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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

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BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead

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“I like them, too,” I said. “Autumn is my favorite. Of course, I change my mind every spring.”

It was a two-story house and my bedroom was at the back, with sliding doors leading to a small balcony. I went through my nightly ablutions, slipped into a lightweight nightgown and a powder-blue cotton bathrobe that I always travel with, and sat outside the sliding doors for what seemed a very long time, looking out into the darkness and reflecting on what had transpired that evening. I thought of the epithet Junior Bennett had uttered as he passed my chair, and of the cell phone conversation I’d overheard outside the hotel. The man had said that “Ramos” would pay the money. The only Ramos I knew was Ty Ramos. What money? To whom?

None of my business, I told myself as I closed the drapes over the doors, dropped the robe on a chair, and climbed between the delightfully cool, fresh sheets.

In my dream, I was being chased by a dozen giant scorpions wearing cowboy boots, the spurs jingling. Away from home and in a strange bed, I was groggy trying to fend off the scorpions. I reached for a button to shut off the ringing alarm, but the clock didn’t have one. I had awakened confused, until it came to me that it was the sound of a telephone that had stirred me from my sleep. After three sequences, the ringing stopped and I realized where I was.

“We’ll be right there,” Jack said outside my door. Meg and Jack spoke in hushed tones. I glanced at the clock: 4:06 A.M. I put on my robe and slippers and walked cautiously into the hall, where Meg met me.

“Jessica, I’m so sorry we disturbed your sleep.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Ty. He’s—he’s been arrested.”

“Arrested? For what?”

“We don’t know. Jack’s getting dressed. He’s going to the jail. I’m going with him.”

“I’d like to go, too, if you think it’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right, but only if you want to. I don’t want to put you out.”

“I’ll get dressed right away,” I said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

We spent most of the thirty-minute car ride to the jail not speaking. It was one of those times in life when you have so many questions but are afraid that to ask them would be inappropriate, considering the shock my friends were suffering. Jack’s face was set in stone, eyes focused on the road, his square jaw in motion as he chewed on his cheek.

Meg and I stared out our respective windows and watched as Mesa began to stir. It was already in the eighties, and the horizon grew lighter as the desert sun promised to peek through within the hour. We passed several strip malls, a school, and a succession of neighborhoods.

“Jack phoned a lawyer friend of his in town and asked him to meet us at the jail,” Meg finally said.

“That’s good,” I said, “although hopefully it’s all been a mistake and an attorney won’t be needed.” While my words were positive and meant to comfort, my inner feelings didn’t match them. Somehow, this was no mistake. I could feel it in my bones, and in a stomach that had been churning ever since Meg told me that Ty had been arrested.

“I pray that you’re right,” Meg said.

“What’s the drinking age in Arizona?” I asked.

“Twenty-one,” Jack growled, never taking his eyes off the road.

“Is it possible that in the midst of the celebration, Ty might have had a beer or two and has been taken in for driving while under the influence and for being underage?” I asked.

Meg sat straighter and brightened. “I’ll bet that’s it,” she said. “Boys that age do so many silly things.”

“I wouldn’t call that silly,” Jack said, taking a corner too fast and pressing me against the door.

“You know what I mean,” Meg said. “Maybe ‘foolish’ is a better word.” She turned to me. “We bought Ty a used Jeep Wrangler, one of those small ones with a canvas top. First-year ballplayers make so little money. Jack said he’d heard that Ty drove too fast when his teammates were with him. I hope he hasn’t been in an accident.”

“I spoke with Buddy Washington about it,” Jack said as we turned into the police headquarters parking lot. “I suggested he have a talk with the players about responsibilities
off
the field as well as on. He said he intended to do that, but—Damn it!”

“What’s wrong?” Meg asked.

“Look,” Jack said. “The press is already here.”

A television news van was parked outside the station, its floodlight lighting up the lot like a Holly-wood set. I recognized the reporter, Karen Locke, from the locker room at last night’s game. She was leaning against the van, her arms crossed. Another female reporter, a pretty black woman, stood next to Locke, primping in one of the van’s side mirrors. Jack got out of the car first. When Locke recognized who it was, she alerted the cameraman and they rushed toward us. Ms. Locke shoved a microphone into Jack’s face and asked, “Judge Duffy, how do you feel about your foster son’s arrest for murder?”

Chapter Five

As the early morning grew warmer, thanks to a bulbous sun that began to appear above the horizon, the media frenzy outside the jail began to swell. A shaken Jack had brushed off questions from Locke and other reporters and led us inside, where an officer at the desk told us to wait. Sheriff Hualga was unavailable and would get in touch with us later.

After what seemed an eternity, the three of us were escorted down a narrow hallway to a small, inadequately air-conditioned room in which Ty sat with Jack’s lawyer friend, David Pierce. In his mid-forties, with broad shoulders and a thick neck, Pierce looked more like a football player than any lawyer I knew. He had a healthy head of wavy black hair and a closely clipped goatee. Even though it was so early in the morning, he was dressed in a beautifully tailored navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red regimental tie. When he stood to greet us, it was apparent that he was a man who’d once been an athlete and who probably devoted a good part of each day to staying fit.

By contrast, Ty looked exhausted, his eyes half closed, his body language testifying to his fatigue. An orange jailhouse shirt hung loosely from his lanky frame, and his shoes were missing. He still wore his own jeans and socks, now dusty and soiled from his ordeal. As we made eye contact, I smiled, silently reminding myself that he, like every other person charged with a crime in America, was innocent until proven guilty. His eyes flitted back and forth between Meg and me, but their expression was vacant. Up until that point, he hadn’t looked at the judge, his foster father.

Pierce and Ty sat on one side of the wooden table, the three of us on the other, with Meg in the middle, between Jack and me. The police officer who had escorted us stood near the door with a second officer who had been in the room with Ty and Pierce when we arrived.

“Ty, you look awful. Are you hurt? What happened?” Meg pleaded. “Tell us.”

Tears tumbled down Ty’s face and he buried his head in his hands. Jack took Meg’s hand and asked Ty’s lawyer, “What’s the charge, David? A reporter outside said it was murder.”

Pierce placed his elbows on the worn table and winced. He didn’t have to say a thing. His face confirmed the bad news. “That’s right, Jack. He’s being charged with second-degree murder.”

Meg gasped, “Oh, my God.” She began to cry and I put my arm around her.

“Who?” Jack bit out.

“Junior Bennett.”

Jack muttered a curse.

“Junior was found bludgeoned to death,” Pierce continued. “They haven’t told me if they found the weapon yet.”

“I don’t believe it. You didn’t kill Junior, did you, son?”

Ty swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “No, sir,” he said in a hoarse voice. He turned to Meg. “I swear I didn’t do it.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Someone has to believe me. I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t.”

Meg reached across the table and placed her hand over his fist.

“Take it easy, son,” Jack said. “I want you to take a deep breath and tell us exactly what happened, everything that you remember.”

“That’s the problem,” Pierce put in.

“What’s the problem?”

“He doesn’t remember—at least he doesn’t remember everything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack said, his voice rising, his face getting red. He was holding in his temper, but the effort was taking its toll.

“Why don’t you tell us what you
do
remember,” I said, drawing Ty’s attention away from his foster father.

Ty closed his eyes, and then slowly opened them, looking at me. “I went to the Crazy Coyote with a bunch of guys after we left the hotel dinner— Nassani, Murph, Wilson, and Bobley. I drove my Jeep. Carter was driving some of the other guys and we were going to meet up there.”

“Okay, stop,” said Jack. “Where is this place?”

“It’s out of town on the road to Apache Junction.”

“What time did you leave the hotel?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe a couple minutes after you did. Sylvester wanted to talk to me before I left, but it wasn’t long. He was meeting someone for a drink in the bar.”

“Go on,” Jack said.

Ty shrugged. “That’s it. We left the hotel, changed our clothes in the parking lot, and drove to the Coyote.”

Jack interrupted. “You changed clothes in the parking lot?”

“We didn’t want to wear suits to the Coyote. We get hassled enough as it is in there. So I’d thrown a pair of jeans and a T-shirt into the trunk so I could change, and the other guys did, too.”

“Why aren’t you wearing your T-shirt now?” I asked before Jack could interrogate him about the decision to use the parking lot as a changing room.

“The police made me take it off.”

“Apparently there was blood on his shirt,” Pierce said. “They took it for evidence.”

“Your shoes, too?” I asked Ty.

He looked down at his feet under the table, as if he hadn’t realized his shoes were gone. He nodded. “I guess.”

“What kind of shoes did you have on?”

“Nikes. Sneakers.”

“How long did it take to get there?” asked Jack.

Ty looked confused. “Where?”

“To the Coyote.”

Pierce interrupted, “Listen, folks, I think we should let Ty tell the story his way first, details later.”

Jack put his hands up in defeat and mumbled, “Okay. Proceed.”

“Where was I?” Ty said, picking up a pencil from the table and tapping it on his thigh. “Oh, yeah, so we went to the Coyote. We had some beer. Look, I know what you always told me, I know I’m not supposed to be drinking, but we were celebrating and I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

Jack cut him off. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. We just had a couple of beers.”

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead

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