Steve Martini - The Jury

THE JURY

Paul Madriani Book 10

Steve Martini

Synopsis:

Lean, speedy and packing a wallop of a plot twist at the end, the latest Paul Madriani legal thriller shows why Martini remains one of the form's most popular practitioners.

Madriani, still struggling to establish his law practice in San Diego, is defending Dr. David Crone, a brilliant genetic researcher accused of killing colleague Kalista Jordan: her strangled and dismembered body was found washed up on a beach. Not only does all the evidence point to Crone, but his lies and deceptions are starting to test the patience of Madriani and his partner, the quick-tempered Harry Hinds.

There may be motives aplenty was Jordan stealing trade secrets about human genome research from Crone's clinic and taking them to a rival company? Was Crone a spurned lover of the strikingly beautiful African-American Jordan? Did he catch her trying to sabotage his research because he previously had conducted controversial studies about the intellectual capacities of the different races? Unfortunately for the prosecution, the main witness who can shed light on motive is found dead the day before he is scheduled to testify.

Not only does the apparent suicide break the prosecution's momentum, it throws the whole case into chaos. In his sixth Madriani novel, Martini (The Attorney) takes the moving parts of a standard plot and spins them for maximum effect.

His secondary characters, while filling stock roles, are memorable in quirky ways, and a subplot about genetic illness in the family of one of Madriani's friends is executed with skill.

Prologue:

Her head rested against the concrete coving at the edge of the pool as she gazed up at the stars under a moonless sky. Her eyes were exotic brown ovals with a hint of mystery in the sculpted arch of the brows. They were always the first aspect anyone noticed when talking to her. Men seemed to get lost in them.

Her wet hair cascaded like liquid velvet and floated around her shoulders, tawny skin and slender neck. Her body had an air of athleticism that made Kalista Jordan a kind of magnet to men. Everything about her was perfectly proportioned, except perhaps her ambition.

Tall and slender, she fit the desired body style of the age. Without half trying, she had paid her way through college doing inside spreads for fashion magazines. According to people at the agency, she could have had an annual seven-figure future in modeling. She had been offered some covers but passed them up, refusing to move to New York.

The arc of fame for models was too short. Kalista would rather waste her body than her brain, though she wasn't into giving up either easily. She wanted a career that would span more than a few fashion seasons and end up in a pile of used newsprint.

She finished her undergraduate degree at the University of Chicago and quit the catwalks. An African-American woman with a straight A average in engineering and science, she was heavily recruited by graduate schools. She ended up taking a full scholarship at Stanford.

It took Kalista six years, but when she was finished she held a doctorate in molecular electronics, one of only two women in the field on the West Coast. It was cutting edge, the latest science for a new millennium.

Lying in the warm waters of the hot tub she marked the guidepost of the dark night sky--something she had learned from her mother as a child.

She located Ursa Major, the "Big Dipper." Then extending her right arm to full length, Kalista formed a loose fist with the thumb and little finger pointed out, like a telephone receiver. Using this to sight, she spanned twenty-eight degrees from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the little finger, the distance from Debhe, the last star on the lip of the Big Dipper, and found Polaris, the North Star.

She cocked her head a little for a better angle. Floating at the edge of the hot tub, she slowly mapped the visible cosmos: Leo Minor and Bootes, Antares, and Scorpius. Off to the left she found Sagittarius. She averted her vision just a little, using the more sensitive cones of peripheral vision to overcome the light pollution of the San Diego skyline. She scanned the myriad beads streaming overhead, the veil of the Milky Way.

She lost it for a moment, her attention distracted, something in the bushes behind her. She sat up, turned and looked, nothing, shadows. Perhaps a bird or the wind, though the night air seemed still.

She slid back down into the water; her head against the tub's edge anchored her body. Her bottom bobbed off the underwater bench, lifted by the silky warmth of the jetted bubbles. The billion shimmering stars drifted in and out of focus as the rising plume of steam wafted above the churning pool. Slowly the tight muscles of her back

relaxed, tensions born in the rancor of a hostile workplace. It was becoming more difficult to get up and go to work each day.

This evening she'd had another argument with David. This time he'd actually put his hands on her, in front of witnesses. He'd never done that before. It was a sign of his frustration. She was winning, and she knew it. She would call the lawyer and tell him in the morning. Physical touching was one of the legal litmus tests of harassment. While she was sure she was more than a match for David when it came to academic politics, the tension took its toll. The hot tub helped to ease it. Enveloped in the indolent warmth of the foaming waters, she thought about her next move.

The pool was a large, elegant affair---free-form in design. It was located at the center of the complex. Tonight it was empty. The Jacuzzi was at the far end.

On rowdy nights he had seen it fill with a party of a dozen, pressing flesh and skimpy bathing suits, giggling girls and single guys all looking for a good time. He had been here every night for a week and he had not seen her. Tonight he got lucky.

The only light around the pool came from underwater, dancing blue reflections on the wall of the building nearby. This was the exercise room, though at this hour it was closed, locked and dark. He had carefully checked the facility, knew the terrain and the schedules for security, the locked gates and how to get through them if he had to.

They made it easy. There was an unmanned security kiosk out front, and a rolling iron gate that was automated. Tenants opened it from their car windows with the swipe of a card key. The gate was slow to close. Two or three cars routinely passed through on a single cycle and nobody checked to see if they were all tenants.

The complex was maybe twenty years old, one- and two-bedroom condos with a few studios. There was a sales office next to the exercise room. This closed at six, on the dot. The only security was a hired

company that came by and patrolled from a vehicle every three hours. He had timed them. The guard would do the rounds on the roads inside the complex, then sit in his car and smoke a cigarette in the parking lot out near the front gate.

It took him between twelve and fourteen minutes to do the rounds and finish his cigarette. He operated like a night watchman, only without using a clock at checkpoints. Then the little white sedan with the blue private patrol emblem on the door would head out toward Genesee,for the next complex.

The area was condo city, graduate students and under grade from the university, along with' faculty and support staff. Some of the condos were rented, others owned outright.

The windows in most of the units at this hour were dark, though a few insomniacs quenched their need for companionship in the flickering eerie glow from television screens reflecting through closed drapes and drawn blinds.

The parking lot was quiet and for the most part dark, with only a couple of vapor lamps and some low-voltage garden lights to worry about.