Burners Read Free Page B

its western suburbs?
    “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
    Judge Malvo let out a loud, purposeful sigh.
    “I asked if you would be predisposed to finding a defendant guilty simply because he’s on trial, based on an earlier response.”
    Then I put it together.
    Daniels was connected to
this
case. As a…what? Couldn’t be an arresting officer. So an expert? Maybe there had been similar crimes in her jurisdiction, or she’d had an earlier run-in with the defendant.
    That meant she could wind up on the stand.
    Hmm…
    “Mr. Chapa,” the judge was gradually tilting toward me. “We’ve been here a long time.” Then he cupped a heavy hand over his microphone and whispered, “Could you please answer the goddamned question?”
    Jack Daniels’ head had snapped in my direction at the mention of my name. Now she was staring at me with a look that was equal parts disdain and confusion.
    “I apologize, Your Honor.”
    “Would you like the nice attorney to repeat the question again?”
    “Thank you, but no, I’m good.”
    Daniels was still staring at me, but the confusion half of the equation was gone from her face.
    I smiled at her, then turned my attention to the defense lawyer. This was simple, now. If I informed them that I knew Officer Daniels, that we’d once solved a case together, one that involved pogs no less, and that I’d saved her life along the way, I would immediately be excused.
    But it wasn’t simple. A journalist’s curiosity has a way of complicating things. If a Chicago cop was involved it meant that his trial had the potential of being a much bigger story than I had imagined. And while I could ask to be assigned to cover it and spend my days sitting in the gallery, I now had the opportunity to track it from the inside, as an active member, as a juror.
    As the attorneys grew more impatient waiting for my answer, I imagined the series I could write after it was all over. I knew what I had to do.
    “I have absolutely no predisposition about a defendant’s guilt or innocence, and I’m certain I can render a just verdict based on the evidence as presented. If I was unable to do that, I wouldn’t be much of a journalist.” I leaned forward for emphasis. “And I’m a very good journalist.”
    I didn’t have to look in her direction to know Daniels was staring at me. And as the defense team conferred, I did my best to avoid thinking about what I had just done to the next several days, weeks, or maybe even months of my life.

  

T he last time I saw Alex Chapa I’d almost arrested him for B&E. He talked his way out of it, and wound up playing a significant role in solving a string of homicides. While I wasn’t fond of his profession—cops and reporters are like oil and water—he was okay by me.
    Seeing him on the stand, participating in his state-mandated civic duty, I figured he wanted to be here as much as I did. Which is why I found it odd that his answers indicated a desire to be selected as a jury member, especially since that didn’t seem to be the route he was taking up until he noticed me.
    Either he had the hots for me, or he thought there was a story to be had—Chapa sniffed out stories like hounds tracked foxes. I might have butted in, told the court that we knew each other, which probably would have resulted in his dismissal, but I had two good reasons to keep my mouth shut. A quick view of the courtroom showed me the jury hadn’t been fully selected yet, and if Chapa was bounced it could be hours before he was replaced. Also, I was here in Birch Grove alone. If my stay in this quaint little suburb lasted for more than a day, and he was after a story, he’d no doubt want to talk to me, which would result in a few free drinks, maybe even dinner after the trial was over.
    Plus, I’d once saved Chapa’s life, so he owed me a drink—at the very least.
    My stomach growled, and I realized I needed something more substantial than the Snickers bar I’d eaten back when