Free Jury of One by David Ellis Page B

of the visitor, if she walked to her front window, was obstructed. But she could see the gate by the sidewalk. “Walk down the stairs to the gate, count to twenty, then walk back up.”
    Shelly turned off the hallway light and walked in darkness to the front window. She pressed her face against the glass and looked down, watched a young man descend the eight stairs and stand at the gate. He raised his arms as if on display. After a count of twenty, he took the stairs back up to the intercom.
    Shelly looked around but saw no other movement outside, a peaceful evening on her block. She walked back to her intercom and pressed the “Talk” button.
    “I want you to understand a couple of things, Manuel,” she said. “I have a gun up here and I’ll use it. I know how to use it. You get me?”
    She pressed the “Listen” button.
    “—get you, lady.”
    With a shot of adrenaline filling her body, Shelly pushed the “Enter” button for three seconds. Then she walked to her bedroom, put on sweatpants to go with her T-shirt, removed an extra set of sweatshirt and sweatpants, went to her kitchen, and took out her camera. She opened the door with the chain still on and listened to the footsteps of the man. She watched a young man, about Alex’s age, take the final staircase with a nervous glance around. He was smaller than Alex and darker, sweaty and disheveled. She saw the look in his reddened eyes. He was a junkie. He reached the top and looked at Shelly through the crack in the door.
    “Stop there,” she said.
    The boy was wearing a black football jacket and worn jeans. He did what she asked.
    “Take off your jacket.”
    He complied, tossing the jacket by the staircase.
    “Take off your pants.”
    “Huh?”
    “You heard me. Take off your pants or I shoot.”
    He shrugged but followed her instructions, first removing his high-top gym shoes, standing before Shelly in a gray T-shirt and cheap boxers and sweatsocks.
    “Throw them down the stairs,” she ordered.
    The boy had gotten the picture now, that Shelly was afraid he was armed. He tossed his clothes and shoes down the staircase.
    “We can talk here,” she said. “Lean against the wall and put your palms against it.”
    The boy shook his head but complied. Shelly held her camera through the crack in the door and snapped his photo.
    The boy flailed his arms at the flashing of the camera. “What-choo doin’, woman?”
    “If you move again, I’ll shoot.” She closed the door and looked through the peephole. The boy settled against the wall. She put the camera underneath the dishwasher, where a board was missing. Then she went back to the door and cracked it. “You’ll never find that camera,” she said.
    “Lady, I don’t want your fuckin’ camera.” The boy was exasperated. Nervous, strung-out, and tired.
    “Talk to me.”
    “Man, the police’s gonna kill me. They know I know about ’em.”
    “What do you know?”
    “Man, I saw what happened.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Alex”—the boy adjusted the volume of his voice—“y’know, the cop gettin’ shot and all.”
    “What do you know?” Shelly’s eyes kept looking past the boy, at the stairwell.
    “I saw the whole fuckin’ thing.”
    Shelly kept her breathing even. This was exactly what she needed.
    “Tell me what you saw.”
    “I saw it, lady. Jesus.” He gathered his arms around himself.It was always drafty in the hallway, and the temperature outside could not have been above twenty degrees.
    “He didn’t do it, is what I saw.”
    “Who shot him?” she asked. She felt a fire inside her.
    “I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t Alex.”
    “How do you know Alex?”
    “He’s my guy, y’know.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “He’s my source, lady. Dig?” He licked his lips. He was a junkie, no doubt. “Lady—I want to help Alex, you know—but these guys are lookin’ for me.”
    Alex was
this
guy’s supplier?
    “The police are looking