Kilgore tossed a copy of the jury list onto Lance’s desk. “Sixty names. Fats says he knows at least half of them.”
Lance grabbed the list and studied each name without a word. As a quiet businessman, he avoided the public and rarely made an effort to meet a stranger. He had long since accepted the reality that most people viewed him as shady and dishonest, and he didn’t care as long as the money rolled in. He was wealthier than all but a handful on the Coast. The only gathering Lance attended was Mass every Sunday.
He checked off six names that looked familiar.
Kilgore recognized fifteen. He said, “You know, I’ve lived here over forty years and think I know a lot of people, but every time I get one of these jury lists I feel like a stranger.”
As Joshua Burch had labored through his maneuvers and delays, he and Lance and Ginger became convinced that her trial was a crucial showdown with Jesse Rudy. He had already won the nuisance case, though it was on appeal and Carousel was busier than ever. But it was still a major victory for him, especially if the Mississippi Supreme Court affirmed the chancellor’s ruling and forced the club to close. A criminal conviction for running a brothel would put Ginger in prison, close her clubs, and embolden Rudy to use the same statute to indict and prosecute others.
Though the owners were a ragtag, disorganized gang of crooks who competed against each other, despised each other, and often fought each other, there were moments when Lance could command some respect and get the others to follow for their own good. The trial of Ginger Redfield was that moment.
Copies of the list went out. By nine o’clock that evening, the owner of every nightclub, bar, pool hall, and strip joint had the list and was asking about names.
* * *
The first two witnesses called by the State were Chuck Armstrong and Dennis Greenleaf, the same two off-duty policemen who had testified in the nuisance case ten months earlier. They had gone to Carousel, bought drinks for Marlene and another girl, had more drinks, then negotiated a price for an upstairs visit. They observed other waitresses hustling johns and there was plenty of traffic in and out of the bar. They watched several men do the same thing they had done, except the other guys left with the girls.
Both witnesses had been grilled by Joshua Burch before, and they had been thoroughly prepped by Jesse Rudy. They held their own and stayed cool and professional when Burch accused them of procuring prostitutes and trying to lead young ladies astray.
Jesse kept one eye on the jury as Burch railed away. Eight men, four women, all white. Three Baptists, three Catholics, two Methodists, two Pentecostals, and two outright sinners who claimed no church affiliation. Most of them seemed amused by Burch’s overly dramatic insinuation that the officers were corrupting the naive waitresses. Everyone within a hundred miles of the courthouse knew the reputations of the nightclubs. They had heard the stories for years.
Keith’s job was to take notes, watch the jurors, and try to keep an eye on the crowd behind him. The courtroom was about half full and he did not see another club owner. At some point, though, during the testimony of Greenleaf, he glanced around and was surprised to see Hugh Malco sitting in the back row. They made eye contact, then both looked away nonchalantly as if neither cared what the other was doing. Hugh’s hair was longer and he was growing a mustache. He looked thicker in the chest, and Keith thought it was because of too much beer in the pool halls. They had come a long way since 1960 and their glory years as all-stars, and the divide between them was deep and permanent.
But, in spite of their radically different paths, Keith, if only for a second, had a soft spot for his old buddy.
After the morning recess, Jesse called two more officers to the stand, and their testimony was similar to the first two. More of the same pickup routines but with different girls. More promises of sex at fifty dollars a half hour, double that for sixty minutes.
As Burch went through another performance on cross-examination, Jesse took notes and watched the jurors. Number eight was a man named Nunzio, age forty-three, alleged Methodist, and he seemed detached from the trial, with the odd habit of staring at either the ceiling or his shoes.