Ghost Witness, Part One

“The defense calls Tom Jurgen.”

            I stood up and straightened my necktie, nervous. Rachel patted my arm. At the witness stand I placed my hand on a Bible as the bailiff took me through the oath. After “I do,” I sat down and adjusted my necktie again.

            Stuart Paulus, attorney for the defense, walked up to the witness box. His necktie was perfectly straight. “Your name?”

            “Thomas Hale Jurgen.”

            “And your profession?”

            “I’m a private investigator.”

            Paulus turned to the defense table. Jordyne Sail, hands folded, looked at me without expression.

“You were hired by Arick Sail to follow his wife? The defendant?”

“That’s right. He suspected her of cheating on him.”

“And what happened?”

 

Jordyne Sail had started calling her husband Arick to tell him she’d be home late from her job at a marketing firm downtown. He got suspicious, and hired me to check on her. Fortunately for me, she usually notified her husband in the middle of the afternoon, so I didn’t have to rush to catch her.

            “She just called,” Sail told me on the phone a day after hiring me. “She usually leaves work at five or so. But maybe she leaves early if she’s meeting someone.”

            “I’ll be there at four.” At least I could charge him for standing on the street outside her office building. “I’ll call you when I’m there, and you can call her to confirm she hasn’t left yet.”

            Cheating spouse cases are usually straightforward, and usually unpleasant even when I don’t have to be there for the final confrontation. I hoped I missed it for Arick and Jordyne Sail.

            At 3:30 I kissed my girlfriend Rachel. “Off to catch a cheater. Maybe.”

            “Good luck. Curry for dinner?” It was her night to cook. Rachel’s a vegetarian.

            “Sounds good.” I got my jacket and headed out.

            Jordyne left her office building at 4:46, walked three blocks, and entered a small bar off LaSalle Street. At barely five o’clock on a weekday, it wasn’t very crowded. She took a table out of sight of the window, and I perched on a barstool as close to her table as I dared, ordering a beer.

            Jordyne Sail was 35, Black, cute, with a long, thin face and a pointy nose. She wore a tan pantsuit and a briefcase slung over one shoulder, now on the floor at her feet. She set her phone on the table next to a glass of white wine and folded her hands. 

She sat alone. Waiting for someone? I managed a few pictures and six seconds of video on my phone without being noticed. She seemed to be talking to someone—I assumed she was on her phone, although I didn’t see any earpiece. Maybe her hair hid it.. 

Her table was more or less on the path to the restroom, so I got up and headed to the short hallway, hoping to hear some of her conversation, but she was too quiet and the bar was getting noisier as it started to fill up.

On my way back I noticed a second glass on her table. It looked like a bourdon on the rocks. Untouched. Did her date stand her up? 

At 6:05 Jordyne Sail paid her bill with cash and left. On the sidewalk I saw her get into an Uber. I sent the pictures to my client and went home.

 

“Did that happen again?” Paulus asked.

            I nodded. “I followed Ms. Sail two more times. Both times she visited the same bar for about an hour, drinking a white wine and leaving an unfinished glass of bourbon on the table.”

            “And you reported this to your client? How did he react?”

            He’d yelled at me. But I couldn’t say that. “He was—he felt she was playing some kind of trick on me.”

            Paulus paused. “Did Mr. Sail have anyone particularly in mind when he hired you? Someone he was suspicious of?”

            “He was worried about a man named Clark Weston. A friend of his wife’s from college. More than a friend, apparently.”

            Jordyne lowered her eyes, as if the name brought on memories she didn’t dare share.

            “I did check, though, and found that Clark Weston died several years ago,” I finished. 

            “I see.” Paulus let that hang in the air a moment. Then he asked, “What happened next?”

 

“She says it’s some kind of seminar.” Arick Sail’s words came fast and bitter. “Leaving at two, but home tonight. Late. You’ve got to get her.”

            “I’ll do my best.” Following Jordyne on foot a few blocks was easy enough; if she took a  taxi or an Uber anywhere, surveillance would be a lot more complicated. 

            “Just do something, okay? I know something’s going on! What am I paying you for?”

            “I will do my best, sir,” I said again, and Sail hung up. Asshole.

            I couldn’t really blame him, though. He was basically paying me to drink beer. I was mostly worried about how he’d react if I lost her this time.

            “Everything okay?” Rachel looked up from her desk across the office we share.

            “Just a client.”

            Rachel nodded. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and at least some psychic power. She’s also a graphic designer, and she has her share of impatient clients too. 

             I checked the time—12:32. A quick lunch, and then downtown. “Mac and cheese for dinner?” It was my turn to cook.

            “As long as it’s not out of a box.”

            “I’ve got a recipe.”

            I didn’t testify to all that, of course. Here’s what I did say:

            At 1:30 I was again out across the street from Jordyne’s building. She came out at 1:54, in a blue skirt and a blazer, rolling a bag behind her. She turned in the opposite direction she usually took to the bar.

I followed, dodging cars to get across the street, and stayed 20 feet behind as she hurried down the sidewalk, as if she didn’t want to be late for—something. After 20 minutes up one block and down the next, she paused, caught her breath, and then pulled her bag through a set of revolving doors. 

HOTEL CARIBE. The sign above the door had a Latinesque font. I pushed on the door and went inside.

Jordyne was at the reception desk talking to a young Asian woman at a computer. The lobby was all dark wood and recessed lighting. I stood 10 feet behind her, too far to hear any words, but I saw Jordyne take a wallet from her blazer and hand over a credit card. After a moment, the woman returned the card and gave her a small envelope with her key card. Jordyne thanked her and went to the elevators.

The woman looked at me with a welcoming smile. “Yes?”

There was no way I’d get any information out of her. And I didn’t really need it. This would make my client—well, not happy, but maybe satisfied. It would ruin their marriage, wreck his wife’s life, but that wasn’t my problem. I’d get paid.

“Nothing, thanks.” I turned and left.

 

“So, did you then report to your client?” Paulus asked.

            “Yes.” I nodded. “I told him I’d observed his wife checking into a hotel. There was a Starbucks across the street, and I stayed there all afternoon and into the evening until Ms. Sail left.”

            “Alone.”

            “Alone. I never saw anyone with her.”

            “You reported all this to your client?”

            “I emailed him that evening, and sent a formal report and my invoice the next morning. I never spoke to him.”

            Paulus paused. “What happened next?”

            “Your honor?” The prosecuting attorney for the state, Claude Drake, was a tall Black man in a gray pinstripe suit. “Where is this all going?”

            The judge looked at Paulus. Helen Rizzola, a silver-haired woman in her fifties.  “Counselor? Are we going somewhere relevant soon?”

            “Yes, your honor.” Paulus looked nervous, almost as nervous as I felt. “A few more questions.”

            “Go ahead.” But her voice had a warning. She wouldn’t be patient forever.

            Paulus looked at me again. “What happened next, Mr. Jurgen?”

            I hesitated. “Well, then—you called me.”