“Look,” I said to Stallworth, “just go out into the hall and I’ll—”

I heard my name along with the prosecutor’s called from the front of the courtroom. I turned and saw the clerk signaling us to the door that led to the judge’s chambers. Finally, something was happening. Golantz ended his call and got up. I turned from Stallworth and followed Golantz toward the judge’s chambers.

The judge was sitting behind his desk in his black robe. He appeared ready to go as well, but something was holding him back.

“Gentlemen, sit down,” he said.

“Judge, did you want the defendant in here?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Just have a seat and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Golantz and I sat side by side in front of the judge. I could tell that Golantz was silently steaming over the Stallworth subpoena and what it might mean. Stanton leaned forward and clasped his hands together on top of a folded piece of paper on the desk in front of him.

“We have an unusual situation involving juror misconduct,” he said. “It is still … developing and I apologize for keeping you out there in the dark.”

He stopped there and we both looked at him, wondering if we were supposed to leave now and go back to the courtroom, or if we could ask questions. But Stanton continued after a moment.

“My office received a letter Thursday addressed personally to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to open it until after court on Friday — kind of an end-of-the-week catch-up session after everybody was sent home. The letter said — well, here is the letter. I’ve already handled it but don’t either of you touch it.”

He unfolded the piece of paper he’d weighted with his hands and allowed us to read it. I stood up so I could lean over the desk. Golantz was tall enough — even sitting down — that he didn’t have to.

Judge Stanton, you should know that juror number seven is not who you think he is and not who he says he is. Check Lockheed and check his prints. He’s got an arrest record.

The letter looked like it had come out of a laser printer. There were no other markings on the page other than the two creases from where it had been folded.

I sat back down.

“Did you keep the envelope it came in?” I asked.

“Yes,” Stanton said. “No return address and the postmark is Hollywood. I’m going to have the sheriff’s lab take a look at the note and the envelope.”

“Judge, I hope you haven’t spoken to this juror,” Golantz said. “We should be present and part of any questioning. This could just be a ploy by someone to get that juror off the panel.”