Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Three Strikes and You're Dead (9 page)
“We’ll see this afternoon,” Jack said. “I know the judge who’s scheduled to preside over Ty’s hearing, knew him back in New York before he pulled up stakes and headed west. These Southwestern states are crawling with former judges and lawyers from back East. They come out here, ostensibly to retire, and end up sitting on the bench again. If the judge does grant bail, they’ll yank Ty’s passport and stipulate that he not leave Mesa for any reason. Looks like we’ll be here a lot longer than we’d planned.”
The Duffys had intended that once baseball season was over, Jack would spend weekdays in Jersey City and commute back to Mesa by air for a few weeks before they packed up and drove cross-country to their home in New Jersey. The Arizona house rental was up in a few weeks. Now it looked as if they’d have to extend it if they could. Fortunately, Jack was semi-retired and able to choose which cases he presided over.
Jack suddenly accelerated.
“Jack, slow down,” Meg said.
“Look behind us,” Jack said, his eyes darting from the road ahead to his rearview mirror. “Those damn reporters are on our tail.”
Meg and I turned to see what appeared to be a caravan of media.
“Why are we running?” Meg asked. “Actually, I’d like to speak to the press to tell them that Ty is innocent. The boy needs a voice, someone to champion him. This story is probably all over the news, and not only locally.” She spoke as though reading from an article: “Young baseball star, on the brink of being called up to the major leagues, sits in an Arizona jail accused of murdering a competitor—who also happens to be the son of the team’s owner.” She smashed her fist on the dashboard.
“Stay tuned!”
“Stay tuned!”
Jack took a sharp right, onto a narrow two-lane road.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Back to the jail,” Jack announced. “There’s a restaurant next door where we can get something to eat, and there’s always plenty of cops around to help fend off the press. You must be famished, Jessica.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said.
“We sure haven’t been,” Jack said. “Some host and hostess we’ve turned out to be.”
“My only concern is not to be in the way.”
“You’re not. I’m so grateful you’re here,” Meg said. “I need all the moral support I can get.”
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have with us at this time, Jessica,” Jack said. “I hope you’ll stay and give us the benefit of your experience.”
“You know I’ll help however I can, Jack. You don’t need to ask.”
We pulled up in front of the restaurant and Jack let out a short laugh, more of a snort. “House Arrest,” he said, pointing to the sign that hung over the restaurant’s front door.
“Clever name for a restaurant located next door to a jail,” I said.
“The owner’s a former New York City cop.”
“Obviously one with a sense of humor,” I said.
Jack opened the car door for me. “Maybe you can use it in your next book.”
“I just hope it’s not nonfiction,” Meg said quietly. “I’ve had enough reality today to last me a lifetime.”
Jack took his wife’s hand as she exited the car. She had aged years since the phone call early that morning. The color in her face was gone. Even her lips were colorless, and dark circles shadowed her blue eyes.
“Judge Duffy,” a woman called. It was the TV reporter, Karen Locke. Despite being up most of the night herself, she appeared, as news reporters always seem to, perfectly coiffed and ready to go.
“How’s Ty doing?” she asked. The question was innocent enough, except that a microphone was simultaneously shoved in front of Jack’s face.
“No comment,” Jack said firmly. He grabbed Meg’s arm as well as mine and hurried us toward the restaurant’s entrance.
“End of his baseball dream, wouldn’t you say?” Locke asked loudly, with what could be characterized as a smirk on her face.
Jack stopped in his tracks and spun around. I could feel him shaking with anger. He started to respond but stopped in midsentence and said to us, “Let’s go inside before there’s a second member of this family charged with murder.”
The restaurant’s owner greeted Jack warmly and had seated us at a booth in the back where we could have some privacy when my cell phone rang. I peered at the tiny screen. Caller ID told me it was Mort Metzger on the other end.
“If you don’t mind,” I said to Jack and Meg, “I’d like to take this call.” I pressed the TALK button.
“Mrs. F, I just heard on the news about your friends’ kid being accused of killing another ballplayer. How are they taking it?”
“Please hold on a moment, Mort.” I excused myself and slipped out of the booth to go outside. Not only did I not want to disturb anyone by talking on my cell phone—I find it exceptionally rude when people speak on a cell phone in a restaurant or other public place—but I didn’t want Meg or Jack to know that the news of their son’s murder charge had already traveled all the way to Cabot Cove, Maine.
As I opened the restaurant door to go outside, I saw Karen Locke heading straight for it. I quickly retreated and went into a small, dark hallway that led to the restrooms to continue my conversation. Ms. Locke entered the restaurant and was hurrying in my direction. I faced the wall outside the ladies’ room, hoping she wouldn’t recognize me. She forcefully swung the ladies’ room door open, bumping into me as she did, but she looked to be in too much of a hurry to apologize. Not that I would have expected it from her. Karen Locke didn’t strike me as being the most polite of women.
Mort must have heard the commotion on the other end because he asked, “You okay, Jess?”
“Yes, I’m fine, Mort,” I whispered. “It’s tough for me to talk right now. I’m in a restaurant and the place is buzzing with media and Lord knows who else.”
I was afraid to continue, fearing that Ms. Locke could hear my conversation through the wall. “I’ll have to call you back,” I said.
“Sure, no problem. Call me whenever you can.”
“Thanks for understanding, Mort. I’ll speak to you later. And by the way, I don’t think Ty Ramos murdered anyone. Good-bye.”
Knowing Ms. Locke was in the ladies’ room, I debated going in. But she’d been at the Coyote last night. What did she know about what took place there? I braced myself and pushed through the door, expecting to see her in front of a sink, perhaps preening for her next on-air moment. But the bathroom was eerily quiet, and for a moment I wondered whether she had magically slipped past me, or disappeared through the exhaust vent like an apparition. But my escape-artist suspicions were lifted when I heard the sound of someone being sick.
I remembered what Ty had told us about the Crazy Coyote, that Locke had been sick last night, too.
That’s quite a hangover,
I thought. Or perhaps she had the flu. In good conscience, I couldn’t leave her alone. I scanned the openings beneath the stall doors. There she was—her red slingback shoes gave her away.
That’s quite a hangover,
I thought. Or perhaps she had the flu. In good conscience, I couldn’t leave her alone. I scanned the openings beneath the stall doors. There she was—her red slingback shoes gave her away.
“Are you all right?” I called. “Do you need any help?”
“No, thank you,” she replied. “I’ll be okay.”
She flushed the toilet and emerged, pale and perspiring.
“Too much partying?” I said, hoping to raise the topic of the Coyote.
“I don’t drink,” she said as she washed her hands and checked her face in the mirror. “Had some bad clams last night. That’s the last time I eat in that restaurant.” She took a piece of chewing gum from her pocket and gave me a wan smile.
“Ms. Locke, I’d like to talk to you if I may.”
“No time. Sorry. I’m on a hot story.” She brushed past me and left the ladies’ room.
And you’re part of that story,
I thought.
But what part?
I thought.
But what part?
Chapter Seven
“Mr. Ramos, do you understand the charges against you?”
“Yes, sir,” Ty replied. He spoke softly and tentatively, like a little boy caught by the school principal.
“How do you plead, Mr. Ramos?”
“Not guilty, sir.”
“It’s my understanding that you reside with an officer of the court, Judge Jack Duffy.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“I’ve taken that into consideration regarding whether to grant you bail. The district attorney, as you’ve heard, has asked that no bail be granted. Under ordinary circumstances, I would support the prosecution in the matter of bail. But considering your young age, and the fact that you’ve not been in trouble with the law since moving here to continue your baseball career, I’m going to have you post bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’ll surrender your passport to the court clerk and must understand that you are not to leave Mesa until this matter has been fully adjudicated. I’m also ordering that you be under house arrest and wear an ankle bracelet to monitor your location for the duration.” The judge, an elderly gentleman with wispy rust-colored hair and a ruddy complexion, smiled at Ty. “Congratulations on winning your game with that home run. I was rooting for you to do it.” Realizing he might have gone too far, he cast an embarrassed glance at the prosecutor and announced in his best stentorian voice, “Court adjourned.” The gavel came down hard on the bench and he strode from the courtroom, black robe trailing behind him.
Naturally, I was extremely pleased with the judge’s decision, as I knew Jack and Meg were. But I also realized that, as restricted as it might be, Ty’s getting his freedom because of connections Jack might have had would become added fodder for the media.
A great sidebar story.
A great sidebar story.
Meg and I waited in the hall while Jack arranged for Ty’s bail, putting up his house back in New Jersey as collateral. A policewoman, who looked to be over six feet tall, waited with us for security purposes. I smiled and thanked her for holding the door for us. She did not return the smile nor acknowledge me in any way. An imposing lady, not one you’d want to come up against.
Given the original media interest in the story, I feared reporters would hound everyone involved, day and night. We’d be beset by TV stations and other media competing for viewership and readership, which translated into ratings, which further translated into higher advertising revenues. The story of Junior Bennett’s murder, and the accusation that Ty had committed the crime, was “hot,” as Karen Locke had said. How frightening it must be for celebrities to be relentlessly pursued by paparazzi. I thought about what Ty had said, that people wanted to see him fail. How sad that he thought that, and even sadder that it might be true. He was a young man who’d had the world by the tail—with brains and talent and good fortune. From the depths, he’d been singled out of the crowd and given a chance to succeed. That he had succeeded inspired admiration, but it also engendered jealousy. A tough lesson for any young man. For superior athletes, it starts early.
Jack, Ty, and Ty’s lawyer came down the hall, escorted by two policemen.
I didn’t know who appeared to be more exhausted, the father or the son. In contrast, David Pierce was as immaculate as when we’d first seen him, not a wrinkle in his suit or shirt. Ty and Jack had five-o’clock shadows, and Ty’s eyes were practically swollen shut, a combination of that fatigue and the effects of weeping.
When Ty reached us, Meg gave him a kiss on the cheek. He tried to smile at her, but it came out more like a grimace. He seemed too tired to try again.
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