The Secret Juror E-Book

Robin Brande

• Herausgeber: Ryer Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A Winnie Parsons Mystery Novel.

Retired psychology professor Dr. Winifred Parsons spent decades studying the human psyche as a scientist and academic. But she also explored it from another angle: Winnie Parsons is clairvoyant.

Now Winnie’s trial lawyer niece, Rose, needs her help with a difficult case. A con man cheated Rose’s clients, but how can Rose convince the jury of that?

And why is the judge on the case suddenly lashing out at the lawyers? There are more mysteries than Rose can solve on her own.

The path to justice might be twisted, but Winnie Parsons always finds a way.

Don't miss the next book in the Winnie Parsons series, THE TRUTH CHAMBER.

Leseprobe

THE SECRET JUROR

WINNIE PARSONS MYSTERIES

ROBIN BRANDE

RYER PUBLISHING

THE SECRET JUROR

A Winnie Parsons Mystery

By Robin Brande

Published by Ryer Publishing

www.ryerpublishing.com

© 2025 Robin Brande

www.robinbrande.com

All rights reserved.

Cover art by talexstock/Canva

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-952383-50-2

Print ISBN: 978-1-952383-52-6

* * *

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

More from Robin Brande

Secret Code for Secret Juror Readers

The Truth Chamber

A Mind for Mysteries

The Miraculous Unknown

Life with the Afterlife

About the Author

Also by Robin Brande

1

“There’s something wrong with my judge.”

Winnie served her niece Rose another thumbprint cookie. The Hershey Kiss in the middle of it had melted perfectly, just at its base, giving Rose the immediate chocolate and sugar infusion she needed after a stressful day in court.

Winnie hadn’t expected to see her niece until at least the weekend, when maybe Rose could unwind.

She was wound-up now, still wearing her stylish navy blue suit and starched white blouse—less starched at the end of the day—but had already kicked off her navy pumps the moment she walked through the sanctuary of Winnie’s door.

“Thank you,” Rose said with a sigh as she bit into her third cookie. “I might need these in a first aid kit.”

Rose’s cheeks were flushed, bringing out the red of her strawberry blonde hair. Winnie recognized her look of frustration tinged with anger. Rose was a pro at controlling herself in court, but Winnie knew she needed the outlet of venting after particularly challenging days.

The outlet and the replenishing sugar Winnie always kept on hand. Rose was forty, with the hardy constitution of Winnie and her late brother, Rose’s father. All of them had a sweet tooth, and Winnie felt no need to suffer by ignoring it.

She brought Rose a glass of water, set it on the coffee table between them, then nestled on the couch between her yellow Lab, Clover, and the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel she had recently adopted, a darling soul with the regal name of King Arthur.

King Arthur groaned and snuggled in closer. The late February days were starting to warm into the 70s—winter truly was the best time of year in Tucson—but the nights were still cold enough that the dogs sought out Winnie’s warmth. She reached for the fleece blanket in the basket next to the couch and spread it over both dogs and herself. She had already tucked Rose into a blanket of her own. Winnie’s first instinct was always to make everyone cozy.

At last Rose was replenished enough to slouch back in the chair and close her eyes for a moment. The flush on her cheeks had faded.

“All right,” Rose said, sitting up straight and alert again. “Tell me what you think.”

Judge William McCracken was one of those grizzled old judges who had probably stayed on the bench too long. There was an expiration date, Rose explained, for mental sharpness and judicial temperament. Judge McCracken was past his prime on both.

“I’ve appeared in front of him dozens of times over the years,” Rose said. “I’m used to him. He can be a bear. It takes a certain touch. You need to be forceful but not aggressive. He doesn’t mind you standing your ground, but he’ll take your head off if he thinks you’re arguing too much. He says he hates the noise.”

Winnie always loved hearing Rose’s stories from court. It was an exotic profession, as far as Winnie was concerned, and completely outside her own experiences as a former psychology professor. Rose’s stories were like watching a courtroom drama on TV. Winnie grabbed another cookie for herself and readjusted her blanket.

“He lost his wife about a year ago,” Rose said. “So … factor that in. Maybe.”

Winnie nodded. She had lost her own beloved three years ago to cancer. Joe was still in her heart and mind every day. Maybe it was the same for Judge McCracken with his wife.

“But still,” Rose said firmly. “There’s a limit.”

A week ago, during a hearing on Rose’s and her opposing counsel’s pre-trial motions, Judge McCracken suddenly shouted at them both, “You’re a couple of morons! Shut up!” He motioned angrily to his bailiff. “Get them out of here!”

Then he stood up and stormed out of the courtroom, leaving Rose, her opponent Alan Beasley, and Felicia, the judge’s bailiff of many years, standing in stunned silence.

None of them understood what had happened.

“We went over it,” Rose said. “We had the court reporter read back the last several lines of whatever we’d been arguing. It was all normal. Just the usual legal maneuvers. Nothing that should have set him off.”

“Strange,” Winnie said.

“That wasn’t the end of it,” Rose said. “By the time I got back to my office, there was an electronic ruling from the judge finding both Beasley and me in contempt of court. Fine of fifteen hundred dollars each. It was absolutely nuts. I’ve never had anything like that happen. Beasley either.”

“What do you think that was about?” Winnie asked.

“Hold on,” Rose said. “It gets weirder.”

The trial was still scheduled to begin a week later. “Tomorrow,” Rose said. “A jury trial, which means we’re all supposed to be in place by eight-thirty, ready for the potential jurors to be brought in before nine. But Judge McCracken called Beasley and me into a special surprise hearing this afternoon and ordered us both to prepare a full extra brief on all the law we’ve already argued about for the last year in this case. It’s like getting a snap assignment the night before a final exam. No judge would do that. I don’t understand what this is about. It’s like he’s punishing us—again.”

“Can you do it in time?” Winnie asked.

“I already did,” Rose said. “It isn’t pretty, but it’s finished. I had my paralegal already file it. But I just wanted to talk to you before I headed home. See what you think about any of this.”

Winnie’s only experience with judges and court cases were from the times she had been called for jury duty over the years. She remembered having to arrive at the courthouse by 7:30 AM to fill out paperwork and watch an instructional video. Then the larger group received their assignments of which courtrooms they would go to. By 9:00 AM the jurors were usually hyped up on the free coffee and jittery from nerves anyway, and then the real tension of the morning began when they had to sit in a courtroom and listen to a real live judge call their names and ask them questions. It wasn’t like watching it on television. It was both boring and nerve-racking.

Winnie had never yet been picked as a juror. The few times she came close, she fell back on her reliable and easiest to explain excuse.

“I’m a psychology professor,” she’d tell the judge and the attorneys. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible for me to be impartial. I already have an opinion, just based on what I’ve already seen.”

She knew that people were generally self-conscious being in the presence of psychologists and psychiatrists. People had told her so many times over the years. “I feel like you’re always analyzing me.”

“I am,” Winnie would admit. “I can’t help it.”

But it was more than that. People seemed to assume psychology professionals had an almost mystical ability to see past flesh right into the heart and mind of a person.

Dr. Winifred Parsons’s training in psychology didn’t give her that.

But her gift as a clairvoyant did.

She really did know within moments of seeing the parties to a lawsuit which one of them was right and which had been wronged. She knew just from looking at the defendant in a criminal trial whether that person was guilty—of that or of other crimes.

It came to her in flashes of images and sounds and words.

Snatches of conversation. Mini-movies of scenes that told her the truth.

She knew it was the brother of the accused, a clean-cut young man sitting in the courtroom who seemed to be there to lend his brother support, who was actually the one guilty of burning down their parents’ home.

She knew it was the secretary of a stockbroker sued for fraud and embezzlement who had actually funneled the funds to herself and made it look like her boss was guilty.

Winnie did what she could after every visit to the courthouse to see that justice was actually done. Once Rose became a lawyer, sometimes she could help Winnie get the information to the right people. But before then Winnie had to rely on anonymous phone calls to law enforcement and anonymous notes slipped into law office mail slots laying out the truth of what had happened.

It was easier in the days before everyone had security cameras and caller ID. But Winnie still did her best.

What she really preferred was not to see that notice in her mail that she had been summoned to jury duty again. Going to court was low on her list of life’s enjoyments.

Yet Winnie found herself saying to Rose now, “Would you like me to come tomorrow? See what I can see?”

“Oh, Aunt Winnie—would you?” Rose released the knot she’d made of her hands. Her face relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived.

“Let’s eat something real,” Winnie said, disturbing the cozy pile of blanket and dogs. “I need to know more about this.”

2

It had been hard for Winnie in the beginning to cook delicious food for herself. What was the point? Joe was the one she loved to cook for.

It took months after he died for Winnie to rouse herself to make anything but toast and reheated cans of soup. She had no appetite. Food held no charm.

But the body wanted to live. Bodies want comfort. They want smells and tastes that delight their senses. They want sustenance, protein, breads, vegetables.

As the temperatures cooled that first autumn of widowhood, Winnie found she missed the stews she used to make. She missed baking fresh bread from her own sourdough starter.

She missed baking cookies. Even if Joe wasn’t here anymore to savor her chocolate chip or peanut butter cookies, or to enjoy a slice of sour cream coffee cake fresh out of the oven—Winnie was still here. And Rose and her husband Matthew and their daughter Annabelle. And Rose’s brother Danny and his wife and children. Winnie could cook for all of them. That was how she began. That was how she climbed out of the dark well where she’d been living.

She scheduled regular weekly dinners so she had a reason to try new recipes again. She found purpose in feeding her small circle of family.

And now her house smelled of cooking and baking all the time. Even when she wasn’t expecting anyone else, she cooked for herself. She knew she had to. She had to live forward.

“What are these?” Rose asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them.”

“Mushroom pot pie with drop biscuits for lids.” It made for a neat little package. Winnie served them each two. No need to scrimp.

They sat at the kitchen table and ate in quiet for a few minutes. Winnie needed the silence as much as Rose did. Both of their minds were busy.

As she forked into the second biscuit, Winnie asked, “Does he seem ill?”

“No,” Rose answered with her mouth full. “If you mean has he suddenly lost a bunch of weight or looks unsteady. He’s normal as far as I can tell.”

“What does Alan Beasley think?”

Rose gave a wry smile. “Well, he’s stopped complaining that the judge keeps ruling in my favor. Sanctioning us both seemed to cure that.”

“Has he ruled in your favor? Unusually?” Winnie asked.

“He agrees with a lot of my arguments,” Rose said. “But it’s because I’m actually right. Beasley’s client is a slimebag. He cheated my people out of half a million dollars. The case law is on our side. Beasley should have settled this case long ago. But his guy still thinks he talk his way out of things.”

“Can he?” Winnie asked. “Some people seem to be very slick at that.”

“I don’t know, you’ll see what you think,” Rose said as she scraped up the last of the mushroom and thyme-flavored cream sauce on her plate. “I think the jury’s going to hate him.”

3

Winnie and the dogs had their morning routine. Even though he’d only been with them for a few weeks, King Arthur had learned it already.

Winnie awoke between 4:30 and 5:00. She never set an alarm. Those days were over.

She remembered reading some philosopher once who said that humans were the only creatures who believed that by breaking time into smaller units, they could actually make more of it.

Winnie wanted to feel each day stretching out in front of her, without chopping it into bits of having to be somewhere by this time or that.

But today she would accept the chopping, to help Rose. They agreed to meet at the courthouse at 8:00.

That was still a few hours away. For now, Winnie had the predawn darkness to herself.

The dogs were still asleep on top of her flannel bedspread, warmed by the electric blanket underneath. Winnie slipped out of bed and padded in socked feet into the kitchen to start her coffee brewing. Back in the bedroom she added a fleece top over her nightgown so she could sit up in bed and not feel chilled. She brushed her teeth and splashed cold water onto her face. By then the coffee was ready.

Winnie poured herself a mug of it and sprinkled cinnamon on top. She loved the smell of dark roast and spice to begin her day.

She brought the mug back with her into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table. Then she grabbed her notebook and a pen and slipped back between the covers without disturbing Clover, who was in the midst of a running dream. The Labrador puffed out muffled barks from her dream-inflated cheeks and moved all four paws as if she were chasing something. She probably was.

King Arthur softly snored. Winnie covered him with the extra fleece blanket she kept nearby just for him. King Arthur shivered more during the night than thick-coated Clover. Winnie had never had a small dog before. She had never had any dog until Clover. So dressing a small dog in little sweaters and jackets for winter walks was a new experience. But she was happy to take care of the dog with the kind of pampering she knew his former owner used to lavish on him.

Why even have animals if you couldn’t spoil them?

Once everyone seemed settled and warm, Winnie turned out the bedside lamp and sat in the dark sipping her hot coffee. She breathed in the scent of the cinnamon. She deserved pampering, too.

Now she opened up her mind and let it wander.