Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ office to focus his thoughts.

      Rodney Steelman, the founder of Cyberace. Not exactly your Dale Carnegie honor graduate. Territorial, old-fashioned and blunt. In short, just the kind of challenge Tony liked.

      On the way back to his own office, he stopped at the receptionist’s station and turned a charming grin on the attractive middle-aged woman. “If anybody’s looking for me in the morning, tell them I’m in court.”

      She raised her eyebrows. “What now, Mr. Urbanski?”

      “Nothing. Just jury duty. I’ll be back after lunch.” He moved away from her desk.

      “Don’t count on it.”

      He stopped. “Why not?”

      “My sister-in-law was called last year. She had a heck of a time getting excused, even when she explained she was the sole caregiver for her invalid mother.”

      “They don’t call me Henry Clay around here for nothing.” He backpedaled down the corridor, giving her a jaunty two-fingered salute.

      

      TONY IMPATIENTLY JABBED the courthouse elevator button again. He’d run over from his office and had about thirty seconds to get to the jury commission on time. Not that he expected everyone else to be dutifully prompt, either. He couldn’t be the only one for whom the summons was inconvenient. The whir of machinery announced the elevator’s arrival before the metal panels slid open. He shifted his laptop computer carrier into his other hand to hold the door for departing occupants. That’s what he’d soon be—a man departing.

      As the elevator ascended, he reviewed his progress on the DataTech-Cyberace merger. He’d holed up over the weekend, going over the information he had on both companies, finding weaknesses in the positions of each—weaknesses he intended to exploit with all the skill of a high-tech surgeon probing a vital organ. It was relatively simple to point out the advantages of a deal, but a good negotiator needed to know when to apply pressure, when to back off and how to predict the consequences.

      His secretary was compiling complete bios for each of the principals. As he’d explained to Barry Fuller, the junior associate in his department, tactics were nothing without knowledge of personalities and vulnerabilities. This afternoon he’d scheduled a meeting with his technical people for an update on product viability. Two weeks to go until game time—December 2, when he’d be in New York getting names on the dotted line. Maybe his success would even etch a smile on the granite features of Harrison Wainwright.

      The elevator stopped, and Tony stepped into a nearly vacant hallway. He took a deep breath, then entered the large jury commission room where, during the orientation, he’d learned that his only out depended on a trial judge’s dismissing him. He ground his teeth in frustration. If the gods smiled, maybe he’d get on a jury right away and quickly fulfill his civic obligation.

      Miraculously, he was one of the first to be sent to a courtroom. He gave himself a mental high five, gathered up his belongings and followed a uniformed deputy who shepherded a group of about thirty upstairs to the courtroom. There the deputy directed them to spectators’ seats in the large, high-ceilinged chamber, paneled with vertical strips of wood. A man with the facial features of a tortoise and the build of a fireplug introduced himself as the bailiff, then approached Tony and pointed at his laptop computer. “You, sir. That’ll have to go. No electronic devices are allowed in the courtroom.”

      “Other people brought books and magazines. What’s the difference? I have work to do.” The woman sitting next to him shied away as if to disassociate herself from him.

      “Today your work is this court.” The bailiff gestured impatiently. “Give it to me.”

      “Now just a darn minute—”

      “You can pick it up after today’s session. You got a beeper or cell phone?”

      “You’re going to take the phone, too?”

      “Judge’s policy. You don’t wanna be in contempt. Just hand them over, sir.” There was a definite acidic twist to the “sir.”

      Reluctantly, Tony relinquished his laptop and phone. What was he supposed to do during down times? Count ceiling tiles?

      “All rise,” the bailiff bellowed. The assembled group shuffled to their feet. “The Cuyahoga County Court of Common Pleas is now in session, the Honorable Hilda Blumberg presiding.” A female judge? He’d have to rethink his strategy for getting excused. Wearing a judicial robe, a tall severe-looking woman with straight salt-and-pepper hair pulled back and secured at the nape of her neck, entered, nodded unsmilingly at the potential jurors, then settled into the large leather chair behind the bench. “Be seated,” the bailiff barked.

      In a dry, matter-of-fact voice, the judge addressed them. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Before we begin, let me introduce those in the courtroom.” She nodded toward the laptop confiscator who studied them through slitted eyes. “My bailiff, Hershel Schmidt, and Stephanie Reedy, the stenographer. This morning we begin voir dire. The court has several cases awaiting trial. Some of you will be seated on this jury. The others will remain in the pool until you are selected for another trial or are excused after one week.”

      One week! Did she expect him to sit for days twiddling his thumbs? He tensed like an anxious prizefighter awaiting the bell.

      The judge then began a lengthy explanation of the tradition of English jurisprudence, emphasizing the responsibility of citizens to serve on juries willingly and with open minds. He hadn’t been so fidgety since old man Pickins’s civics lectures in the eighth grade. He checked the time. Jeez! He’d already been in the courtroom thirty minutes. Then something the judge said got his attention.

      ...so it should be evident that this court does not take a jury summons lightly. Some of you, no doubt, expect to get excused. There are few, and I emphasize few, legitimate reasons persuasive enough for me to excuse you. However, after the bailiff calls the roll, I will declare a short recess during which I will ask those of you who believe you have compelling arguments to come forward. I will listen to a brief explanation of your individual circumstance.” She nodded peremptorily at the bailiff, who began intoning names.

      Compelling arguments. Okay, Your Honor, get ready. As the monotone voice continued through the roll, Tony sized up the judge. Definitely a no-nonsense type. He’d lay out the imperatives of his situation and prevail upon her pragmatism. She’d never go for the emotional or personal; she’d require hard-hitting facts.

      “Anthony Stanislov Urbanski?”

      “Here.” Nearly at the end of the list. He brushed his pants, tugged on his shirt cuffs, then adjusted his tie. He was ready for her.

      After another few names, the judge announced the recess. Tony walked briskly toward the bailiff, who was already surrounded by several impatient potential jurors.

      The bailiff checked names and organized them in a line. The judge glanced up from the papers she’d been studying and beckoned them, one by one, to the bench. She sat, a good three feet above them. He recognized the tactic. Intimidation.

      As he edged closer, he caught snatches of conversation. “Do you have help at home, Mr. Smith?”

      “...my daughter-in-law, but she works nights...”

      “You’re excused. Next?”

СКАЧАТЬ