Ghost Witness

When a cheating spouse case ends in murder, Tom is called to the witness stand. But will the surprise witness make his appearance?

 

(Yes, I have been watching a lot of legal dramas lately.)

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.”

Ghost Witness, Part Two

“Thomas Jurgen?” The call came from a number my phone didn’t recognize. The voice was agitated.

            “Speaking. Can I help you?”

            “My name is Stuart Paulus. I’m a lawyer representing Jordyne Sail. Arick Sail hired you on a domestic case involving his wife. Is that you?”

            I hesitated. “Well, I’m not really supposed to disclose who my clients are—”

            “Arick Sail is dead, Mr. Jurgen. Jordyne Sail is charged in his murder.”

            “What?” I shot back in my chair. Rachel turned, cocking an eyebrow.

            “Sail was murdered by blunt force trauma three days ago. From what I can gather, it was the same day you reported to him that his wife met someone at a hotel downtown.”

My stomach felt like a lead weight had dropped through it. This is why I hate domestic cases. “That’s—I didn’t hear anything about it.” Somehow I’d missed it in the papers.

“I need to talk to you. Actually, I need you to talk to me and Ms. Sail. I’m trying to arrange bail, but for the moment she’s being held downtown.”

I took a breath, fighting to keep my voice from shaking. “Uh, all right. What time?” It was 10:30.

“Two o’clock.” He hung up.

“What is it?” Rachel is psychic, but she didn’t need that to see I was upset.

“My client. Sail? He—his wife killed him.”

“Oh my god.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not—are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I squeezed her hand. I always tell myself I’m not responsible for what my clients do. I’m just doing a job.. Sometimes I even believe it.

I reached for my coffee, wishing for something stronger. Even at 10:30 in the morning. “That was the wife’s lawyer. He wants to meet with me. And her.”

“What for?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

 

Jordyne Sail wore the standard-issue orange jumpsuit. Her eyes looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. They were glaring daggers at me as I sat down.

            The room was small, with harsh fluorescent tubes in the ceiling and cracked yellow paint on the wall. Stuart Paulus, a Black man in his forties with a flat face and a slight paunch in his stomach, wore a jacket with no tie and a wrinkled shirt.

            “Mr. Jurgen.” We didn’t shake hands. “Can you tell us exactly what you did for Ms. Sail’s husband?”

            I sighed and sat. “I followed her.” I forced myself to look Jordyne in the face. “I followed you. To a bar two times, and then to a hotel. I reported to my—to your husband. That’s all.”

            “But you didn’t see her with anyone.” Paulus kept his eyes on me.

            “No. I can testify to that, if that’s helpful—”

            “Stuart, can I just tell him what happened?” Jordyne seemed close to collapse—or an eruption. Whichever came first. “Then he’ll see—”

            “Just a moment.” He lifted a hand. “Arick asked you to look into a friend of Jordyne’s, right?”

            “Clark Weston, yeah. He’s dead. I didn’t have any other names.”

            “Right. How did Arick seem to you?”

            I glanced at Jordyne. “Angry. Jealous. Consumed with suspicion. I tried—I did try to help him stay calm. These cases are always difficult, but there’s no point in letting it drive you crazy. I told him that. Before you know the truth, you have to ask yourself what you really want to do. I usually tell people to talk to the other person, and listen. Lots of times couples end up reconciling.” Okay, rarely, but it happened.

            Jordyne laughed bitterly. “He didn’t want to talk.” She leaned across the table, pulling down the collar of her jumpsuit. 

            I could see deep red bruises around her neck, her throat. Damn it. He’d tried to strangle her?

            “So you’ve got self-defense,” I said. I felt stupid right away. Of course her lawyer would know that. What was I doing here?

            Paulus sat back. “Jordyne didn’t kill her husband.”

            Did this mean I could help somehow? “Who did?”

            “Clark.” Jordyne’s voice was firm. “Arick was going to kill me, and Clark saved my life.”

            “But . . . he’s dead.”

            “Yeah.” Paulus sighed. “That’s the problem.”

 

“He started the minute I got home.” Jordyne glared at me. “He told me he had someone following me. He told me your name, he showed me your card, and he said you saw me go into that hotel. I tried to tell him it was a mistake, that he didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He just kept yelling, and then his hands . . . his hands . . .” 

            She rubbed her neck, breathing shallowly. “I couldn’t breathe. I started to black out, and I was falling, falling, and everything was black, and then—and then I was on the floor, almost throwing up, and Clark was there.”

            Paulus and I exchanged glances. 

            “He—Arick won this award a few years back, this big black piece of steel with his name on it, mounted on a wood pedestal. It was heavy. He kept it in the living room, over the TV. He won it for sales, he sells computer hardware. Sold.” She shook her head. “And there was blood on it, and Arick was on the floor, and there was blood all over the back of his head, and he wasn’t moving.”

            She took a deep breath. “Clark sat down next to me. We sat there for a long time, not talking. Then someone knocked on the door. It was the police. We—we live in a condo, and the neighbors heard Arick shouting and me screaming. They—they looked around, and asked me some questions, and then they took me somewhere—to headquarters, I guess, and then they arrested me.”

            “What happened to Clark?” I asked quietly.

            She shook her head. “He was gone.” She started to cry.

            Paulus got the guard to take her back to her cell. Jordyne thanked him for coming, glared at me again, and left without resistance.

We sat in silence for a moment, not looking at each other.   

            “Okay.” Paulus folded his arms over his stomach. “We’ve got self-defense. The marks on her neck are consistent with someone strangling her from the front. But she couldn’t have gotten the sales award from the shelf and hit him with it in the back of the head while she was being strangled. Maybe he stopped, walked away, and then she hit him? But that makes self-defense a little fuzzy.”

            He sighed, looking across the table at the empty chair Jordyne had sat in. “Or there’s insanity. But that hardly ever works.”

            “Yeah.” I started working up my nerve for what I had to say. He’d laugh at me, but I knew I’d hate myself if I didn’t at least try. “Or . . .”

            “Or what?” His eyes zeroed in on me. Waiting for me to say it.

            “Or it’s the truth.” I looked at him. “Clark Weston killed her. His ghost.”

            I waited for him to laugh, or throw me out—or get a guard to throw me out. Instead he shook his head.

            “I knew I recognized your name,” he said.

            Yeah, I have a tendency to run into the supernatural more than I’d like. It’s gotten me a sort of reputation. Some people think I’m crazy. Others—eventually they come around.

            “You’ve seen ghosts.” Paulus leaned forward. “Right? It’s all over the internet.”

            “So it must be true?” I smiled.

            “You know what I mean. Or am I wrong?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen my share of ghosts. Séances, that sort of thing. Also demons, dragons, aliens, stuff like that.”

            “Dragons? Really?” His eyes widened.

            And more. “You really don’t want to know.”

            “Okay.” Paulus scowled. “I honestly don’t know how this is going to work. I’d have to plead insanity myself if we try to do this in open court.”

            “I need to talk to her some more. Can you get her back here again?”

            He shook his head. “I should give her some time. She’s not exactly your biggest fan right now.” He stood up. “I’ve got another bail hearing tomorrow. If she goes home, you can talk to her then.”

            “All right.” I stood up. “How did you end up defending her?”

            “I’m a friend of her sister’s husband.” He shrugged. “You take cases wherever you can, right? But I’ve tried murder before. I can handle this. I think.”

            I nodded. “I’m—tell her I’m sorry about what happened with the husband.”

            He shrugged. “All our clients can’t be angels, right? Thanks for coming.”

            I only hoped I could help.

 

Prosecuting attorney Claude Drake stood up. “Objection!” He turned to Paulus. “Are you seriously going to argue that the murderer was a ghost?” He faced the judge again. “Your honor, are you permitting this?”

            The judge pursed her lips. “Approach.”

            The two lawyers converged. They tried to keep their voices low, but I could hear them.

            “Counselor.” The judge addressed Paulus, her voice firm. “I won’t have my court turned into amateur night at the magic show. What are you up to?”

            Paulus, hands in his pockets, darted his eyes nervously between the prosecutor and the judge. “Your honor, the defendant is entitled to the defense she chooses. We are—”

            “No.” The judge shook her head. “Your job—your responsibility—is to advise your client on a solid defense. Not to indulge her whims and fantasies. If you want to submit a defense of insanity, this is the wrong way to do it.”

            “Your honor, this witness is the core of my case.” Paulus glanced at me, and stood his ground. “Please allow me to continue, and my opponent can cross-examine him to his heart’s content.”

            I wasn’t looking forward to that. But the judge finally nodded. “I’ll grant you a little leeway, counsel, but I don’t want today’s testimony to be the lead story on some ghost hunter’s podcast.” She waved the attorneys away.

            Drake sat down, whispering to an assistant. Paulus stood in front of me again. “What happened next, Mr. Jurgen?”

Ghost Witness, Part Three

Two days later I was in an apartment on the north side. Paulus had gotten bail for Jordyne Sail, but she didn’t want to go back to the condo where her husband had tried to strangle her. So she was staying with her sister, Clarissa.

            Clarissa glared at me as she opened the door. She kept glaring as she led us to the living room where Jordyne was sitting with her legs curled up on a sofa. sipping tea.

“Thanks for seeing us.” Paulus sat down. “You remember Tom Jurgen.”

She stared at me, then looked away. Clarissa stood by the door, watching everyone. Mostly me. 

“I am sorry for what happened,” I said as sincerely as I could. “I’m actually here trying to help undo some of the damage I’ve caused. If I can.”

Jordyne’s gaze was icy as the South Pole. “How?”

“Tell me about Clark.”

Her eyes flickered. She put her tea down and looked out the window at the park across the street. “We were in college. We were in love for two years. We were talking about getting married, after graduation. Then he—we got into this big, stupid fight, and we broke up. That was . . . 11 years ago.” She hugged her arms around her body.

“And he, uh . . . died?”

She nodded. “C-car accident.” I could barely hear her. 

“So when did you start seeing him again?”

Jordyne finally looked straight at us, defiant. “Nine months ago. I thought I was hallucinating, yeah. I’d see him on the street. He followed me. He tried to talk to me, but I ignored him, and then I told him to leave me alone, and people started looking at me like I was crazy. And that’s—that’s when I knew he was really there. Because I was the only one who could see him.”

She picked up her tea. “Yeah, I know that doesn’t make sense. But that’s what happened.”

“So you were at the bar with him Tuesday night? Last week?”

Jordyne nodded. “Yeah. I always order a whiskey for him. He can’t drink it, but he likes it there.”

“And the hotel?”

Her face flushed. “Yeah. Sometimes we—meet. Not that it was ever any of your goddamn business.”

There was no point in arguing. “How do you communicate?”

“He calls me. Not—not on the phone.” She pulled her phone from the pocket of her jeans. “I just—hear him. Then I have to pretend I’m on my phone. I use an earpiece sometimes, and people think I’m just talking to anybody.”

“Can you call him?” I asked.

She put the phone down next to her on the sofa. “S-sometimes.” Her voice was a whisper. 

Paulus and I looked at each other. How hard to push? She already didn’t like me. I didn’t want to alienate her any further. 

Paulus spoke. “What happened when you got home that night?”

Jordyne blinked. “I already told you all that. What?”

I leaned forward. “Clark knew you were in danger? Is that correct? And he came to help you?”

“I—I guess.” She shrugged. “We didn’t really talk after—after it happened.”

“He can be visible? Do things? In our world?”

She nodded, tense. Defensive. “We can—I feel him. He can touch things. Move stuff. It takes a lot of concentration for him to be visible and do stuff. A lot of energy. That’s why I can’t see him that often.”

I spoke slowly, cautiously. “Could you call him here?”

She looked around the room. “You mean, now?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see him.”

She stared. Not at us, or her sister. At nothing, thinking. 

Then she sighed. “Maybe.”

Paulus and I exchanged glances. In the doorway Clarissa sighed heavily, annoyed. Maybe she thought her sister was just crazy? But even she looked curious. 

Jordyne closed her eyes. Her lips fluttered in a whisper, “Clark?” I could barely hear her. “Clark?”

We waited. I figured we’d have to be patient. Paulus looked as if he was regretting bringing me here. Clarissa glared at me from the doorway, drumming her fingers.

“Clark?” Jordyne cocked her head, as if she could hear something in the distance. “Are you there? I really need to see you. I really need—these guys to see you.”

I thought I felt a sudden breeze across my neck. The curtains at the window shivered.

Jordyne smiled.

I turned. A man stood in the center of the room, looking at Jordyne. He had short hair, thin shoulders, and he wore a denim jacket and jeans. “Jodi?”

She nodded. “These are some—” She stopped, apparently not wanting to introduce Paulus and me as friends. Or me, anyway. “People who wanted to see you.”

I stood up slowly. “I’m Tom Jurgen.”

He frowned. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Yeah. I was . . . following Ms. Sail. And you’re who I think you are?”

He nodded. “I’m Clark Weston.”

Ghost Witness, Part Four

“Your honor!” Drake was on his feet again. “Are we really going to listen to this fairy tale, this ghost story, all day?”

            The judge looked at Paulus, skeptical. “Are you going anywhere in the real world with this, counselor?”

            Paulus glanced at me, sighed, then answered. “I could continue, but at this point the testimony would amount to hearsay on Mr. Jurgen’s part. I’m happy to leave it here. For now.” He sat down.

            Rizzola cocked an eyebrow. “For now. Very well.” She turned to Drake. “Would you care to cross examine, Mr. Drake?”

            I was more nervous than before. I looked for Rachel. She shrugged, but gave me a thumbs up for confidence. It didn’t help.

“Mr. Jurgen, do you need a short break?” the judge asked.

I shook my head. “I’m fine.” But my throat was scratchy. I’d been testifying for what felt like hours, even though it was probably just 20 minutes. “Uh, could I have some water?”

The bailiff brought me a bottle. I took a sip. Lemon flavor. “Thank you.”

Drake stood up. “Mr. Jurgen, how long have you been a private detective?”

I had to do some quick math in my head. “Close to eight years. I was a reporter before that. I did some investigative work for a law firm before starting my business.”

He nodded, looking down at an open file folder on the table in front of him. Then he looked up at me. “You have a reputation for, what? Unusual cases?”

“Sometimes.” I nodded. “Mostly it’s just background checks, surveillance, stuff like that.”

“But you have encountered—or you claim to encounter—the supernatural.”

I restrained a frown. “I don’t use that on my website, or anywhere else. But I guess it’s out there. People find me.”

“So, you’ve seen . . .” He paused for effect. “Ghosts?”

Here it comes. “I have seen ghosts. Talked to dead people.”

“Demons?”

“Yeah. Several exorcisms.”

“Zombies?”

I could sense the jury becoming more interested. “A few.”

“Vampires?”

I hesitated. The Chicago police have a whole squad for vampire affairs, but they don’t like me talking about it. “I’m actually not allowed to discuss vampires. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

Drake cocked his head. “With who?”

“That’s covered by the nondisclosure agreement.”

“Huh.” He was skeptical. Most people are. “So you’re saying you have a lot of experience with the paranormal.”

“I’m under oath. So, yes.”

I saw Rachel smile.

He turned to the jury, but spoke to me. “And you expect the court to believe that you’ve seen ghosts? Demons? Vampires, even if you can’t talk about them?”

At least he hadn’t brought up the giant killer chickens. “Like I said, I was a reporter. I report the facts, the truth. Whether anyone accepts it is up to them.”

“And the ‘fact’ is that you saw the ghost of this, this Clark Weston, in the defendant’s apartment?” He lifted his eyebrows for a theatrical effect.

“It was her sister’s apartment, actually. But, yes.”

“Do you have any proof to offer?”

I dug into my pocket. “I took a picture.”

Drake snorted, but I got out my phone, held it up, and showed him the single image I’d snapped of Clark in Clarissa’s living room. For a ghost, he took a decent photo. I’d half-expected him not to show up, like a vampire in a mirror.

“I can pass it around to the jury, if you want,” I offered. “I just have to ask that nobody scroll through the other pictures.” I’d already deleted the pictures Rachel didn’t want anyone to see, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

Drake peered at the phone. “Mr. Jurgen, we’ve all seen pictures. Photoshop can do some amazing things. I don’t think we need to waste the jury’s time with—”

“Objection, your honor.” Paulus’s tone was mild. “It’s not up to Mr. Drake to determine what the jury sees.”

“No,” the judge said. “It’s up to me. You may display the picture on redirect or in your closing if you want, Mr. Paulus. For now, the witness may keep his phone in his pocket.”

“There’s only the one picture?” Drake asked.

“He wasn’t there long.”

“Of course.” He smirked. “One picture, and your word.”

“Under oath,” I said.

“Under oath.” 

I waited for more questions, but the prosecutor turned back to his desk. “That’s all, your honor.”

The judge looked at Paulus, who shook his head. “The witness is excused.”

Relief. I stood up, made my way out of the witness box, and joined Rachel in the gallery, I probably wasn’t supposed to stay—lawyers don’t like witnesses to hear other testimony in case it affects their own—but no one objected.

“How’d I do?” I sat down.

Rachel shrugged. “Okay. But I’m biased.”

The judge looked at Paulus. “Well, counselor?”

He looked over at his client. “I’d like to call Jordyne Sail now.”

She told the story. Coming home, being attacked by her husband, getting rescued. She cried. Wiped her eyes and went on until she finished. 

The jury watched her closely. Sympathetic? Skeptical? I couldn’t tell.

Paulus let her get composed again. Then he said, “You realize, Ms. Sail, that your story is hard to believe.”

Jordyne stared at him. “It’s true.”

“You were meeting with—a ghost.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And Clark Weston’s ghost saved you? Hit your husband across the head—”

“He didn’t mean to kill him. He doesn’t—he can’t always control himself.” Jordyne glanced at the jury, then went back to Paulus. “He just wanted to help me.”

Paulus nodded. “Thank you.”

Drake didn’t bother to cross examine. He probably figured her own testimony was damaging enough. Jordyne went back to the table

“Well, counselor?” The judge crossed her arms. “Do you have another witness?”

I got nervous again. Paulus looked at Jordyne, squeezed her hand, and stood up. “One more witness, your honor.”

He turned to the gallery. Looked at me like an annoying gnat. Then he took a deep breath, leaned back, and said, “I call Clark Weston to the stand.”

A moment passed. Two.

            Drake snorted. “Your honor, with all due respect for counsel’s commitment to this farce, I assume we won’t be waiting long for this ‘witness’ to ‘appear.’' He used sarcastic finger quotes. Then he frowned, as if thinking seriously. “Hmm. How would one serve a subpoena on a ghost, I wonder?”

            Paulus looked at Jordyne. She shrugged, helpless. Scared. “Your honor, I beg the court’s indulgence—”

            “I’ve been plenty indulgent with you, counsel.” Judge Rizzola’s voice was stern. “It’s time to move on.”

            “A moment, please, your honor.” Paulus held up a hand. I could see his eyes flickering around the courtroom desperately. Joydyne’s eyes were closed, her hands clenched. Her lips moved silently. Clark, Clark . . .

            The judge waited. Five seconds. Then she banged her gavel. “It’s been a moment, Mr. Paulus. Call a real witness, rest your case, ask for a recess, whatever—but stop wasting the court’s time.”

            Paulus sighed. It had been a long shot. “Thank you, your honor. I only meant—”

Jordyne jabbed a finger at his arm. “Clark,” I heard her say softly. “Clark!”

“Excuse me?” The voice came from the back of the courtroom. Drake and Paulus turned. The judge looked past the gallery. I peered over the heads of the people me, some of them turning too.

Clark Weston was standing in front of the doors as if he’d just heard his name.

Paulus’s eyes widened. Jordyne smiled. 

The gallery was only half full, maybe less. One woman gasped. A man dropped his jaw, then shut his mouth and checked his eyeglasses. A young woman went back to gazing at her phone. A reporter frantically jabbed at her laptop. Clarissa, two rows behind Rachel and me, just stared.

Rachel nudged me with her elbow. I looked at her. 

She shook her head.

What? I leaned forward, but she pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head again. “It’s—” She stopped. “Later.”

Rachel’s psychic. I trust her feelings. I wanted to ask her what was going on, but she wasn’t going to talk now if she didn’t want to. And getting into an argument would only make things worse.

Drake turned back to the judge. “Your honor—”

“Very funny.” Rizzola banged her gavel again. ”Remove yourself from this courtroom, sir, or I’ll have you held in contempt!”

“No!” Jordyne squealed. “Clark, don’t—”

But Clark vanished. Not through the door. Just disappeared in the air.

A low buzz ran through the courtroom. The reporter paused in her clicking. The young woman lifted her phone, as if trying to take a picture of the empty space where Clark had been. Even Rizzola looked puzzled.

She quickly recovered, motioning to the two opposing lawyers. “Come forward.”

As they approached the bench, I turned to Rachel. “What’s going on?”

“Later,” she whispered again.

Judge Rizzola stood up. “We will be taking a recess. I’ll see both attorneys in chambers, along with the defendant, per counsel’s extremely unorthodox request.” She zeroed in on me. “Mr. Jurgen, you’re in there too. No dawdling.”

I stood up. I’d been expecting this, but not hoping for it. “Wish me luck.”

“Should I come?” She stood too, as Drake whispered to his assistant and Paulus talked quietly to Jordyne Sail. 

I wanted her for support, but I shook my head. “No point in you getting into trouble.”

She rolled her eyes. “Brilliant. Whatever.” But she squeezed my hand. “Don’t say anything stupid in there.”

“Who, me?” I grinned and dodged her punch. 

Ghost Witness, Part Five

The judge’s chambers. I’d seen them on TV, but this was my first time actually inside. Rizzola sat behind a short, solid-looking desk. Two filing cabinets lined one wall. A leather sofa faced them next to a window in the other wall, and two stout chairs pointed toward her desk. A water cooler sat near the door. The judge sat under a photo of Ruth Bader Ginsberg and groaned.

            Paulus and Drake took the chairs. Jordyne and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa, avoiding each other’s eyes.

            Rizzola crossed her arms. “That was some kind of stunt, counselor.”

            Paulus glanced at Jordyne. “Not a stunt, your honor. No mirrors or holograms. You saw it just like everyone else.”

            “I saw a person for half a second. You say it’s Clark Weston. You say it’s a ghost. You say he killed Arick Sail defending his wife. None of that counts as evidence, Mr. Paulus. Not in my court, not in any court.” She groaned again. “But now that it’s out there . . .” 

She glared at everyone in the room. “We can’t unsee it. The jury can’t unsee it. Is that what you wanted, Mr. Paulus? Was that the idea all along when you called the ghostbuster here?” She looked at me.

            “It was that or insanity—”

            “I’m not insane!” Jordyne snapped. “You saw him! It was Clark! My husband tried to murder me, and he—he saved me. Clark.”

            “A ghost.” The judge stared at her with eyes that had no doubt intimidated defendants for years.

            Jordyne rubbed her eyes. “He’s real.”

            “Oh for god’s sake.” Drake tapped an impatient foot. “None of this is admissible as evidence. Even if—I can’t even say it. I hate to say it, your honor, but a mistrial is the only way out. And when I try this case again, and I will—” He darted a glare at Paulus—”I’ll be sure this kind of thing gets quashed from the beginning. You want to plead insanity, just do it. You know it’s a loser.”

            I sat forward. “What if—”        

            “What if what, Mr. Jurgen?” Drake looked ready to throw me out, and angry enough to do it without calling security. “You won’t be welcome in any courtroom in the state if this case gets retried, I can make sure of that.”

            “What if you could question Clark Weston here?” I asked. 

Drake snorted. “Are we going to hold a séance? Do you have any candles, judge?”

“The point of a trial is to get to the truth. Isn’t it? If you could talk to Clark Weston and satisfy yourself about what happened, you’d have to drop the charges, wouldn’t you?”

Drake stared at me. Then he laughed. “The point of a trial isn’t to get to the truth, Mr. Jurgen. It’s for one side to make a case and the other side to try poking holes in it, and letting the jury decide who did the better job.”

“This could be a pretty big hole in your case, sir. The actual killer.”

Jordyne flinched at the word “killer.” Drake simply stared at me.

“We can’t exactly swear him in, can we, Mr. Jurgen?” Rizzola’s voice was acid. “In open court? Or even here.”

“You can listen to him and decide for yourself.” There. They were on the edge of at least thinking about it. I wasn’t sure how much more I could do.

“Well, where is he?” Drake turned to Paulus. “All right. I’ll play along. Call your witness. If you can.” He smiled, as if he’d just made a joke.

“Your honor?” Paulus looked at the judge.

Rizzola sighed. “Might as well. Just to get this nonsense over with. I swear . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “Go ahead.”

Paulus turned to his client. “Jordyne?”

She sighed, closed her eyes, and folded her hands like a prayer. Her lips moved silently again, but I could see the name she was repeating. Clark. Clark, Clark, Clark . . .

Clark Weston appeared in a corner, in the same denim jacket and jeans he’d worn at Jordyne’s apartment. 

He looked around, confused. “Jordyne?”

“Hi, Clark.” She stood up. Her voice was almost shy. “We’re in court. This is Judge, uh, Rizzola, and the D.A. You remember Stuart? And Tom Jurgen?”

Clark nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“I’m on trial. For—for killing Arick.” She wiped a tear from her eyes. “I need you to tell them what happened. I need you to stay here, and tell them what happened.”

He looked around the judge’s chambers, taking in all our faces, and even smiled a moment at Rizzola’s Ginsburg photo. Then he walked with careful steps across the room to Jordyne, as if taking care not to come into contact with anything or any of us. “Okay.”

“Clark.” Paulus stood up. “Tell us what—”

“Wait a minute.” Drake shot up. “Hold on. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.” He held up his phone. “Just a minute, just a minute—okay, I’m recording. Your name?”

“Clark. Clark Weston.” He looked straight into the camera.

“When were you born?”

“April 22, 1992.” That came automatically.

“When did you die?”

He hesitated. “I’m—not sure. It was 2018, maybe 2019. I remember the car in front of me. I don’t know the exact date.”

Drake nodded, slipping into his professional demeanor without thinking about it. “Okay. Now tell us—”

“Counselor.” The judge held her hand out. “I believe the defense called the witness. I’ll take the phone.”

Drake looked as if he wanted to argue, but decided not to. He handed it to Rizzola.

She held it up, pointing at Clark, then nodded to Paulus. “Mr. Paulus, go ahead.”

Paulus almost laughed. Then he straightened his necktie and put on his serious face. “Mr. Weston—Clark. Can you tell us what happened the night—the night you helped Jordyne?”

Clark looked toward the ceiling, as if searching his memory. “Yes.” He looked at Jordyne. “Yes. I heard her screaming. Screaming for help. I heard my name. Then I saw her. And the guy. I didn’t know who he was, but he was strangling her. His hands around his throat.” He paused. “Jordyne was hitting him, trying to push him away, but he was shouting, and her face was getting all red and she stopped fighting, and it looked like . . .”

He looked at the judge. “It’s hard for me to move things. Just being here takes a lot of energy. But I—I had to help her. I don’t know what I grabbed—it was big and heavy, but I got it, and I hit him with it.” He looked down at his hands. “Just once. But it was hard, and heavy, and there was blood, but then he let go on Jordyne and fell down. I saw—I saw it leaving his body, and I knew he was dead. Like me.”

“Saw what?” Paulus asked.

Clark was uncertain. “His soul? I don’t know. But I knew he was gone. And Jordyne was safe.”

Paulus let that hang in the air a moment. Then he turned to Drake. “Your witness?”

The prosecutor looked like he was watching a movie he’d lost the plot of. “What? I, uh—your honor, how am I expected to cross-examine this so-called witness? There’s no way to ensure he’s telling the truth, I can’t charge a ghost for perjury under oath—”

“He can’t lie,” Jordyne said. “It’s impossible for him to lie.”

Clark nodded. “Not anymore. I don’t know how to do it. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Well, that’s convenient.” Drake looked at the judge. “Your honor, I won’t lie either—this is unbelievable. Literally unbelievable.”

Rizzola looked inclined to agree. She glanced at Paulus. Then me, as if this was all my fault. Finally she looked at Clark. “I have some questions of my own.”

Clark held Jordyne’s hand. “All right. I’m not sure—I’ll try to stay here as long as I can.”

“Please do.” She pursed her lips. “Did you intend to kill Arick Sail?”

He blinked. “I don’t know his name. I only wanted the man to stop hurting Jordyne.”

“Can you see him? Wherever you are when you’re not here?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see anything. It’s like I’m asleep. When Jordyne called me, I was just—there,”

Rizzola nodded toward Jordyne. “You have sex?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Is it good?” 

“She feels good. I don’t feel anything.” 

“Do you love her?” 

The reply was just as quick as his other answers. “No.”

Jordyne flinched. She pulled her hand away from him, staring at his face, but said nothing.

The judge hesitated. Surprised? Sympathetic to the defendant? “Why are you here, then?” 

“She called me.”

“I mean, before today? The other times. When you met her.”

Clark looked at her. “You kept calling me.”

Jordyne bit her lip, nodding. “Yeah.”

She was close to tears. 

I opened my mouth, hesitated, then went with it anyway. “Clark, do you remember loving her? When you were alive?”

He smiled at her. “Yes.”

“Mr. Jurgen.” Rizzola gave me a stern look. “You are not entitled to question the witness.”

“Sorry, your honor.” But I felt a little better.

“Do you have any more questions, Mr. Drake?” The judge folded her hands on the desk.

Drake rolled his eyes. “No, your honor. I’m finished.”

“Then the witness is excused.” She nodded to Clark.

Clark looked at Jordyne and squeezed her hand with a smile.

“No! Wait!” Jordyne reached for him, but she was too late. Clark vanished. 

She sank onto the sofa, crying softly.

Rizzola sighed. “Mr. Jurgen, get her a drink of water.” She motioned to the water cooler.

I brought Jordyne a cup and a paper towel. She nodded, drank it, and wiped her eyes with the towel. “Okay. I’m okay now.”

“Right.” Rizzola leaned back. “So, what the hell do we do now? Mr. Drake, do you want to continue with this case?”

“Your honor, none of this falls into the realm of credible testimony.” He looked at Paulus. “You have to know that.”

“You know what you saw,” Paulus said.

“I can’t possibly dismiss charges based on the say-so of a ghost!” 

I raised a hand. “Your honor, may I speak?”

She jerked her eyes to me. “What?”

I cleared my throat, wishing for a cup of water myself. “It just seems to me that we all now know what happened. The point of a trial isn’t just about making a case, is it? It’s about seeing justice done. If you believe what you just saw, is there any justice to continuing? Isn’t it justice to say Ms. Sail has been through enough?”

“That’s for the jury to decide,” Drake said stubbornly.

“Then the jury deserves to hear what we just saw,” Paulus said. “Judge, you can play the recording, and we can testify to its truth—”

“That makes us all witnesses.” Rizzola shook her head. “You can’t be a defense attorney and witness in your own case. You can’t be a prosecutor and testify at the same time. I can’t testify in a case when I’m on the bench, either. I’d have to declare a mistrial, and you’d have to do this all over again. Is that what I’m going to have to do?”

            No one answered. 

            The judge folded her arms. “All right. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to declare a mistrial based on that stunt you pulled in open court, Mr. Paulus. Mr. Drake, your office may file charges again if you decide to. If I am compelled, I will testify to what I’ve seen here today. Mr. Drake, you may choose to fight a subpoena from defense to avoid testimony, but that won’t be up to me. Mr. Paulus, since you’ll presumably be a witness, you won’t be able to represent Ms. Sail again. Mr. Jurgen . . .” She looked at me. “Get out of my chambers.”

            I nodded. “Thank you, your honor.”

 

“What happened?” Rachel asked when I sat down next to her in the courtroom.

            “You’ll see.”

            The judge declared a mistrial, based on the unannounced witness purporting to be Clark Weston. The prosecuting attorney was free to file charges again. In the meantime, the jury was free to go. So was the defendant. Rizzola banged her gavel. Court was adjourned.

            Drake ignored me as Rachel and I walked up to Paulus’s desk. 

“Well, that happened.” Paulus sighed, stuffing papers in his briefcase

            “What now?” Jordyne asked.

            He shrugged. “It depends on him.” He waved at the prosecutor. Who ignored him too.

            Jordyne looked at me. “Well, thank you. I guess.” The words were cold. So were her fingers when we shook hands.

            “I’m sorry about everything,” I said. She didn’t respond.

            Rachel reached out. “Good luck.”

            Jordyne shook her hand too. “You are . . .?”

            “Rachel. Tom’s girlfriend. He’s an okay guy. Really.” 

Jordyne didn’t seem convinced. She left with Paulus, who said he’d call me.

 

Back home we opened beers and sat in front of a silent TV. “You okay?” Rachel asked.

            “Yeah.” I’d told her what happened in chambers. “As good as we could expect, I guess.” Then I turned to her. “Okay. What did you mean when Clark showed up in the courtroom?”

She leaned back. “I wasn’t really sure until I shook her hand. Then I felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“Him. Inside her.” Rachel sipped her beer. “It wasn’t really a ghost we saw.”

I was confused. “So what was it?”

“Jordyne’s mind.” She crossed her arms. “She created him from inside her brain. It was her memory of him. She made it real.”

Wow. I sipped my beer, trying to make sense out of it. “You got that right when he showed up?”

“I just knew it wasn’t a ghost. I mean, we’ve dealt with ghosts. I know how they feel. With this guy—I could feel the connection with her when he showed up in the courtroom, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. That’s why I wanted to shake her hand.” She looked at the blank TV screen. “Maybe she doesn’t even know.”

“He said he didn’t love her.”

“Maybe she’s starting to realize there’s no future with a ghost boyfriend.” 

“Wait.” I sat forward. “That means she really did kill her husband? Sort of?”

“Don’t start.” Rachel slugged my shoulder. “He was trying to strangle her, remember? Self-defense. Don’t beat yourself more than you have already. She’s not in jail. And she shouldn’t be.” 

“Yeah.” I put my arm around her. “I hate cheating spouse cases.”

“They pay the bills.” She kissed me. “Don’t you ever cheat on me, though. I will kill you.”

I nodded. “Not a chance.” 

XXX5

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