wanted the testimony of the lawyers about the prenuptial agreement and the will. She intended to send them the requested transcripts on an iPad, after first giving counsel the opportunity to see if there is any portion that shouldn’t be included.

“This is a bad sign, isn’t it?” Kyra said when they were back in the defense conference room.

“No,” Parker answered. “There is absolutely no way to tell. Believe me. I gave up years ago trying to interpret jury notes. You don’t know whether it’s one juror wanting to check before acquitting or a split jury fighting over everything, or a juror who won’t vote to convict without hearing something again. You just can’t tell. I know it’s torture, but you’ve got to stop yourself from reading tea leaves or whatever.”

“Kinda hard,” she said.

“Very,” he replied, turning back to the iPad, before stopping again. “Now, if we get a chance to see them when they come back in, maybe at the end of the day, then we can get a read. Faces, body language, that kinda thing. But not until then.”

He finished with the iPad. “No issues here,” he said and walked out to return it to the clerk.

They heard nothing more from the jury until five thirty, when the foreperson sent a note requesting to leave at six P.M. and asking whether they would be deliberating over the weekend if they weren’t finished the next day, which was Friday.

After reading the note aloud, Justice Zannis said, “I’ll bring them back in here just before six. At that time, I’ll explain that we will not be deliberating on Saturday or Sunday, but will resume Monday at nine, if necessary.”

As they waited in the courtroom at the defense table, Parker leaned over to Kyra’s ear and whispered. “Forget what I said earlier, because it wasn’t entirely right. This is a sign—that they are starting to get stuck—and they can see it’s gonna be a long slog. Guessing is dangerous, but the way this case has gone—and the bad mojo from the alternates—I’m still betting most of them want to convict you but somebody, or somebodies, is holding them up. I’m praying it’s our gallery woman, Juror Seven.”

At six P.M., the jury returned to the courtroom so Justice Zannis could deliver her normal admonitions and answer their weekend question. It was hard to read anything from their expressions. None of them looked at the prosecution or defense tables. They nodded along with the judge, then got up and left for the evening.

Back in the defense room, Parker texted a long string of middle-finger emojis to Dugan.

Jessica hung up the phone and spoke loudly enough for Nora to hear next door. “Starbucks update. Maybe something, maybe not.”

Nora leaned in through the door. “Do tell.”

“We can put Gina at a Miami airport Starbucks one time near a date on the hit list. Because she used points to pay for her drink. Probably didn’t even think about it. So Miami is working with the airport to see if they can find her flight. The hit around then was in Chicago and there’s a million of those flights, but they’re working it.”

“Okay,” Nora said, turning back to her office.

“But wait, there’s more, as they say. The South Florida regional security guy for Starbucks is, shockingly, retired FBI. Apparently, he was struck by what she ordered. Grande Frappuccino with a biscotti cookie blended into it. And she also got one pump of white mocha syrup in it.”

Benny made a face. “Jesus, that ain’t coffee. Sounds like fuckin’ Dairy Queen.”

“I don’t know about coffee,” Jessica said. “But I do know the security guy said that’s a really unusual drink—off their ‘secret’ menu—and he thought he could pull a short list of every time it’s been ordered at a Miami airport Starbucks going back to the beginning of Benny’s list. If it’s Gina’s regular order, we may really get lucky.”

Five hours later, Jessica and Benny came through her office door, the giant behind the FBI agent, both with arms overhead. Benny pulled his arms down so he could clear the doorway, but then raised them again.

“What?” Nora asked. “We got something from Starbucks?”

Benny started to speak, then stopped and turned to Jessica with mock seriousness. “Would you like to brief our colleague?”

“With pleasure,” Jessica said with a faint British accent. In a normal voice, she continued, “We got that Biscotti Frappuccino with a single white-mocha pump ordered a few days before almost every hit, including D’Amico and Governor Burke. Every damn one except the Atlanta hit. It’s her drink! We got this bitch, and her fancy-pants Starbucks secret-menu shit. We got her. Now Miami is all over the saved airport camera coverage, watching her walk with her secret drink. Only a matter of time before we put her on flights, collect the flight manifests to find the common passenger, and figure out the name she uses. We’ll know fast. Bam.”