Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot

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СКАЧАТЬ line when we’re discussing anything that might relate to the case. I suggest we change the subject.”

      Chet shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t need no lessons from her.” He glared at Andrea.

      Smoothly, the man cut through Swenson’s diatribe. “We’ve got a long haul ahead of us. There will be plenty of differences of opinion before this trial is over. It’s a little early to start getting on each others’ cases, don’t you think?”

      Chet crumbled a saltine into his chili. “Maybe.”

      Grateful for the tactful intervention, Andrea heaved a sigh of relief before eating a forkful of salad. Although she hadn’t met all the jurors yet, this pointed exchange reinforced her uncomfortable feeling that unanimity would be elusive. Their backgrounds were so diverse. In addition to those she’d met, there was the handsome man who’d just engineered the detente, a sour-faced elderly woman, a fortyish man in a city sanitation department uniform, a young guy wearing a Case-Western Reserve sweatshirt, a weather-beaten man in jeans and a flannel shirt, and a distinguished-looking, silver-haired gentleman. Five women and seven men. Plus the alternates, both women.

      To her left, between bites of her chicken sandwich, Dottie was cataloguing all the chores she had to complete in preparation for the holiday. The litany of a true martyr.

      Shayla shifted in her chair and whispered in Andrea’s ear, “Don’t look now, but the hunk who just bested our buddy Chet can’t take his eyes off you.”

      Prickles of discomfort raced down Andrea’s arms. Yet curiosity overcame her. She turned her head slightly and, out of the corner of her eye, saw that the black-haired young man was, indeed, studying her. Before she could avert her glance, the corners of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, and when he winked at her, her breath caught. When she dared to look back, he was absorbed in winding spaghetti on his fork.

      Shayla beamed. “You go, girl.”

      “Shame on you, Shayla. This is hardly the place for meeting men.”

      “It’s as good as any. So you’re not married?”

      “No.”

      “Well, let’s see what ol’ Shayla can drum up.”

      “Really, I’m not—”

      Shayla stabbed the air with a fork. “Sure you are. You just need a little nudge.”

      After lunch as the jurors filed out of the restaurant into the bright winter sunlight, Andrea felt someone take her by the elbow. She looked up. Him.

      “Since we’re going to be spending time together, we might as well get acquainted. I’m Tony Urbanski. And you are—?”

      He still had hold of her arm. “Andrea Evans.” She was struck by the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his dark brown eyes. His demeanor conveyed confidence, even a kind of cockiness.

      He assisted her over the curb, then let his hand drop. “Your first time?”

      “On a jury?”

      He paused a beat, then grinned. “What else?”

      She’d led herself right into that one. “Yes. You?”

      “First, and I hope last. I don’t have time for this.”

      “You must be a very important man.”

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Because I’m busy, too. We all are. But, as citizens, we need to make time.”

      He kicked a bottle cap out of his way. “I agree, but the timing for me right now couldn’t be worse.”

      She laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

      He stopped and looked intently at her. “So am I. But maybe not as sorry as I was a few minutes ago.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He covered her hand with his. “A few minutes ago I hadn’t met Andrea Evans.”

      Andrea felt his hand squeeze hers just before they separated and entered the courthouse.

      

      IN THE SECOND ROW, Tony leaned back in the less-than-comfortable chair, undoubtedly designed to keep bored jurors attentive or at least upright. The judge was explaining trial procedures and rules of evidence. Pretty standard stuff, although several of his fellow jurors frowned in concentration. Fortunately he’d had time at the restaurant to call the office and explain his situation to Wainwright, who, to Tony’s relief, had simply said, “I know you’ll do what needs to be done about your work.”

      Since he was stuck in this jury box, maybe be could try to relax and make the best of the experience. And that definitely included a perusal of Andrea Evans, seated to his right in the front row. Light from a ceiling fixture rested on the tendrils of honey-blond hair that curled loosely at her shoulders. She hunched forward, taking notes on a pad the bailiff had provided. He could see only the curve of her cheek, but he had no trouble recalling the perfect peaches-and-cream complexion and the big blue eyes she’d turned on him outside. She came across as both fragile and determined. An interesting contrast. He admired her for taking the bigoted Swenson to task, but damned if he knew why he’d gone out of his way to meet her. Bull, you know exactly why. You like her.

      The judge’s voice droned on, defining the differences among the various degrees of murder and manslaughter. Andrea was really into this jury thing. He’d watched her all morning, nodding in agreement with the judge, now scribbling fast and furiously. She reminded him of one of those red-white-and-blue-sequin-clad chorines strutting across the stage bare-legged belting out “It’s a Grand Old Flag.”

      His amusement faded to acute physical discomfort when he realized what the image of a scantily dressed Andrea Evans had done to him. Clearly he’d been immersed in business too long if one attractive woman could have such a powerful effect.

      Beside him, the redhead—what was her name? Arnelle something—drummed her fake fingernails on the armrest. She smelled like the bottom of an ashtray, and if she kept up the castanet action, he’d be forced to throttle her.

      Finally, the judge stopped speaking. The attorneys fixed their attention on the bailiff who led in a slightly built teenager dressed in blue corduroy slacks, a white shirt a size too small and a crimson tie. Huge brown eyes dominated his pale face as he stared, like a terrified rabbit, around the courtroom. Jeez, he’s just a boy. Tony pushed that sentiment aside. He was just a boy cleaned up, groomed to look like a solid citizen and quite capable of firing a gun. Dressed in dark clothing with a stocking cap pulled over his short, sandy hair and holding a revolver, he would look convincingly menacing.

      The judge glanced at the lead prosecutor. “Ready with your opening arguments, Mr. Bedford?”

      “Yes, Your Honor.” The portly young man picked up his legal pad and stepped to the attorneys’ podium.

      “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on behalf of the state, thank you for being here. We appreciate the inconvenience this trial has caused you, but feel certain you will exercise your obligation conscientiously.

      “The СКАЧАТЬ