Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot
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Название: Trial Courtship
Автор: Laura Abbot
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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Tony glanced around at his fellow jurors. An interesting crew. A beefy older man in a vintage Cleveland Browns sweatshirt; a short, stylishly dressed black woman; an elderly lady with thick glasses and pursed lips; and the attractive blonde he’d noticed earlier, the one who had attentively listened to every word Her Honor uttered. What the hell was that in her lap? He craned his neck to read the title of the top book in her stack—Jeremy June Bug’s Joke. He chuckled to himself. She must have the literary tastes of a rug rat.
How long would this case take? Perhaps it would be cut-and-dried. A couple of days max. Maybe his situation wasn’t so bad. After all, he could be stuck for an entire week out there with the unchosen. Spoken like a true compromiser.
“...and Bailiff Schmidt will suggest nearby restaurants. I admonish you not to discuss any aspects of the case outside the jury room. Please be seated back here at one forty-five for opening arguments.” With a bang of the gavel, Judge Blumberg departed.
Like a bunch of schoolkids, they were marched from the courtroom by Bailiff Schmidt. The saving grace for Tony was that, as he left, he found himself behind the blonde, who had a decidedly interesting sway to her walk—the kind that makes any red-blooded man want to reach out. and...
“Got a light?” The man in the Browns shirt fell in beside him. “I’m dyin’ for a cigarette.”
“No.” Tony wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“Hope this thing doesn’t drag on long. I can’t afford to be off work.”
“Yeah.”
They ambled along in silence. Then Tony’s companion poked him with his elbow. “Nice little piece of tail ahead of us.”
For some unaccountable reason, the first thought that flashed through Tony’s mind was, “She’s mine. I saw her first.” This guy irritated the hell out of him. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Ya dead or something?”
“You might say that.” Dead. That’s what he’d be if he couldn’t pull his negotiating team together, double up on their assignments and hope all hell didn’t break loose at the office in the next week!
CHAPTER TWO
NOT ALL OF THE JURORS had seemed enthusiastic, but Andrea had been delighted when someone suggested they eat together and get acquainted. She sat at a long table between a pleasant African-American woman named Shayla Brown and Dottie Dettweiler, a grandmotherly lady with the wrinkled face of a crafts fair apple-head doll.
Dottie, looking to Andrea for reassurance, fingered the menu nervously. “I hope we’ll be finished before Thanksgiving. My kids and grandkids are coming, and I’ve got lots of baking to do.”
“We have a week before then, but I have no notion how long a murder trial takes,” Andrea said.
Shayla leaned forward. “My brother used to be on the police force. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”
“It probably depends on the evidence,” Andrea suggested.
“But it is kinda exciting,” Dottie conceded. “Did you ever watch People’s Court? I was pretty good at figuring out what the judge oughta do.”
“No, but I watched the O.J. trial,” Shayla commented. “As if that would do us any good. We better avoid discussing that verdict. We might divide this jury into two camps right away.”
Andrea laid down her menu. “I hope that doesn’t happen. Surely we can all listen to the evidence and come to a just conclusion.”
Shayla raised an eyebrow. “Girl, I do believe you’re one of those starry-eyed optimists.”
“At this point, there’s no reason not to be.”
“Ma’am, may I take your order?” The waitress stood at Andrea’s elbow.
“Oh...maybe the tuna salad plate.”
The young man with horn-rimmed glasses sitting directly across the table from her kept glancing around furtively, then taking sips of water. Conversations ranged all around him, but he seemed oblivious. Andrea moved the dried flower arrangement aside, so she could see him better. “I’m Andrea Evans.”
He turned bright red, then extended a cold hand. “Hi. Roy Smith.”
Andrea grasped his limp fingers briefly. “Have you been on a jury before?”
He shook his head. “Never. I wish I weren’t now.”
“Really? In some ways, I’m finding it very interesting.”
“Not me.” He gulped from his water glass again, then leaned forward confidingly. “To tell you the truth, I’m scared.”
“Scared?”
“It’s too much responsibility. What if we make a mistake?”
“The system should help prevent that. If twelve people conscientiously review the evidence, they should be right most of the time.”
Roy ducked his head. “I dunno.”
Down the way on the other side of the table, the large man with the Browns sweatshirt drowned out those around him. “It should be pretty damn simple, folks. We listen to the mouthpieces, go in the jury room, take a vote, collect our measly paychecks and go home. Piece of cake.”
A frowsy redhead with long carmine nails made a circle of her thumb and forefinger. “Bingo, Jack. In and out, clean as a whistle.”
“You got it right, baby, except for the name.” He grinned lasciviously and stuck out his paw. “Chester Swenson. Chet to my friends.”
“Well, Chet,” she batted her heavily mascaraed eyelashes, “since we’re on the same wavelength here, that oughta make us friends, doncha think? I’m Arnelle Kerry.”
“But, Mr. Swenson—” Andrea caught the man’s eye “—we’re talking about a young man’s life.”
“The kid’s prob’ly scum. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
The waitress set the tuna salad in front of Andrea. Scum? The callousness of the remark ruined her appetite. Beside her, she heard Shayla mutter under her breath, “Takes one to know one.”
Andrea, feeling color rising to her cheeks, leaned forward so she could look directly at Mr. Swenson. “I have to speak out here. I think that kind of blanket generalization is not only inappropriate, but, frankly, offensive. We haven’t heard any of the evidence and—”
Chet, his mouth full, shook a spoon at her. “Hey, lady, it’s a free country. I have the right to say any damn thing I please.”
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