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Trial Courtship
Laura Abbot
It isn't easy being a kid. Life's a trial for nine-year-old Nick Porter. His grandfather wants him to be good at sports, but he's hopeless. His grandmother wants him to eat vegetables, but he hates them. His aunt Andrea–who's his guardian–is nice, but she's always on him about school and manners and stuff.It isn't easy being an adult. Tony's worked hard to escape his past, and that means business always has to come first. So he's less than happy when he's called for jury duty during crucial merger negotiations. Then he meets Andrea Evans and starts to think it might be time to put pleasure before business….It isn't easy being a family. If Tony's going to have a chance with Andrea, he'll have to win over her nephew. And something tells him Nick will be a formidable opponent.


“Do you have any computer games, Nick?” (#u2ae53941-266e-51eb-85bc-2168436943e4)Letter to Reader (#u7bf49f8f-0bfe-56d9-9f71-14640c963f82)Title Page (#u920dba64-6003-5f47-b97f-6a50de2ceb3b)Dedication (#u47a1a30f-8e2a-5685-b1cd-8c4b3500641e)CHAPTER ONE (#u28eab23b-8930-5d28-b341-e7d91b590f1d)CHAPTER TWO (#u66c3955f-67e7-5ec6-8930-6d17ff3853ce)CHAPTER THREE (#u806cb01b-afb7-55ec-b508-71b9560dbdfd)CHAPTER FOUR (#u58f1f96d-dadc-5ea6-a13e-2e883b7bb06c)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Do you have any computer games, Nick?”
Andrea held her breath until the boy answered.
“Why? You play?”
“Only when I have a worthy opponent, Tony said. “Are you any good?”
“Good enough.” Andrea smiled at her nephew’s self-confident tone. She released a mental sigh of relief and stood to clear the main course. She refused Tony’s offer of help and suggested he stay and talk with Nicky.
In the kitchen, she crossed her fingers briefly, hoping her absence would force her nephew to say more than a few polite words to Tony. When she carried the pie into the dining room, she realized her ploy had worked. The two were discussing the scoring intricacies of some intergalactic game.
Tony looked up when she put a plate in front of him. “Homemade? Nick, do you know how lucky you are?”
The boy picked up his fork and held it tightly in his fist “Yeah. I’m lucky, all right.”
Andrea’s stomach twisted with the irony of his comment. Lucky to have lost his parents? Lucky to be living with a single aunt? If only it were simply that he was lucky enough to have someone bake him a homemade pie.
Dear Reader,
I don’t suppose there is a fiction writer anywhere who isn’t a keen observer of others. In fact, my family jokes about my shameless people-watching and eavesdropping in airports, restaurants or any other place where folks gather. Quite simply, I find the human condition fascinating.
Couple that with a lifelong interest in the legal system, and it was only a matter of time before I set a story in a courtroom. A few years ago, my name was drawn as part of a jury pool. The randomness of the process intrigued me, as did the cross section of citizens represented among the potential jurors. What I found especially gratifying was how sincerely each person on the jury worked to try to arrive at a fair and reasonable verdict Were we an unusually conscientious group of twelve? Or is that generally how the process works? I pray we were the rule rather than the exception.
In preparation for writing this book, I spent several days as guest in the Court of Common Pleas, Cuyahoga County Ohio. I came away not only with renewed respect for law enforcement and courts, but with justifiable pride in my gender. Both the bailiff and the judge who assisted me were women—women who performed their jobs with efficiency, fairness and compassion. You know who you are, ladies, and you have earned my utmost respect and gratitude.
You’ve guessed it. The romance writer in me couldn’t resist following the question: “What would happen if a hero and heroine met while they were both serving on the same jury?” I hope you’ll enjoy the outcome of this flight of fantasy.
Laura Abbot
P.S. Please check out my new web site at nettrends.com/LauraAbbot (http://nettrends.com/LauraAbbot) or write me at P.O. Box 2105, Eureka Springs, AR, 72632. Your comments are important to me!

Trial Courtship
Laura Abbot


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my loving and loyal friend Carol
who asked an important question of me
at just the right time in my life.
With heartfelt gratitude for the hospitality and help so freely
given by relatives and friends, old and new, in the beautiful
city of Cleveland.
CHAPTER ONE
ANDREA EVANS PARKED outside the elementary school to wait for Nicky. The late October sun slanted through the colorful foliage of the massive oaks and maples lining the sidewalk. Across the street in front of a large Tudor-style home, a teenage boy with a rake fought a losing battle against leaves scattered by a stiff wind blowing in from Lake Erie. She buttoned her sweater. Nicky shouldn’t be too long. He knew she’d be there.
Shaker Heights, the beautiful wooded suburb of Cleveland, had been a wonderful place to grow up, she reflected, as she watched two girls strolling along the sidewalk, giggling conspiratorially. And the area remained a desirable location for families with children.
Now, unexpectedly, she was the one rearing a child, the one waiting for the Science Club meeting to adjourn. The one who, no matter how much love and attention she showered on her nine-year-old nephew, couldn’t make up for the tragic loss of his parents.
Despite living with her nearly a year and a half, Nicky still wore that preoccupied, lost look, still appeared some mornings for breakfast with his hair awry, his nails bitten to the quick, his eyes bloodshot. Oh, he loved his Andie well enough—they’d always had a special bond. But she could never replace her older sister Tami as his mother. Nor had she found an acceptable male role model for him, a position her ex-fiancé had refused to consider.
When a boisterous group of students exploded from the school, she searched eagerly for Nicky. He wasn’t among them. She checked her watch. He ought to be along any minute. The children split off in pairs and threesomes and scampered away. Maybe she should go inside.
No, there he was. Head down, dragging his book bag by the strap, Nicholas slowly approached the car. She sighed. He looked so lonely. Opening the door, he threw his belongings onto the back seat, pushed his glasses up on his nose, plopped down beside her and, as an afterthought, pulled the door shut.
“Nicky? Are you all right?” She studied the slightly built, raven-haired boy, who sat, hands folded politely in his lap, studying the ink spot on the left knee of his khaki trousers.
He nodded.
She hated to pry, yet the signals he sent off so often concerned her that it was difficult to keep her mouth shut. Every now and then, he would open his shell a crack, permit her in briefly. Then, as suddenly as he’d revealed himself, he’d clam up.
She drove slowly through the residential area toward home. “What was the program at Science Club today?”
“Bats.”
“That should’ve been interesting.”
“Yeah.”
Nothing about bats hanging by their feet, residing in caves or employing nature’s “radar.” Just “yeah.” Something had happened. She knew it. She tried another tack. “Why didn’t you come out with the other kids?”
“I waited.”
“Oh?”
As if discovering a curiosity, Nicky rubbed the ink stain with a stubby forefinger.
One more try. “Did something upset you today?” She watched a flush creep up his neck. “Nicholas?”
“Jus’ Ben again,” he mumbled.
“Ben? What now?” She steeled herself for his answer.
“He called me a weenie.” He paused before adding, “Said he was gonna beat the crap outta me.”
“Did you tell the teacher?”
He shot her an incredulous look. “What good would that do?”
Poor little guy. Caught between a bully and a rap as a snitch. “Would you like me to call Mrs. Elliot?”
He shrugged. “That’ll jus’ make it worse.”
Heartsick, she turned into the drive of the Cape Cod house that had been her sister and brother-in-law’s home and was now hers. As soon as the car stopped, Nicky bolted, leaving his book bag behind. She stood, shivering a moment in the cool late-afternoon breeze, then bent and retrieved the bag. He wasn’t a thoughtless or bad boy. Just unhappy. And she had no idea how to help him.
Andrea followed him into the house, shrugged out of her cardigan and set water to boil for spaghetti. Then she carried Nicky’s bag upstairs to his bedroom, where he already sat engrossed in a computer game. Software and cyberspace—his retreats. She mussed his hair affectionately. “Dinner in forty-five minutes.”
He didn’t look up. “Okay.”
She paused in the entry hall to gather the mail stuffed in the brass door slot. Sorting through the envelopes as she walked back to the kitchen, she flipped past two bills, then stopped short. What on earth did Cuyahoga County want with her? Her heart skipped a beat. Surely nothing involving her custody of Nicky?
Easing onto the chintz-covered breakfast nook bench, she tore open the envelope. “You are summoned to appear in the Court of Common Pleas... Wednesday, November 18...to serve as a juror.”
Jury duty? Could there be a worse time—right before the holiday rush at her store? Perhaps she could get excused. She quickly censored that unworthy reaction. No question about it, fulfilling her duty as a citizen couldn’t always be convenient. She bit her lip. Serving would involve making arrangements for Nicholas, securing the cooperation of Phil Norman, her shop manager...
Bemused, she acknowledged a nudge of anticipation. She’d always been curious about what went on behind the closed doors of a jury room. And with uncharacteristic immodesty, she acknowledged her ability to be a fair-minded, impartial juror. Despite the bad timing, she would manage, maybe by adjusting her work schedule and hiring additional part-time help.
The hiss of water splattering on the electric burner brought her to her feet. Grabbing two pot holders, she removed the pan from the stove.
She was eager to show Nicholas the letter. They could talk about the court system at dinner. Maybe he’d think that was interesting. She hoped so.
“WATCH IT, KELL. You’re dribbling pickle juice on the contract draft!” Tony Urbanski leaned back in his chair and grinned across the conference table at Kelli Murphy O’Shea, expectant mother and legal whiz.
She waved a dill spear in his general direction. “Just because you’re the newest partner in Great Lakes Management Group, Skee, don’t think you can order folks around.”
He laughed. “Nobody gives you orders. How does Patrick put up with you?”
Rubbing her protruding abdomen, she chuckled wickedly. “Oh, my husband understands there are certain rather delightful compensations.”
Tony nodded at the smeared legal document. “That’s an interesting shade of green.”
She bent her dark head over the page, examining it, then looked up, her blue eyes twinkling. “Ah, laddie, it’s the leprechaun touch, doncha know? The luck of the Irish!”
“It damn well better be. I’m going to need all the luck I can get to put DataTech and Cyberace at the same table and hammer out this merger.” Already he could feel the ripples of tension in his chest. He had a huge stake in pulling off this deal. Harrison Wainwright, managing partner of his firm, demanded results. As the recently appointed head of the mergers and acquisition department, Tony could ill afford to mishandle his first huge negotiation since making partner.
“Hey, Skee.” Kelli reached across the table and patted his hand. “You’ll get the job done. I have every confidence in you.”
Good old Kell. Always the cheerleader. Ever since they’d joined the Cleveland office at about the same time two years ago, they’d been buddies. Her refreshing no-nonsense approach to life kept him honest. She had the uncanny ability to see right through him in ways that often made him uncomfortable.
She withdrew her hand and stood, rubbing the small of her back. “And,” she continued, “you have every confidence in you. That’s what makes you so effective.”
“Are you saying I’m cocky?”
She widened her eyes and regarded him archly. “Now would I say a thing like that?”
He scooped up the papers and rose to his feet. “Damn right, you would.” He stuffed the contract draft into his bulging briefcase, then checked his watch. “Jeez, Kell, I didn’t mean to keep you so late. I hope Patrick won’t be worried.”
“I called him earlier. Besides, you saved me. Patrick is putting up our Halloween decorations tonight. He really gets into holidays. You’d think he was still twelve years old. We’ll have skeletons hanging from trees, cobwebs draped all over the front porch and enough jack-o’-lanterns to illuminate our entire block.”
“I’m sorry. You’re missing all the fun.”
“I’ll have plenty of ‘fun’ getting ready for our party. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
Tony hesitated. He wasn’t much for masquerade parties. “If I’m not too busy.”
“Too busy? Give it a rest. Halloween is on a Saturday night! It’ll be a blast. Do you have your costume?”
Costume? A disconcerting childhood memory surfaced of his father telling him boys didn’t “play dress-up” and that Halloween was for sissies. As a schoolboy, Tony had been forced to sneak bedsheets in order to transform himself into a perennial ghost “I’ll probably come as Urban Businessman, circa late 20th Century.”
“Wow,” Kelli said mockingly. “You really let yourself go, don’t you?”
Tony grasped for a change of subject. “How about you? What are you wearing?”
Kelli ran a hand over her stomach and smiled ruefully. “It seems to me I have two choices—Buddha or E.T.”
“With your big eyes, E.T.’s a natural.”
“I think so, too.” Kelli started toward the door.
“I’ll get my coat and walk you to your car. It’s dark out there.”
“Thanks. I’ll meet you at the elevator.” She paused at the door of her office. “And don’t forget to bring a date to the party!”
“Now you’ve pushed me too far.”
She shook her head disparagingly. “Somebody has to help you meet the right woman. Shall I line up one of my single friends?”
He shrugged. “Do I have a choice?” Before disappearing into her office, she shot him one of those looks that clearly said, “Mother knows best.” Someday maybe he’d think about marriage, family. But not now. He hadn’t worked backbreaking construction jobs to earn his way through Michigan State, driven a cab nights while he finished his MBA and clawed his way up the ranks of Great Lakes Management Group to be sidetracked from his goals. Now that he’d achieved a partnership, he wanted to solidify his reputation as the best negotiator the company had ever had, and that didn’t involve distractions of the female variety.
After delivering Kelli to her car, he walked briskly toward the converted warehouse—now a fashionable downtown address—where he had a third-floor flat. The aroma of hot mustard and sauerkraut wafting from the brown paper bag he carried made his stomach grumble. Thank God Kamp’s Deli had late take-out service. A guy could do a lot worse than the best pastrami on rye in northern Ohio.
Reaching his door, he clutched his briefcase under one arm and fumbled in his pocket for his key. Although it was already after nine, he still had the latest Cyberace annual report to review. But the prospect of another late night didn’t bother him. Deep in his gut, he had the feeling that, despite the obstacles, he could make this merger work.
He pushed open the door to his flat, switched on the lights and set his briefcase and sandwich on the chrome-and-glass table. He was proud of the sleek aesthetic decor—a black leather Eames chair and chrome reading lamp, a white sofa grouping, matching coffee and end tables, Klee and Picasso prints furnishing the only splashes of color. A far cry from his father’s double-wide trailer, which Tony had had to call “home.” Take a look, Pops. Your kid has made it.
Shucking his suit jacket, he shuddered against the distasteful image of Stan Urbanski, with the omnipresent cigar stub clenched in his teeth. Stripping off his tie, he then pulled a bottle of ale from the nearly empty refrigerator. Slowly pouring the contents into a chilled pilsner glass, he raised the drink. Cheers! An unexpected wave of loneliness swept over him. What good was success when there was nobody to share it?
Dispelling the maudlin thought, Tony turned his attention to the thick meaty sandwich, idly thumbing through the day’s mail while he ate. A renewal notice for the Wall Street Journal, an invitation to a charity ball at Shaker Heights Country Club—not bad for a nobody from Detroit—and an envelope with a Cuyahoga County return address. What the hell?
He slit the envelope with his pocket knife and pulled out the enclosed letter. “You are summoned to appear in the Court of Common Pleas...to serve as a juror.” November 18? Shoving his sandwich aside, he stared at the words. Not now! He guzzled the remainder of his ale, then slammed the empty glass down on the table top. Joseph and Mary. That was only three weeks away. Shortly before he had to be in New York City to handle the delicate final merger negotiations.
He started to ball up the offending notice, then thought better of it. No need getting in an uproar. Hell, judges were savvy individuals. Surely when he explained his role in a nationally significant business deal, no judge would insist he serve.
Still, it was damned inconvenient. He’d get on the phone first thing in the morning, speak to someone at the jury commission. With luck, maybe he’d be permitted to serve another time.
PALE NOVEMBER SUNLIGHT shone in Tony’s eyes as he faced Harrison Wainwright across the executive’s imposing desk. “How do you plan to handle your work on DataTech-Cyberace if you can’t get excused from jury duty tomorrow?” Wainwright leaned forward, his steely eyes fixed on Tony, his eyebrows meeting in a frown.
Tony met his colleague’s gaze. “I understand the importance of this merger, and I intend to justify your confidence. Once I talk to the judge, there should be no further problem.”
If only he could be sure. When he’d phoned the jury commission, Tony had been abruptly cut off. “You will have to take it up with the judge on November 18.” But he hadn’t earned his reputation as a skilled negotiator for nothing. “Besides,” he continued, “Barry Fuller is really coming along. I’ll be putting in extra time nights and on the weekends and, with Fuller’s help, I don’t see a problem, even if it turns out I have to serve.”
“I don’t have to remind you that time is critical for Ed Miller at DataTech,” Wainwright continued in his deep baritone. “The new product launch is the linchpin of this merger. DataTech has to get the jump on their competition to secure the projected market share. Their ad agency is already pressing for some decisions.”
Tony shared Wainwright’s sense of urgency. “I’ve spent a lot of time convincing Cyberace’s directors that this is a great deal. And it is. DataTech gets the cash they need to produce and promote their new product, and Cyberace shareholders get a chunk of promising stock in a well-managed company. What’s not to like?”
Wainwright started playing with his fountain pen, screwing and unscrewing the lid. “Cyberace is a closely held corporation. Not everyone over there thinks bigger is necessarily better. That concerns me.”
Tony seized the initiative. “Understandable, but I feel certain we can address the issues to everyone’s satisfaction. Once I’m finished with Cyberace, they’ll be begging DataTech for the merger.”
Wainwright set down the pen decisively and picked up the phone. “Okay, you’re my man, but, Skee, watch your backside with Steelman.” He nodded dismissively and began dialing.
Tony stood. “You can rely on me.” He left the room, pausing outside the 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?”
The young man right in front of him seemed cocky.
“Ain’t no way da broad’s gonna stop me,” he mumbled to Tony out of the side of his mouth. “Yer Honor, ya see, it’s like dis. I’m reportin’ Friday to Fort Sill. Basic training.”
“Artillery, Mr. Tonaretti?... Good luck to you. Excused.”
Let’s make it three for three, lady.
The judge didn’t look up. “Mr. Urbanski?”
“Your honor, I represent Great Lakes Management Group in a delicate business negotiation, scheduled to begin shortly—”
“How shortly?”
“December 2.”
“That’s two weeks away.” She still hadn’t looked up.
“This is a matter of extreme importance, involving some influential companies. I know you’ve heard of—”
“Your point, Mr. Urbanski?”
“I’m critical to this negotiation and the timing couldn’t be worse for me or for the interests I represent. I’d be more than honored to serve another time,” he really meant that, “but right now—”
“I assume others are working with you on this project?”
“Yes, but—”
She finally raised her eyes and stared coldly at him. “No business interests should supersede your duty as an American citizen. Request denied.”
Blood drained from Tony’s face and his feet remained glued to the floor.
“Move along, sir.” The smug-looking bailiff nudged his arm.
Tony stalked out of the courtroom to the pay phone. Hell, he couldn’t even use his cellular. He dropped in the change, then slapped a hand against the wall. This was a major complication. “Barry, listen, I’ve been detained at the courthouse. It might be late afternoon before I can get back to the office. Could you stick around this evening?”
“Be glad to. What’s up?”
Tony didn’t want to think about what he’d now have to delegate or about how much depended on the unseasoned Fuller. “I need to reassign some work on this DataTech deal.”
“Do you need me to notify Wainwright?”
That was the last thing he needed. “No. Leave him to me. I’ll call him later.” He slammed down the receiver and stood scowling, studying his fellow jurors who, incomprehensibly, chatted animatedly, even with apparent enthusiasm. Surely he wasn’t the only one who had other things to do.
Maybe he shouldn’t worry. Not even the most incompetent lawyer would want him on a jury in his current mood. The attorneys might still dismiss him. He unclenched his fists and for the first time since entering the courthouse, regained his optimism.
AFTER THE RECESS, Andrea took her assigned seat near the front. So far, she’d found the process interesting and the judge’s words about the Constitution and the jury system eloquent. She glanced around at the assembled group, which represented different ages, races and ethnic combinations and, undoubtedly, a wide range of views, biases and experience. She’d visited with several during the break. Most, though not happy to have their daily routines interrupted, viewed the situation as a necessary service.
But she couldn’t help noticing the intense man by the phone—the same one who’d been annoyed when the bailiff had taken his laptop. His hawklike eyes were narrowed, his chin thrust forward. Except for the frown on his face, he might have been attractive—close-cropped black hair, ears flat against his head, dark eyes smoldering under thick brows. Broad-shouldered, about five-eleven she judged.
The bailiffs words, “All rise,” brought her to her feet. She stood respectfully while the svelte judge made her way to the bench and sat down.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will proceed with voir dire—that is, the questioning of potential jurors. As the clerk reads off your juror numbers, please take seats in the jury box. The rest will wait and, in numerical sequence, replace any juror excused for cause.”
Andrea clutched the children’s books she’d brought from her store to read in the event she wasn’t selected right away. During the selection process, she became increasingly apprehensive. What if this was some technical case about money laundering or insurance fraud? Although she was a good businesswoman, she didn’t know much about such things; however, she rationalized, neither did most people.
“Juror five.”
Her number! Within minutes, the bailiff, who looked like an adorable Chinese pug, had escorted fourteen of them to seats in the jury box. Two men conversed at one of the counsel tables, and a woman seated at the other table made notes on a yellow legal pad. The attorneys, no doubt.
The judge tapped her gavel. “This case involves a juvenile accused of aggravated murder.”
Murder? Andrea gulped. The judge continued, “Are any of you acquainted with me or with the two prosecutors Mr. Bedford and Mr. Raines, or with the defense attorney, Ms. Lamb? If so, please rise.”
A balding man with a small mustache, who was a member of the judge’s temple congregation, was dismissed. When she asked if anyone had ever had a relative or friend who had been the victim of a violent crime, she excused another.
After the judge explained that a juvenile could not be executed for murder in Ohio, she questioned each remaining person about his or her feelings about life imprisonment.
One woman became quite agitated. “I simply couldn’t shut anybody away like that. It’s so cruel. Suppose he was innocent? Why, I couldn’t live with myself.”
By contrast, a man dressed in overalls and a faded flannel shirt rubbed his hands together. “We gotta git control of our society. I say lock up all these crim’nals and throw away the key!” Both were excused.
Andrea’s turn came next. Punishment was a serious issue she had long debated, without coming to any conclusion. She chose her words carefully. “I would be extremely reluctant to sentence a fellow human being to life in prison unless I felt the facts warranted such a sentence, but I also believe that the interests of victims’ families must be considered.”
When the scowling man from the pay phone was questioned, he sighed audibly. It was as if he desperately wanted out, but found himself unable to lie. “Yes, there are circumstances under which I could recommend a life sentence.”
Questioning continued past noon. After exercising several peremptory challenges, the attorneys conferred with the judge, then sat down, seemingly satisfied.
The judge picked up some papers, then addressed those in the courtroom. “The twelve jurors and two alternates will please remain. The rest of you are excused to report back to the fourth floor. Thank you all.”
Andrea couldn’t believe it. She was a juror in a murder case. She felt awed, nervous and slightly sick.
TONY’S STOMACH GROWLED. He checked his watch. Twelve thirty-five. Who was the prisoner here, anyway? Would they ever break for lunch? He couldn’t guess what Harrison Wainright would have done in his shoes, but when the time had come for Tony to give his views on life imprisonment, although he could’ve uttered some outrageous opinion and been excused—at least from this case—he couldn’t do it. He’d sworn an oath. And he’d told the truth.
Tony balled his fists. Hell. A murder trial! As the eleventh juror selected, he’d come close to escaping. However, he might as well reconcile himself. No use fighting the inevitable. But he wished he could be sure Barry Fuller was ready for the challenge this situation would present. He was a promising addition to the firm, but he had a good deal to learn.
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.”
“Ordinarily I’d agree, Chet.” The man sitting next to him, the one who’d brought his laptop, laid a hand on Swenson’s shoulder. “But we have to walk a tight 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 state alleges that this defendant, one Darvin Ray—” he pointed an accusatory finger at the youth “—did, on the night of January 14, with malice aforethought, shoot and fatally wound Angelo Bartelli. The prosecution will present evidence of motive and opportunity. In addition, we will furnish testimony that places the accused at the scene of the crime and links him to the murder weapon.
“Undoubtedly the defense will attempt to prey upon your sympathies, citing the age and lack of criminal record of the accused. However, none of that matters now to Mr. Bartelli. It is he, his widow and children whom you must hold foremost.
“After we present our case, I am confident that the bulk and nature of the evidence will remove any question of reasonable doubt and lead you to the only possible verdict—guilty as charged. Thank you.” He paused, making eye contact with several jurors, then returned to his seat.
When the defense attorney rose, Tony watched Andrea flip to a new page in her notebook, then sit with her pencil poised.
Dressed in a tailored navy suit, the petite flftyish brunette, using different words, also thanked the jurors before launching into her argument. “The prosecutor would have you believe this trial is a mere formality, that their evidence is so overwhelming you will have little, if anything, to deliberate. They will try to convince you my client is a troublemaker with a history of behavioral problems, instead of the bright, responsible young man he is.
“They have told you my client had motive, opportunity and a weapon. They—” she glanced skeptically at the prosecutors “—would have you believe it’s all over but the shouting.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you permit them to plant such an image in your minds from the very outset of this trial, you will have done Darvin Ray and the judicial process a grave disservice.”
She moved closer to the railing of the jury box. Tony liked her natural-looking, makeup-free face, the power of conviction burning in her eyes. He made a mental note. She wasn’t the defendant; the kid, with clasped hands and bowed head, was.
“The defense will prove that Darvin Ray is not a criminal, that, in fact, he is himself a victim. We will show that the defendant was maliciously used by another person and framed for the unfortunate murder of Angelo Bartelli.
“Look at him—” she gestured with her arm toward the defendant, then waited while the jurors studied the frightened teen. “How in God’s name can we incarcerate a young man whose future lies before him for a crime he did not plan and, most assuredly, did not commit?”
She turned back to the jury, her hands folded in front of her. “In good conscience, we cannot. It is my job to convince you that in accusing my client of this crime, a terrible injustice has been done. It is my job to provide the evidence you need to acquit Darvin Ray and give him back his future. A job I take very seriously.” She stood for a moment, then uttered a quiet “Thank you.”
Tony was used to the rhetoric of persuasion, and this lady was pretty dam good. But she’d have to be able to do more than talk.
The state called its first witness, the homicide detective in charge of the case. He gave details about the police’s notification, the securing of the crime scene, the names and positions of other officials who were there and verified the identity of the deceased.
At four-forty, the judge, after listening to Ms. Lamb stipulate some facts regarding the investigation, adjourned the court until nine o’clock the following morning.
Tony leaped to his feet and buttonholed the bailiff, who, after what seemed an inordinately long time, returned his laptop and cellular phone with an admonition to leave them at home from now on.
Hurrying out of the courtroom, Tony dialed the office on his cellular, reaching Barry Fuller after a few moments. He stopped in the corridor, leaned against the wall and reeled off a list of documents he wanted Barry to gather for them to look over tonight. After disconnecting, he lurched upright and strode toward the elevator, passing the pay phone where Andrea was engrossed in a conversation. Just as he stepped into the elevator, he heard “Hold it, please,” and spotted Andrea running toward him, her arms full of books. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She looked as good from the front as she did from the rear.
She turned a dazzling smile on him. “Thanks.” The car started its descent. “Wasn’t today fascinating?” She seemed to have as much energy now as she’d had at lunch.
“I don’t know that I’d go that far,” he murmured dryly.
“I have to pay close attention to catch everything, but the process, I mean—it’s interesting.”
“Interesting...and time-consuming.”
“But,” her lips quirked coyly, “important.”
“Important,” he agreed, while in his head he could almost hear the band playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
BACK AT THE OFFICE, while he looked over the papers in his In box and waited for Fuller, Tony checked his answering machine. Routine stuff, until he heard the whiskey-rough voice of his father. “Hey, big shot, it’s your old man. I need to talk with you. Soon. Spend your nickel.” Tony frowned in irritation. Rarely did a call from his father signal good news. Better just get the conversation over with. Reluctantly, he dialed the number. The phone rang five times before his father picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s Tony.”
“’Bout time. I called this morning. Where ya been?”
“Jury duty.”
“That’s my kid. Always the model citizen, huh?”
Tony felt the familiar tightening in his chest. Would the world end if the man gave him a compliment?
His father continued. “What kinda case?”
“Murder.”
“Ooh, nothing but the best for my important son.”
“What do you want, Pops?”
“Can’t a father just chat with his son? Enjoy an...exchange of information?”
“Such as?”
“How’s that fancy job of yours comin’ along?”
“Fine.”
“That’s it?”
“What else should I say?”
“Aw, the hell with it.” He paused and Tony could hear him sipping and swallowing. “Your cousin Denny won the plant bowling tournament.”
“Tell him congratulations for me.”
“You got Thanksgiving plans?”
Here it comes. The invitation to hole up in that double-wide and watch parades and ball games while dear old Dad gets wasted. As a kid, Tony had dreaded holidays. No family gathered for a loving, bountiful feast. No laughter. No hugs. Just his father’s descent into the bottle. Despite the help Tony had offered through the years, some things never changed. “I’m working.”
“Big shot can’t even take a day off?”
His father knew all about “sick” days. “Let’s get to it, Pops. What exactly is the purpose of this call?”
“I need a loan.”
No surprise there. “The ponies let you down?”
His father hawked into the phone. “Little streak of bad luck.”
“How bad?”
“A grand.”
“I’ll send you five hundred.” Tony had learned the hard way about his father’s padded figures. “How soon do you need it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He’d get to the bank during lunch.
After hanging up, Tony stood, drawing deep, punishing breaths. So help me God, he promised himself, if I ever have kids of my own, I’ll bust my ass taking care of them, loving them, so they never feel about me the way I do about my father. The father who, no matter what, had stubbornly refused his son’s many attempts to get him into treatment.
Easing back into his chair, Tony buried his head in his hands and studied the thick Cyberace file on his desk. His secretary’s research was thorough. Each bio was three or four pages. On top was Rodney Steelman’s. Class of 1950, Penn State. Marine lieutenant with a tour in Korea. MBA, Harvard, 1958. Ten years with IBM. Now he was getting to the good stuff—how an IBM company man bolted, started with little capital but a lot of contacts and built Cyberace into one hell of a software company.
“Ready for me?”
Tony glanced up. Lounging in the doorway and wearing an eager smile was Barry Fuller, Princeton ‘92; MBA, Stanford. “Sure, c’mon in.” Barry was a good man, bright, thorough, ambitious, willing to learn. But—Tony succumbed to a moment of doubt—untried and overconfident. No matter what his flaws were, Tony needed him. And this negotiation was a great opportunity for the kid. Fuller uncoiled himself, entered the office and, carefully pulling at his trouser creases, sat down. “Man, this jury thing is really bad timing for you. How can I help?”
Tony outlined the tasks to be done, suggested some reallocation of personnel and then asked Barry if he felt comfortable spearheading the preparation while Tony was in court.
“Yes, sir, I do. I know things will come up that I can’t handle, but I’m not afraid to ask questions. Besides, I’ll be in touch with you every day, and I’m planning on being available nights and weekends as long as you need me.”
“I’m counting on it.” Tony picked up the bio file. “So let’s get started.”
Fuller scooted his chair forward, placed his legal pad on the edge of the desk and, as Tony outlined their strategy, began taking notes.
ANDREA SPRINTED TO CATCH the outbound Rapid Transit. She struggled down the aisle, juggling her purse and books as the commuter train slid away from the terminal. With relief, she sank into one of the few vacant seats. Though exciting, in many ways the day had been exhausting. Meeting people was nothing new; being in the retail business, she was used to it, but the careful listening was hard work. Especially with so much at stake! Still, she was reassured by the judge’s thorough explanations and by the fact most of her fellow jurors seemed to take their responsibilities seriously, except maybe for Chet and Arnelle and...she couldn’t tell about Tony Urbanski. At times he’d seemed preoccupied, detached.
But he had a winner of a smile.
And, in unguarded moments, an almost wistful expression. Listen to yourself. Manufacturing high drama about a virtual stranger. She allowed herself a slight chuckle. He was a very attractive virtual stranger.
She laid her head back on the seat. She hadn’t had much opportunity since the deaths of Tami and Rich to think about men. The suddenness of their loss had devastated the family, particularly Nicky. With the upheaval of moving into her sister and brother-in-law’s home and the radical adjustment both she and Nicky had had to make—were still making—her personal life had been subsumed. In the past few months, except for the rare date, she had been most decidedly out of the singles’ loop. She shook her head. Darn Tony Urbanski’s memorable eyes and engaging grin!
She struggled against a sudden, unbidden memory. John and the shock of his departure. She didn’t want to recall the pain and betrayal of discovering that the one man she’d thought she loved—her fiancé, for heaven’s sake—couldn’t handle her changed circumstances after Tami’s and Rich’s deaths. What kind of relationship couldn’t survive the addition of one small, heartbroken boy? Looking back, she wondered how she could ever have thought she knew John, much less loved him!
On the bright side, she was proud of the success she’d made of her store and the concept of combining the sale of children’s books with that of toys, clothes and other products related to familiar stories and poems. Yet there was lingering guilt that she’d had to use some of Tami’s and Rich’s assets as collateral for a bank loan.
The train rattled and bumped along the tracks. Outside, the smoke-begrimed brick of old warehouses and factories passed in a blur, slowly giving way to the fine old buildings and stately trees of the Heights area. When she’d called the shop during the afternoon recess, Phil had assured her the day had gone smoothly. She was lucky to have him, she thought, both as an employee and as a friend.
By the time she reached the Shaker Square station and climbed into her parked car, it was nearly dark. She’d made arrangements for Nicky’s grandparents, Claudia and Bert Porter, to pick Nicky up at school and keep him until she could swing by. As usual, they were delighted to spend time with him.
Why, even after all these months, couldn’t she shake the fear that one day they’d take Nicky from her? The Porters had not been happy to learn Tami and Rich had named her Nicholas’s guardian in their will. They’d stopped short of fighting her in court, but they took no pains to conceal their disappointment about not having custody of their grandson. She walked on eggshells around the two, and their disapproval settled heavily on her. It was as if they were just waiting for her to make a misstep.
It took ten minutes through heavy traffic to reach their imposing home on the southeast edge of Shaker Heights. The gardener was just loading his rakes into a dilapidated pickup when she pulled into the driveway. With the sunset, the air had turned chilly, and she hurried to the back door. Claudia, a denim apron covering her color-coordinated burgundy wool skirt and cashmere sweater, greeted her. “Hello, Andrea.” As usual she sniffed out the name. “You’re just in time. Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Dinner? All Andrea wanted to do was go home, nuke some leftover meat loaf and curl up on the sofa in her sweats, not sit stiffly in the Porters’ formal dining room engaging in stilted conversation and listening to Claudia remind Nicky about table manners as if he’d never had any instruction in the social graces. Her jaw ached. “Where’s Nicky?”
Claudia turned to the six-burner stove and began stirring the gravy. “Up in Richard’s bedroom with his grandfather.”
She should have guessed. Bert and Claudia had made a shrine of their only child’s room. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it carefully over the back of a kitchen stool. “I think I’ll go say hello unless there’s something I can help you with.”
Claudia’s spine straightened. “No, thank you. On your way upstairs, dear, would you please hang your wrap in the guest coat closet?”
Heaven forbid I clutter the spotless kitchen. Andrea escaped down the hall, the ritual offer of help having been refused, as always. What could an unmarried businesswoman who grabbed takeout on the way home from work possibly know about gourmet cooking?
She started up the stairs, caressing the timeworn carved oak bannister. On the fifth step she paused. As it always did, the large illuminated oil portrait of Rich as a college man, which hung on the wall of the landing, overwhelmed her. Dressed in a white sweater, he sat in the stern of a boat, his left hand casually holding the tiller, his curly black hair wind-tossed, his complexion glowing with a sailor’s tan. Each time she climbed these stairs, no matter what the angle, his dark, thoughtful eyes seemed to follow her. He had been a striking young man, and her sister Tami had been lost the first time she clapped eyes on him at a frat party her freshman year at Ohio State.
Andrea sighed, then continued toward the second floor. Despite the off-white walls, spacious airy rooms and tasteful, but understated furnishings, the house felt lifeless, as if it would be irreverent to laugh aloud. And this in a home that used to ring with the laughter of Rich and his friends. Ever since the accident, both Bert and Claudia, like the house itself, seemed different—empty, brittle, edgy.
From Rich’s old room, she could hear Bert’s deep voice. She approached and stood quietly in the doorway. Nicky perched on one of the twin beds, his hands clasped politely in his lap. His grandfather sat beside him holding a trophy between his knees. “...and this one your dad got when his Little League team won the championship. Do you remember what I told you about the double play he made against Creamfresh Dairy?”
Nicky nodded dutifully while Bert extolled Rich’s feats on the baseball diamond. Andrea took in the familiar room—done in a blue-and-red nautical theme. Model sailboats lined the long shelf over the beds and on the opposite wall a bookcase was crammed with additional trophies, framed certificates, a leather mitt molded through use to fit a youthful hand and a framed picture of Tami and Rich at a sorority dance. As if his mother had made a concession to youthful idiosyncrasies, on the far wall hung posters of Bruce Springsteen and the Rolling Stones. Not a cobweb or dust bunny anywhere.
“...so what do you think, son? Pretty impressive, huh?”
She could hardly hear Nicky’s mumbled, “Yes, Grandpa.”
Bert stood, studying the trophy in his hand, then crossed to the bookcase where he carefully replaced it before picking up the stained mitt. He looked at Nicky. “Pretty soon you can use this when you play ball.”
Nicky fidgeted, pinching the bedspread with his fingers. “Maybe.”
Bert replaced the mitt, then tousled Nicky’s hair. “That will be this spring, right?”
Nicky stared at the floor. “I guess.”
Determined to rescue her nephew, Andrea entered the room. “Gentlemen, ready for dinner?”
Bert peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Hello, Andrea. We didn’t hear you come in.” His tone made her feel like an unwelcome intrusion.
Nicky leaped off the bed and came to stand beside her, his arms around her waist. “Hi, Andie.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you have a good day at school?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Great. Let’s go downstairs and you can tell us all about it over dinner.”
After they were seated around the antique cherry dining room table, Claudia placed the pork roast, aromatic with garlic and rosemary, on the damask place mat in front of her husband. He dished up the servings, then passed a plate to each of them. Claudia ladled broccoli beside Nicky’s meat portion. He bit his lip and looked pleadingly across the table at his aunt.
“Your Mimi wants you to try her special recipe, Nicholas,” Claudia cajoled. “You and Andrea need to eat more vegetables.”
How would Claudia. know? Did she think they consumed nothing but greasy burgers and pizza? Nicky tolerated peas, beans and squash, but he hated broccoli. Andrea watched as he manfully shoveled a teaspoonful of the offensive green into his mouth, his jaws moving mechanically as he attempted to chew and swallow the stuff. She tried to divert Claudia. “The gravy is delicious.”
Claudia smiled smugly. “Thank you, my dear. Richard loved my gravy. Unfortunately your sister never mastered it.”
Bert set down his fork and cleared his throat. “Andrea, Claudia tells me you’re on a jury.” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively while he buttered his roll.
“Yes.” Why was it such a strain to conduct a conversation with these people? The three of them had loving Nicky in common, didn’t they? “It’s a murder case.”
Claudia’s fork clattered to her plate. “Oh, my.” She threw a nearly imperceptible nod toward Nicky as if Andrea had just brought up an objectionable topic.
For the first time since she’d arrived, Nicky’s face brightened. “Cool. Tell me about it.”
“Must we talk about it now?” Claudia frowned at Andrea.
“I wanna hear, Andie.”
“Actually, I’m not supposed to discuss the case itself. Mostly this afternoon we listened to the judge and the attorneys’ opening—”
“Nicholas, put your napkin back in your lap,” Claudia hissed, “and finish that broccoli. That’s a good boy.”
“How long do you think your jury duty will last?” Bert asked.
“I’m not sure, several days maybe.”
“I have a wonderful idea,” Claudia chimed in. “Nicholas can stay with us while you’re on jury duty. That way you won’t have to worry about him. Don’t you think that’s best, Bert?”
Andrea’s heart sank.
“...pack his things, and I could pick him up from school,” Bert was saying.
“Excuse me, but much as I appreciate your offer, I think it’s important for Nicky to continue with his normal routine.”
Bert turned to Nicholas expectantly. “What would you like to do, son?”
Nicholas flushed. “I...I don’t care.” He stared at Andrea beseechingly.
Andrea wiped her mouth with her napkin and tried to pull herself together. She would not be manipulated by these people. “No. Nicholas will stay with me although I’d appreciate being able to call on you for help. Now, while we finish this delicious dinner, why don’t you tell us about school, Nicky?”
Recognizing a reprieve, Nicholas picked up the verbal ball she’d tossed to him and began telling them about some new computer software the fourth grade was using in social studies. Andrea consciously slowed her breathing, unclenched her hands and picked at the pork roast, aware of the frozen expressions on the faces of her hosts.
“WHY DOES MIMI make me eat broccoli?”
Andrea maintained a neutral expression and concentrated on her driving. “Because it’s good for you.”
“Yuck. If I were God and was gonna make somethin’ good for kids to eat, it sure wouldn’t taste like that.”
“Well, you know how your grandmother is about her cooking.”
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his parka. “Yeah. But all she makes is grown-ups’ food. I bet she doesn’t even know how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“Why don’t you ask her sometime?”
He looked doubtfully at her. “Is peanut butter good for ya?”
She grinned. “Full of protein.”
“Then maybe I’D ask her.” He rode along silently for several blocks. Then he spoke again.
“Do I hafta play baseball?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Grandpa wants me to.” He was kicking the floorboard. “I don’t like baseball.”
Oh, boy. “Why not?”
Kick, kick. “I...I’m no good at it.”
“But you’ve never played.”
She barely made out his mumbled answer over the hum of the heater. “I wouldn’t be any good.”
“Nicky, you don’t know that.”
He raised his chin, and his voice was defiant. “Yes, I do. Everybody knows I can’t do sports. And don’t try to tell me I can.”
Oh, Lord. A reaction to Ben and the “weenie” comment? “Let’s wait and see. Maybe Grandpa and I can practice with you.”
In response, all she heard was the thud of more kicking.
A RAGGED VOICE SCREAMED into the gusting wind. “Dad! Dad!”
Bert windmilled his arms, struggling through the roiling waves, losing his footing in the sifting sands of the lake floor. “Hang on, I’m coming!” He half jogged, half swam toward the sound. Cold breakers, huge and powerful, beat him back, but he thrashed on.
“Bert!” Something hard—a piece of driftwood?—knocked against his shoulder. Again the cry. “Bert! Wake up!”
He fought onward toward...the red eye of the luminous dial on the bedside clock-radio, which read two-seventeen.
“Bert, are you all right?”
He pushed onto his elbows, struggling to free his legs from the tangled sheet. A cold sweat drenched his body. Shivering, he reached for the blankets at the foot of the bed. Finally, his respiration slowed. “Okay. I’m okay, now.”
Claudia turned on the bedside lamp. “Was it the dream again?”
Would he ever be free of it? “Yes.” He forced back the phlegm crowding his throat.
“Bert, it’s been eighteen months.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Are you sure you don’t need to see a profess—”
“No! I don’t want to hear any more about it. At least in the dream, I can see him, hear him....”
“It’s not good for you—”
“But I can’t reach him. God, I get so close.” His voice broke.
Claudia slipped out of bed and put on her robe. “I’ll bring you some warm milk. It’ll help you get back to sleep.” She glided from the room.
Sleep! He resisted it, feared it. Because no matter how hard he tried, how he willed it with every sinew in his body, he couldn’t bring Rich back. He threw an arm over his eyes and bit back a sob. His son. His only child. Gone.
After a few minutes, he sat up, leaned against the pillows and fixed his eyes on the familiar bedroom furnishings—the massive walnut armoire, Claudia’s dressing table, the built-in bookshelves. He concentrated on the normalcy of his surroundings. Yet the imprint of his son’s anguished face stared back at him everywhere he looked. God, if it weren’t for Nicholas, he didn’t know what he’d do. But he couldn’t spend time with Nicholas every day the way he’d be able to if his grandson lived here. He couldn’t oversee his upbringing. Couldn’t fill that empty space Rich used to occupy. It wasn’t Andrea’s fault, of course. She did her best, but, damn, it wasn’t the same as having Nicholas under the same roof.
Claudia eased open the door with her hip and backed into the room, carrying a tray. “Here we go.” She turned around and walked toward him, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Hot milk and graham crackers.”
“I’m not hungry.” Besides, he didn’t appreciate being treated like some small boy in a nursery, damn it.
“Now, Bert—” Claudia’s voice affected the patronizing tone of a nanny “—it’ll make you feel better.”
He waved the proffered mug aside. “Why can’t you understand, Claudia? Nothing is going to make me feel better.”
Eyeing him closely, his wife set down the mug and seemed about to say something critical when she apparently changed her mind and merely said, “Well, suit yourself, then. I’m going back to bed. Turn the light out when you’re ready.”
He couldn’t believe it. Within mere seconds, she was sound asleep. They simply didn’t understand each other any more. It baffled him that she had been able to go on so smoothly with her life, as if her son’s death were just another bump along life’s road instead of a cataclysmic upheaval. Most mothers would have disintegrated into grief, their lives forever altered. He couldn’t understand Claudia. Maybe denial was her way of coping, but it sure as hell wasn’t his.
He leaned over and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, he thought about Nicholas. At least he hadn’t forgotten Rich. But the lad seemed so sad, so unreachable.
If only he and Claudia had custody...
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER DROPPING NICKY at school the next morning and barely catching the inbound Rapid, Andrea dashed into the jury room. The bailiff directed her to the coatrack, then lined up the jurors.
“Girl, you look frazzled.” Shayla patted Andrea’s shoulder as they entered the courtroom. “Take a deep breath and calm down.”
“I was afraid I’d be late. I had to get my nephew off to school.”
“Mornings are hectic at my house, too. Rousting my teenagers outta bed takes an act of Congress.”
As the panel settled into their seats, Andrea stole a look at Tony Urbanski, who sat back in his chair, knees apart, studying the ceiling while Arnelle Kerry whispered into his ear. He looked distractingly handsome in a pale green button-down shirt, paisley tie and camel blazer. But who was noticing? When they rose for the judge’s entrance, she had the feeling his eyes were fixed on her.
The ballistics expert took the stand then, and Andrea forced herself to pay attention. The man clearly knew his stuff but, even with charts and photographs, he had a difficult time making the arcane comprehensible. Details about angle of bullet entry and weapon caliber were hard to follow, but she did grasp that the police had found and identified the weapon that evidence showed had, indeed, killed Mr. Bartelli. When photos of the entry wound were flashed on the video screen, among the spectators, a tiny gray-haired woman with an olive complexion gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. The widow? Beside her, a younger woman, perhaps her daughter, consoled her.
Somehow with that tiny gasp, the dry recitation of evidence took on painful reality. That bullet from that gun had robbed a family of their loved one.
Andrea glanced at the defendant, his white shirt more wrinkled today, wondering what would possess a teenager, whose future lay before him, to kill someone. Well, she wasn’t naive. Maybe he was involved in a gang or had been high on drugs or simply had made a stupid mistake. The way he sat, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, reminded her of a cowering animal. She’d like to think that, as the defense had suggested, he’d been framed. How? By whom?
After the defense attorney finished her cross-examination of the ballistics expert, the judge called a recess. Dottie Dettweiler followed Andrea into the rest room. “I can’t believe it took that man forty-five minutes to tell us about guns. Why do I need to know about the patterns of powder bums? Why don’t they just tell me that gun is the murder weapon and get on with it?”
Andrea stood at the mirror fluffing her hair. “Careful, Dottie. We can’t discuss the case. Basically, though, the prosecution has to prove everything to us.”
“Holding us captive, more’s the like.” Dottie, in a huff, disappeared into a stall.
What would happen when the jurors finally deliberated? Would people like Dottie try to rush a verdict? A few minutes ago Chet had groused, “Fifteen dollars an hour it’s costin’ me ta sit aroun’ here listenin’ to this garbage.”
Andrea shuddered and turned away from the mirror. A jury of your peers. Among the five scariest words in the English language.
Outside in the hall, Andrea wandered to a window overlooking downtown. A brisk wind roiled the surface of Lake Erie and pedestrians scurried between buildings.
“I brought you a soda.” Andrea looked up. Shayla extended a can. “Hope you like Sprite.”
“Thanks, I do. What do I owe you?”
“Forget it. You can return the favor this afternoon.” Shayla perched on the window ledge. “I also brought news.” Her eyes sparkled. “About our fellow juror.”
Andrea lifted her lips from the can. “Oh?” Shayla’s body language was obvious—she was practically salivating. “Who’re you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, girl. Him.” She nodded toward the pay phone where Tony Urbanski stood deep in serious conversation.
“Shay-la.” Andrea drew out her name chidingly. “I warned you about matchmaking.”
“Honey, we gotta do somethin’ besides listen to those lawyers. I’m takin’ good care of you.” She set her soda down and folded her arms. “Now, you wanna hear what Shayla discovered?”
The heck of it is, I really do. “You’re going to tell me anyway, right?”
Shayla chuckled. “Listen up, missy. Mr. Tony Urbanski works for Great Lakes Management Group. He has a cushy job and a flat in one of those pricey warehouses over by the river. He grew up in Detroit and got a university education at Michigan State. He’s been here two years. And now for the best part—” She picked up her drink and took a maddeningly slow sip.
Andrea pursed her lips and threw Shayla an accusing look. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
“I’ve gotta have a little fun, too.”
“Okay.” She enunciated very clearly. “What is the best part?”
“He’s single, never been married, and—” She arched her eyebrows suggestively and leaned forward.
Andrea couldn’t help herself. “What?”
“He asked me all about you.”
Having fair skin was a detriment at times like this. A blush made it impossible to look neutral. But, then, she didn’t feel particularly neutral.
When she turned to walk toward the courtroom, Tony, the phone still clamped to his ear, a broad grin creasing his face, followed her with his eyes.
TONY SPRINTED TO THE BANK after lunch to set up the wire transfer of the five hundred dollars. It had always been like this. His father made good money as a forklift operator, but what he didn’t gamble away, he drank. Early on, Tony had devised a game plan. If he wanted to get ahead, he couldn’t expect help from Pops. He’d have to rely on himself, bust his butt and make it happen. It hadn’t been easy, but he took quiet satisfaction in his success.
Crossing the square on his way back to the courthouse, Tony set aside unpleasant reminders of his past and concentrated on Andrea Evans. With all the subtlety of a battering ram, Shayla Brown had invited him to lunch with her and Andrea. Not that he’d minded. Quite the contrary—the perky blonde was easy to look at Like an inquisitive bird, she had a way of cocking her head when she listened that made him feel as if she really cared, and she exuded...not naiveté exactly...more a zest for life rarely seen in adults. When his eyes strayed, from time to time, to her delicious curves, he felt rather like a ravening wolf creeping up on an unsuspecting lamb.
He’d learned she’d grown up in Shaker Heights, had majored in marketing at Miami University and owned her own toy store. Not bad for such a young woman. A car honked at him, and he stepped back up on the curb. Since moving to Cleveland, he’d had little time for a social life, unless you counted the occasional party like the one Kelli’d had at Halloween. The few women he’d dated had tended to be executive types with an attitude. Andrea’s softness was a definite contrast. A welcome one.
He chastised himself. He hadn’t gotten where he was by worrying about his personal life. Besides, a workaholic like himself shouldn’t be entertaining thoughts about any woman, no matter how temptingly attractive.
That decided, by the time he reached his place in the jury box, he was able to settle back and listen, first to the coroner and then to the fingerprint expert, who established that the print on the murder weapon matched the defendant’s. By the time the judge adjourned for the day, he was beat. Did these people have to pass a nerd test to qualify as expert witnesses?
Outside, sunshine faded to dusk and adjacent office buildings disgorged workers into Public Square. Inexplicably, despite his earlier resolve, he found himself rushing to catch up with Andrea and Shayla. “Hey, what’s your hurry?”
Andrea spun around, the red of her woolen scarf complementing her rosy cheeks. “Oh, hi, Tony. I’m trying to get to the store before my manager closes.” Shayla stood to one side, a knowing look on her face.
“Do you have a minute?” What in the world was he doing? He could almost hear Kelli laughing and saying, “Okay, big boy, what now?” He fumbled for a coherent comment.
Shayla didn’t have any trouble finding something to say. “Funny how circumstances have thrust us all together, isn’t it? I mean, how else would the two of you have met? And if you’ll pardon my interference, I think you should make the most of it.” She grinned smugly.
“I beg your pardon?” Tony said.
“Shayla—” Andrea protested.
The older woman ignored them both and hurtled on. “Never a good idea to ignore Lady Luck.” With her thumb and forefinger, she picked up Andrea’s wrist and held it out for inspection. “Tony, this skinny little gal needs fattening up. Why don’t you take her to dinner?”
Andrea shifted uncomfortably, pulling her arm away. “Really, Shayla, I’m sure Tony has plans of his own.” She looked pointedly at him. “Don’t you?”
A conference with Barry, letters to sign...but he’d be through in an hour or so. “Actually, no,” he found himself saying. “How about it, Andrea?” Was he out of his mind?
Shayla beamed. “Well, then. That’s settled.” She glanced up at the Terminal Building clock. “Oops, gotta run or I’ll miss my train.” And she was gone.
Andrea edged after her. “Wait.”
Tony stopped her. “I’m serious.”
“Tonight?”
“I’m free. How about you?”
She fingered the strap of her shoulder bag. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”
“Do I need a character reference?”
She smiled. “No, Shayla’s checked you out. It’s not that—”
“Then what?”
“This jury thing.” She wrinkled her nose. “I mean, it would be fraternizing. I don’t think we should compromise the process.”
She hadn’t turned him down...yet. And this was one argument he could handle. “I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t planning on discussing the case.”
“No, of course not. The judge made that very clear.”
“So—” he tucked her arm in his and started toward the Rapid station “—I don’t see what harm there would be in some off-duty socializing.” Harm? Hell, he couldn’t wait.
She glanced up at him, her expression wary. “You promise you won’t bring up the case?”
He crossed his heart. “I promise. I can pick you up at seven.”
“Because of the short notice, the ‘you’ will have to include Nicky.”
“Nicky?” Who the hell was Nicky?
She seemed to be enjoying his bewilderment. “Nicky’s my nine-year-old nephew and he’ll make a wonderful chaperon.”
Oh. “That’s great.”
“We’ll be at Never-Never Land.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Never-Never Land.”
“Should I fly in?”
She laughed merrily. “That won’t be necessary. I forgot. You don’t know. That’s the name of my store in Shaker Square.”
He cracked a wry smile. “What a relief. For a minute there I was afraid you and Peter Pan had flitted off to Honalee along with Puff.”
As they neared the ticket booth, she gave him the address. Then she turned and laid a hand on his arm. “You’re sure this is okay?”
He covered her hand with his and hoped he wasn’t fibbing. “Positive.”
“You’re on, then.” Her eyes twinkled. “Seven o’clock.”
As he walked briskly toward his office, Tony had to laugh at himself. After all, he, who made his living as a master of interpersonal communication, had just been adroitly maneuvered by not one, but two women! He plunged his hands into his pants pockets. Nicky, huh?
ANDREA PICKED UP NICKY at the Porters’ and made it to the store ten minutes before the six o’clock closing time. Phil, dressed in his Uncle Wiggly costume, was advising a little girl picking out a birthday present for her best friend. Meanwhile, the child’s exasperated mother kept frantically checking her watch. Andrea smiled. Phil was a whiz at the financial end of the business, but his real talent was relating to kids.
Many men would have been uncomfortable wearing a costume, but Phil and her other employees loved the theatrical touch of dressing as storybook characters. Andrea had to admit the idea had been a stroke of marketing genius—that, along with a carefully selected inventory of books and toys, had been a significant factor in attracting and keeping customers. The store had exceeded all her financial projections for this first year, and a strong holiday season would cap things off nicely.
She picked up the cash register receipts and retreated to her office to tally the day’s sales. In the corner Nicky lounged in a red beanbag chair reading. Fortunately, he was patient about spending time at the shop and amused himself well. Andrea ran the adding machine, then studied the totals on the tape. Not bad for a weekday. Phil, now in his street clothes, stuck his head in the door. “I’ve locked up. Okay if I leave now?”
“Sure. I have a few more things to do.” After Phil departed, she put the cash into a bank bag and stored it in the small office safe, then glanced at the clock.
“Nicky, may I interrupt?”
With his finger marking the page, he closed his book and looked up.
“I hope you don’t mind, but a friend is coming by to take us to dinner. What do you feel like having?”
“Not broccoli.”
“A cauliflower veggie burger, then?”
He made a gagging noise. “Pizza. Let’s have pizza.”
“Giorgio’s?”
His head was already back in his book. “Uh-huh.”
Her friend Daisy Whitcomb, who made all the costumes for the employees, had delivered the new Christmas items Monday, but until now Andrea hadn’t had a chance to examine them. She went into the storeroom. Two forest-green elf costumes for their part-time seasonal help; an immaculate uniform—complete with epaulets and gold braid—awaiting only the bearskin headgear to transform Phil into a nutcracker; and her own flowing white gown with attached buckram wings and a glittering halo. Because of her short stature, she was to be The Littlest Angel.
She decided to try on the costume quickly to see if any alterations were necessary. Because of her jury duty, she didn’t know when she’d have another chance. She stepped out of her brown tweed skirt and pulled the beige turtleneck over her head before carefully donning the angel robe. Stretching and craning, she finally managed to zip up the back and arrange the wings, which seemed to have a will of their own. Then she gently laid the halo on the crown of her head. Picking up the skirt, she returned to the office to check the effect in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Nicky adjusted his glasses with a forefinger, then stared at her.
She pirouetted. “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s okay. Don’t spill anything on it.”
He was right. Anything and everything would show. She’d need to be careful. Not easy to do amid the Christmas rush. Yet it was fun to look in the glass and see an angel reflected. Her gaze went to her feet. The low-heeled brown suede boots spoiled the effect. She’d have to dig out her white hose and shoes. But the length was about right—
“What’s that?” Nicky looked alarmed.
“What?”
“That sound.”
Then Andrea heard it. Someone knocking on the plate glass at the front of the store. “Oh, dear. That’s Tony. I need to let him in.” She dashed to the entry, disarmed the alarm and opened the door. “I’m so sorry. The time got away from me.”
Tony just stood there, staring. An amused grin spread over his face. Finally he spoke. “First Never-Never Land, and now heaven?”
“No, not the Elysian fields, just a workplace where we wear seasonal costumes—in this case, Christmas.” She adjusted the halo, which had tilted during her rush to the door, and stepped aside. “Come on in.”
He entered and looked around dazedly. “This is quite a place.” He removed his gloves, stuffed them in his coat pockets, then picked up a jack-in-the-box from a floor display. He turned the handle and laughed aloud when a clown jumped out to the tune of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
“Make yourself at home. I need to change.”
He set down the toy and reached for her hand. “Not for me you don’t. I’ve never had a date with an angel.”
The warmth of his hand enclosing hers sent a shock through her, along with decidedly unangelic thoughts. “Giorgio might not understand.”
“Giorgio?”
“The pizza chef.” She withdrew her hand.
Tony seemed puzzled. “Pizza?”
“Yes, Nicky and I thought that would be best.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
She suspected that, despite what he’d said earlier, the idea of a third party wasn’t appealing. Just then Nicky sidled up alongside her. She put an arm around him. “Tony, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Nicholas Porter. Nicky, this is Tony Urbanski.”
Nicky averted his eyes as he shook hands with Tony.
She started toward the rear of the store. “If you two will excuse me, I—”
Nicky trailed her. “I thought you said we were going to dinner with a friend,” he whined.
Andrea faltered. He was not happy. And Tony had to have overheard. “Tony is a friend.”
They reached the office. Nicky stood, sullen, his hands deep in his pockets. “But he’s a man.”
“Does that bother you?”
He shrugged. “I dunno.”
She placed her palms on his shoulders. “Tell you what. Why don’t you give him a chance? We’ll check him out together. What do you say?”
“I guess.” He turned away and started stuffing books into his backpack.
In the storeroom as Andrea removed the costume and hung it back on the hanger, she couldn’t help thinking about Nicky’s possessiveness and the approving glow in Tony’s eyes when she’d opened the door. She would most definitely need a guardian angel tonight!
WHEN TONY HAD FIRST seen Andrea—her flaxen hair loose around her shoulders, the diaphanous gown barely concealing her lush body—he couldn’t help but think of ravishing that angel right there on the floor. A Never-Never Land fantasy, all right.
He wandered around the store. Train sets, jigsaw puzzles, magician’s kits, an entire section of games—he’d had no idea there was this much stuff available for kids. Hell, he’d been lucky to have a secondhand Tonka dump truck and a rusty red wagon. He picked up a pioneer character doll and examined the price tag. The merchandise wasn’t cheap either. It must cost a fortune for parents to put on Christmas these days.
He replaced the doll and strolled to the substantial reading corner. He ran a finger along the spines of the books—Babar, Curious George and Horton the Elephant. He supposed most adults had associations with these characters. Not him. He couldn’t remember anyone reading to him, except his teachers, after his mother died when he was five. All that came to him was a dim recollection of sitting on her lap playing with the shiny buckles on her overall straps while she told him about a big, bad wolf who “huffed and puffed” and blew down the houses of three little pigs. He’d found the notion of pigs living in houses startling. He and his parents lived in a metal trailer. Could the big, bad wolf blow it down?
He picked up Goodnight Moon and thumbed through the pages. He might’ve been better off to stay at the office, instead of submitting to the very thing that hours earlier he’d vowed to avoid. The possibility of a relationship.
“Ready?”
He hadn’t heard Andrea approach. He closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “Whenever you are.”
“Nicky, let’s go.”
While he held Andrea’s coat for her, he watched the kid drag his backpack toward the door. “Where to?”
“Giorgio’s. It’s just down the block. That way you won’t have to move your car.”
“That’s fine with me.” He and Nicky waited outside while she set the alarm. “What grade are you in, Nick?”
“Fourth.” He glared holes through Tony. “Nobody calls me Nick.”
“Mind if I do? Nicholas sounds too formal, and you don’t seem like a Nicky to me.” He studied the boy—stooped shoulders, longish black hair, goggle glasses, scuffed loafers. “Yeah, definitely more a Nick.”
“What’s a Nick like?” Tony could tell the kid had debated with himself whether to ask the question.
“You know. Tough. Grown-up.” For a fleeting moment, Tony thought he saw the boy stand straighter, but then the shoulders drooped again.
“I dunno. I guess ya can call me whatever ya want.”
“Fair enough.”
When Andrea emerged, he threw an arm around Nick’s shoulder and cupped her elbow as they walked down the sidewalk. “Nick and I have been talking. We may have to order an extra-large supreme.”
“But Nicky doesn’t like vegetables on—”
“Andie, I’ll try it.”
The smile she turned on Tony warmed him clear through. Under her breath, he caught her words. “You’re a miracle worker.”
The restaurant, with its red-and-white checked tablecloths, hanging ropes of garlic and candles flickering in empty wine bottles, was stage-setting Italian, right down to the Neapolitan music piped through the sound system. Giorgio himself, a voluble little man, greeted Andrea and Nick familiarly before ushering them to a booth, where Nick promptly plopped down beside his aunt. The boy wasn’t too young to be territorial. At least Tony’d have the pleasure of looking at her during dinner. But he’d rather have been able to touch her.
After they placed their orders, Tony turned to Nick. “So what’re your favorite sports?”
The kid looked blankly at him. “I dunno.”
“You don’t know?”
“Tennis, I guess.”
“You play?”
“A little.” Nick stirred the tip of a bread stick in the saucer of garlic oil. “At my grandfather’s club.”
“What sports do you like on TV? Pro football, basketball, hockey?” Tony felt a foot gently prodding his leg beneath the table. He looked up into Andrea’s troubled eyes, then glanced at the boy. The poor kid was stymied for an answer. He continued, “Me, I’m a big soccer and basketball fan. Baseball, too.”
“Do you play?” Nick asked in a small voice.
“Yeah. City league soccer. Softball in the spring. Maybe you’d like to come with me to one of my games sometime.” Now, why had he said that? The last thing he needed was some droopy kid on his hands.
Nick bit off the end of the bread stick and with a full mouth managed a weak “Yeah, maybe.”
Looking ill at ease, Andrea changed the subject. “Shayla told me she talked with her brother. He used to be a police detective. He said the trial could last anywhere from three or four days to a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks!”
“I know. It’s a long time. At the shop we’ll be right in the middle of the holiday rush.”
“You don’t sound that upset about it.” Lord, he was supposed to be in New York by then.
“Well, there’s not much we can do about it. I hate putting this kind of pressure and responsibility on my manager and the clerks, but what choice have I?”
“You’re a heck of a lot more patient than I am.”
“A young man’s life is at stake,” she said quietly.
“I know, but—”
“Tony—” The tangy aroma of the pizza preceded the waiter as he placed the hot pan between Nick and him. Andrea put her napkin in her lap as she was served her spinach salad. She waited until Tony dished up the pizza before continuing. “We are blessed to live in a free country. Somebody has to be on juries. It can’t always be the other person.”
“I wish I could view this thing as positively as you do. I know you’re right, but it’s the timing—”
“Would there ever be a right time?”
He paused, his fork halfway to his lips, then grinned. “Probably not.”
She laughed at his grudging admission. “Then hush up and eat your pizza.”
Over dinner he found out a great deal about her store. She’d taken a chance launching the business in such a high-rent location. But, as she explained, to make money, you had to do market research, believe in your vision and be willing to venture. Funny, she hadn’t struck him as a risk-taker—more as a softly feminine, tenderhearted and undeniably sexy woman. But tonight he was hearing another side. She was also one smart cookie. That business of hers was no cinch. And even though this evening hadn’t gone according to plan, he’d decided to ask her out again. This time without her “chaperon.”
“How’s the pizza, Nick?” he asked.
The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Good.”
Andrea gave Tony a go-figure look. “Tony, I—”
“I’ve been thinking—” He gestured at her with his hand. “You first.”
The candle flame underlit her face, making her eyes luminous. “I wondered...I mean, tonight this probably wasn’t exactly what you had in mind... Would you let me cook you a meal tomorrow night at our place?”
His heart raced, then his brain engaged. “Our place?”
“Nicky’s and mine.”
“Nicky’s?” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the boy shaking his head and thought he heard him mumble something that sounded like “Dumb.”
“Nicky lives with me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m his guardian.” She found his eyes as if to warn him not to ask any questions.
“Well, I...sure. That’d be good.” Watch it. Don’t get in over your head. He became aware Nick was studying the two of them intently. “Maybe Nick and I can talk some soccer.” The kid looked simultaneously guarded and pleased.
Later, strolling back toward his own vehicle after walking Nick and Andrea to theirs, he replayed the evening. Nick was a complication. And whatever had happened to his parents was obviously a sensitive issue.
Did he want to pursue this? What did he know about kids? Or want to know? But Andrea—she was something else. And, hey, this wasn’t the romance of the century or anything.
For the first time, he found himself wishing the trial would last more than a few days.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANDREA HURRIED INTO the jury room, breathless from her dash across Public Square and down the street to the courthouse. The bailiff was already assembling the jurors. Shayla waved and shot her a big smile. Leaning against the conference table, Tony, his brow furrowed in concentration, studied a sheaf of papers in his hand. As she brushed past him on her way to the coatrack, he reached out and grabbed her by the elbow. “Hey, good morning. What’s your rush? He’ll wait for you.”
“Who?”
He nodded in the bailiffs direction. “Our tortoise look-alike.”
She suppressed a grin. “Only because he has to. He’s not happy with me.”
Tony helped her out of her coat, then watched her as she hung it up. “That’s his loss.”
His twinkling eyes and approving glance made her feel buoyant. She pointed to the papers in his hand. “Cramming?”
He closed the folder decisively and laid it on the table. “In a sense. I’m here because duty calls, but I still have to attend to business.” A grim expression settled over his features. “Not enough hours in the day.”
With a feeling she only belatedly recognized as disappointment, she said, “Perhaps, then, it was presumptuous of me to ask you to dinner this evening. If you’d prefer to postpone—”
“Postpone? To put it crassly, I have to eat. That being the case, I’d definitely prefer to eat a home-cooked meal in the company of a beautiful woman. I’ll be there.”
The compliment both warmed her and made her vaguely uncomfortable. She really didn’t know this man very well. “And in the company of a nine-year-old boy, don’t forget.”
“Oh, yeah.” From his tone of voice, she had the distinct sense that he had forgotten.
“Listen up, people.” The bailiff’s drill-sergeant voice cut off their conversation. “Her Honor is ready for you. Quiet, now.” He marched them into the jury box.
Judge Blumberg removed her half glasses and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, be seated, please.”
Hoping there would be less technical forensic evidence today, Andrea picked up the pad and pencil in her chair and settled between Dottie Dettweiler and Roy Smith, the timid young man from the restaurant. The courtroom’s decor—burgundy carpet, oak paneling, gold-padded seats for spectators, indirect lighting—was distressingly anonymous, unrelieved even by a window. Maybe, Andrea reflected, it helped you focus on the people. Right now, the prosecutor was calling a Mrs. Ethel Innes to the stand.
Early testimony established that Mrs. Innes had been an eyewitness to the crime. Andrea leaned forward, listening intently to Mrs. Innes’s responses to the questions the prosecutor put to her. “Yes, I was in the store that night. My husband and me, we’d run out of cigarettes and when I got there I remembered we needed milk and... Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I was there.”
Andrea watched the woman twist her wedding ring nervously. Bedford backed away from the witness stand and said in a mild voice, “Now, Mrs. Innes, can you tell us to the best of your recollection what happened that evening?”
“Like I said, I needed milk, so I was in the back of the store near the dairy case, probably thirty feet or so from the register.”
“What happened next?”
“I’d just grabbed the milk when I heard voices. Somebody said, ‘Please!’ in a loud, pitiful voice. When I turned around, there was this man standing by the register with a ball cap pulled low over his face—” here she gestured as if pulling a hat over her eyes.
“Did this man have a gun?”
“He must have. He shot that poor clerk.” Her chin trembled with outrage.
“Let me rephrase that. Did you see a gun?”
“Well, he had his hand in his jacket pocket, you know, and it kinda looked like this.” The woman balled up her fist, extending her index finger.
“Did you hear the man say anything?”
“I sure did. He mumbled something and then, real menacing-like, he said, ‘...or I’ll kill you, old man.”’
“What happened next?”
Mrs. Innes rubbed her hands nervously. “The kid said, ‘Hand over the money.’ Just then a big display of soda cans that nearly reached the ceiling came tumbling down. Next thing, I heard a shot. My heart was beatin’ so fast I like to died right there.”
Bedford’s dry voice interrupted. “But what did you do?”
“I dropped the milk and fell to the floor.”
“And then?”
“The alarm went off, and I heard this voice yelling, ‘God damn it, what the—’” she glanced up at the judge “—I don’t think I’d better say that word, Your Honor.”
“I understand. Just substitute ‘expletive.’”
Mrs. Innes sighed, apparently in relief. “What the expletive .” She leaned against the back of her chair, obviously pleased to have remembered so accurately. “I laid real still until he ran outta the store.”
Bedford stood to one side, so the witness had a clear view of the courtroom. “Mrs. Innes, do you see the man you saw that night here today?”
Her mouth set with concentration, she straightened up and studied the teenager at the defense table. “That one looks about the same size, but—”
“Just answer the question.”
As if she’d failed a test, Mrs. Innes looked crestfallen. “No, I couldn’t be positive.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.” The prosecutor returned to his table.
Andrea tried to put herself into Mrs. Innes’s place. It must be difficult to recall accurately events that had happened so far in the past.
Slowly Ms. Lamb, the defense attorney, rose to her feet. “Good morning, Mrs. Innes. How are you today?”
The witness seemed uncomfortable, as if anticipating a trick. Andrea couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Innes probably wanted the defendant to be found guilty. After all, she’d been scared out of her wits.
“Fine.” The woman’s chattiness was gone.
“What time of night was this?”
“About eleven-fifteen. My husband and me, we’d finished watching ER before he sent me to the corner to get him cigarettes.”
Andrea couldn’t resist a shudder at Mr. Innes’s apparent chauvinism.
“You say you could see what you presumed to be a gun in the pocket of the man at the counter. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You also testified you were at the back of the store, a distance of some thirty feet away.”
“Yes.”
“Could you be absolutely sure the man carried a gun in his pocket and not something else?”
The witness became flustered. “Well, when you put it that way...no.”
“In your previous testimony, you referred to the perpetrator as ‘kid.’”
“Yes.”
“How did you determine he was a youth?”
“He wore those big athletic shoes, the ones with all those colors and flashy things. And he wore, you know, one of those hippie-looking multicolored shirts.”
“Could a full-grown adult also wear such shoes?”
“I suppose.”
“And such a shirt?”
Mrs. Innes bit her lip. “I...yes.”
“So you had no proof that would justify your characterizing this person as ‘kid.’”
“I guess that’s right.”
“That’s all I have at this time for this witness, Your Honor.”
The judge thanked Mrs. Innes, then glanced at the prosecutor. “Counselor, call your next witness.”
Andrea’s eyes strayed to the defense table where the defendant was rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. When Ms. Lamb sat down, she touched him gently on the shoulder and his hands stilled.
The next witness, a muscular man of about forty dressed in corduroy trousers and a vividly striped rugby shirt, exuded confidence. From preliminary questions, Andrea learned Ken Mays was the manager of a gym and fitness center in the neighborhood of the store. He sat in the witness box with his feet planted firmly on the floor, knees apart, hands folded casually at his waist.
After the prosecutor asked him to give his version of events, the man responded succinctly. “I had jogged from my apartment to the convenience store, arriving at exactly eleven-thirteen. I know this because I timed my run. I was standing looking at magazines when, over the top of the rack, I saw this guy go up to the cashier. Something about the customer’s behavior made me suspicious. I didn’t move, not wanting to call attention to myself. I saw him pull a gun, and that’s when I moved to the end of the aisle and knocked over a tower of soda cans. I figured maybe I’d scare him away. About the same time, the cashier must’ve tripped the burglar alarm.”
“What happened next, Mr. Mays?”
“I hit the deck and heard the guy yell something like, ‘Gimme the money.’ Then I remember hearing the shot, and the guy ran like hell. Er, excuse me, Your Honor.”
The judge didn’t look up from the papers on her desk, but gave a brief nod.
“Did the perpetrator see you?” the prosecutor asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you describe the man with the gun?”
“He was about five-six or seven. Kinda hard to tell exactly. He wore dark jeans, athletic shoes, a tie-dyed T-shirt, a black goose-down vest and a navy blue ball cap.”
“I call your attention to People’s exhibit sixteen.” Bedford picked up a fuchsia, yellow and purple shirt. “Mr. Mays, is this the shirt the man in the store was wearing?”
“It looks like it to me.”
With a flourish of the garment, the prosecutor set it down and continued, “Did you happen to notice if he was wearing gloves?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Can you positively identify anyone in this courtroom as the man who was in the store that night?”
“No, I can’t.”
“What happened after the perpetrator fled?”
“I called 9-1-1 and tried to help the victim. But it was too late. He was already dead.”
“That’ll be all. Thank you.”
While the defense attorney sorted her notes, Andrea became aware of the scribblings on Dottie’s tablet. A grocery list! Unbelievable. Thanksgiving was still six days away. Surely the woman could pay more attention here. Yet, she had to admit that occasionally her own mind had strayed to what she would cook Tony this evening.
Ms. Lamb began her cross-examination. “You stated that the man at the counter was five-six or seven. However, except for a brief glimpse before you shoved over the cans, your only other view of him was from the floor looking up. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“From that latter viewpoint, might he have seemed taller?”
“Because of my work, I’m a pretty fair judge of body types.”
“But can you say with certainty, Mr. Mays, how tall the perpetrator was?”
“With certainty? No, ma’am.”
“About the shirt you saw. Wasn’t the perpetrator also wearing—” she stood at the defense table reviewing her notes “—a vest?”
“Yes.”
“Yet, you claim you can positively identify the shirt?”
“Yes. The vest wasn’t zipped.”
“Indulge me with a little test of your powers of observation.” She pulled two similar-looking shirts out of a paper bag and, blocking the witness’s view, arranged them along with the one from the exhibit table on the podium. “Mr. Mays, which of these is the shirt you identified for Mr. Bedford?” She stood aside.
He studied them. “The one on my left.”
The attorney glanced at the judge and said wearily, “Let the record show that this witness identified People’s exhibit sixteen.
“Thank you, Mr. Mays. I have no further questions at this time, Your Honor.”
The judge declared a recess during which the jurors milled around the jury room, several noticeably impatient. The trial was now in its third day, and the prosecution had yet to rest its case. “Hell, we’ll be here all next week,” Chet Swenson complained.
Dottie shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how I’m going to get ready for all my company.”
“Hey, it’s okay with me,” the young man who’d worn the Case-Western Reserve T-shirt on Wednesday said with a sly grin. “This beats going to class.”
Shayla and Andrea walked to the north window, overlooking the lake, glistening silver in the pale sunlight fingering through the light cloud cover. “So, how’s it going with Tony?”
Andrea rued the flush that crept up her neck. “Interesting.” She let the word lie between them, unsure whether she wanted to elaborate.
“Hey, girl, you can’t stop there. I gotta have something to think about besides crime.” She gave an out-with-it gesture. “What do you mean ‘interesting’?”
Grinning, Andrea relented. “Thanks to you and your clever manipulation, I had pizza with him last night.”
“That’s better than ‘interesting.’ That’s progress. So?” Shayla smiled in anticipation.
“He seems very nice. At least he made inroads with my nephew.”
“Whoa! Your nephew? Did he go on your date?”
Andrea backpedaled. “It wasn’t a date, exactly. Just a casual dinner.” She briefly explained about having custody of Nicky. “So, naturally he was along.”
“Kinda cramped your style, didn’t it?” Shayla waved her hands dismissively. “But, it’s a start. And from what I saw this morning, the man’s definitely got the hots for you. So what’s next?”
Andrea paused, aware that she didn’t know anything beyond tonight. Maybe she was kidding herself. Why would there be anything beyond that? Did she even want more? For heaven’s sake, she’d only just met Tony. “I’ve invited him for dinner this evening.”
Shayla gave her a high five. “Way to go! I’m proud of you.” Then her face fell. “There’s only one problem. That means I have to wait until Monday to hear all.”
“Maybe there won’t be much to tell.”
Shayla eyed her up and down, then cackled, “Oh, I imagine there’ll be plenty to tell.”
To Andrea’s relief, the bailiff motioned them to line up again. After court reconvened, Andrea was glad they’d had the break, because the next testimony was highly technical. First, a DNA expert whose tests proved the T-shirt Mays had identified had small bloodstains on it consistent with Mr. Bartelli’s blood, followed by an electronics professional, who discussed the surveillance video camera, its angle and range of view. Last, the judge permitted a replay of tape recorded that night. The picture was fuzzy, but was clear enough to show a male entering the store and threatening the owner. Then just as the man pulled a gun, the soda cans fell in such a way that the view of the register was momentarily obscured. Finally the camera picked up a figure running out the front door. It all happened so fast that Andrea had difficulty separating the actions.

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