by Nancy Moser
“Duty.”
“Same thing.”
Only in her eyes.
He tossed the sandpaper on the workbench. He wasn’t in the mood. “It’ll take forever. You’ve seen those trials that carry on weeks and weeks.”
“Maybe it will be a little trial. In, out, done.”
He thought of something else. “Maybe I won’t be chosen.” He shook the letter. “It says here I’m on duty for a week. I have to call in the night before and see if I’m supposed to come in. Then they either pick me or don’t. Maybe I won’t get picked. I can’t. I have three jobs. Two and a half kids.”
“I’ve got my Pretty Lady Cosmetics job.”
They both knew her profit selling makeup from a catalogue was minimal. People ordered online these days. And in her condition, it wasn’t as if Becky could sell door-to-door like those Avon ladies used to do.
Bobby headed out, flicking off the light. “I can’t get chosen. That’s it. I just can’t—and I won’t.”
TWO
Do not twist justice in legal matters
by favoring the poor or being partial
to the rich and powerful.
Always judge people fairly.
LEVITICUS 19:15
I’d rather be flipping burgers.
It was an amazing thought considering Bobby Mann hated his burger job. He hadn’t wanted to be selected for a jury, but when he was, he’d tried to think positively about it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. After all, he loved watching Law & Order and CSI on TV. He loved the forensic stuff and the give-and-take of the lawyers against the witnesses, especially when the lawyers made them break and tell stuff they didn’t want to tell.
He hoped that would happen during this case—a murder case. The defendant, Patti McCoy, was a kitchen worker at a local resort. She was accused of killing her boyfriend, Brett Lerner, the restaurant’s maître d’, while he sat in a hot tub in his backyard. She hit him over the head with a wine bottle. Allegedly hit him. Or pushed him under. Or something.
The whole thing sounded pretty fishy, with good potential to hold Bobby’s interest.
But so far, it had been boring. If he was bored this bad on the first…
He found himself admiring the courtroom. The room was probably built in the 1930s when budgets allowed craftsmen to paint the mural that swept the wall behind the judge: rolling hills and upright people, standing together with their chins held high as they searched for justice. The budget had also included intricate wrought iron chandeliers that hung from a tin-roofed ceiling. The windows were high, letting in light but no view. There would be no distraction from the job at hand. At least not on their account.
But what impressed Bobby the most was the woodwork. The massive mountain of oak that raised the judge on a level above the rest of them was set off by layers of fluted trim topped with carved corners. The half wall separating the lawyers from the spectators, and the jury from the rest of the courtroom, was created with large curved spindles beneath a massive rail. I can make spindles like that on my lathe.
The chairs were also oak, yet were surprisingly comfortable because they had armrests and were designed to curve around a person’s back. They were classic. Timeless. Bobby made a quick sketch on his notepad.
Maybe this wouldn’t be a total waste of time.
***
The prosecutor could have been hired by central casting. Abigail had seen his type in dozens of productions: a striking man skirting the edge of handsome who made up for his lack of hunky looks through his commanding manner, immaculate grooming, and impeccable taste. He wore an expensive coal gray suit, a white starched shirt, a cerulean tie, and polished oxfords.
Actually, the color of the tie was unexpected. The standard dress for a conservative man in power would have dictated maroon. This flash of individuality piqued Abigail’s interest, making her pay more attention to the man and his words.
As intended?
She wouldn’t doubt it. Lawyers were like that. Just as the ideal theater set did not contain a single prop that wasn’t vital to the story, a savvy lawyer thought through every detail of his production—the trial. Visual or audible, everything was taken into account in an attempt to predict a response. An outcome. A verdict in their favor.
The prosecutor’s name was also in his favor: Jonathan Cummings. Very authoritative and persuasive. The man wouldn’t have had the same impact if his name had been Jon. Or especially John. What’s in a name?
Plenty.
Abigail looked at the defendant. Patti. With an i not a y. By the looks of her, Abigail guessed Patti signed her name with a little heart to dot the i. It was hard to believe she was capable of murder.
And yet, by what Cummings was saying...
“...will prove that Patti Jo McCoy had both the motive and the opportunity to take the life of her lover, Brett Lerner. Hers was a motive that is timeless and transcends all segments and sections of society.” He paused in the middle of the courtroom and turned toward Patti, managing a look that conveyed both pity and scorn. “Unmarried. Alone. She was carrying a child, and Brett was the unwilling father.”
Abigail looked at Patti, watching for her reaction. The girl didn’t try to hide her condition by looking ashamed or ignore it by staring straight ahead. Patti put a hand on her abdomen.
Ah. A love child. If that tidbit of information had been in the news, Abigail had missed it. A love child and the heel who wouldn’t marry her.
Abigail knew she shouldn’t jump to such conclusions before the case was made. Yet life was revealed in the details. One hand placed lovingly on one belly spoke volumes.
Cummings continued with a list of the evidence against little Patti. “The state will show through eyewitness accounts that Ms. McCoy was at the murder scene. Through fingerprint evidence we will show she touched the murder weapon. And we will reveal, through a neighbor’s testimony, that upon killing her lover, she screamed in shock at her own actions. Overcome by guilt, she then ran away.”
Guilty as charged. Case closed. Can I go home now?
Abigail was shocked by how quickly these thoughts appeared. She’d always prided herself on having an open mind.
But also a logical one. If there was hard evidence against her…
Poor little thing. As it stood now, Patti Jo McCoy was toast.
***
Ken Doolittle pinched a piece of lint from his khakis and let it fall to the ground between his chair and the chair of his fellow juror, Jack, the car guy. Jack slowly turned his head and watched it fall, then looked at Ken as if he’d just witnessed something offensive.
Ken hoped their seating order wasn’t set in stone because the thought of looking at Jack’s grease-stained fingernails day after day was repulsive. To tick Jack off, Ken plucked another—invisible—piece of lint from his pants and let it fly between them. Bug off, buddy.
Ken realized he hadn’t been listening to the defense attorney’s opening statement. Not that he was missing much. Stan Stadler was no more impressive than his defendant. Ken would bet his PING driver the man was a public defender. Stan was a good fifty pounds overweight and carried the majority of the fat in front. With no backside, he was constantly hitching up his pants, which balanced under his belly with gravity a constant enemy.
Stadler had made an attempt to slick his dark hair back, but it rebelled, leaving strays shooting from his head at odd angles as if the wisps didn’t want to be associated with him. And when the man wasn’t rescuing his pants, he was pushing his aviator-shaped glasses farther up his nose—which was the only skinny thing about him. Actually, when Ken thought about it, he realized the nose might be the only body part not affected by fat. Interesting.
With a deep intake of breath, Stadler wound things up. “The defense will show that the defendant, Patti McCoy, did not kill Brett Lerner.” With a nod to the jury, Stadler returned to his chair.
That was it?
Patti looked hopeful.
Ken was not impressed.
/> ***
Deidre Kelly was determined to soak in every word of the trial’s opening statements. Sig would want a play-by-play that evening. When Deidre had been chosen for this particular trial, they’d both agreed it was an amazing twist of fate.
Deidre was glad the judge had said they could take notes because she had trouble remembering three items to get at the store without writing them down. She was no Abigail Buchanan, who seemed to be taking it all in but wasn’t writing down a thing.
The defendant, Patti, was a bitty thing who could have benefited from some beauty parlor expertise. There was some natural beauty present, but with her minimal makeup, washed-out lips, and dull hair pulled back in a ponytail, Patti blended into the background, as unremarkable as the items that occupied the defendant’s table, as inconsequential as her lawyer’s briefcase, a manila folder, a yellow legal pad, or a pitcher of water.
Patti’s job as a dishwasher at The Pines restaurant at the Country Comfort Resort and Spa was not a stretch. Patti was someone Deidre would have glimpsed through the kitchen door without really looking at her, an invisible service employee like those she’d come into contact with a hundred times. There, but not there. Although Patti had not spoken aloud as yet (would she be allowed to testify?) Deidre guessed her voice would be soft. “You’ll have to speak up, Ms. McCoy.”
Yes indeed. The girl would have to speak up if she was going to be acquitted of this murder charge. But if Patti didn’t take the rap, who would?
Deidre knew justice was occasionally fooled or interrupted, but it was rarely completely blocked. Justice was relentless.
The truth would come out.
Deidre shivered.
***
Opening statements and one witness was it for the day. The witness was the coroner who said Brett was hit over the head with a wine bottle but died of drowning in the hot tub. There were no drugs in his system, just some wine and a corned beef sandwich. A deep blue wine bottle—broken at the neck—had been put into evidence. Although Abigail found the two attorneys enjoyable to watch—each in their own way—she’d expected a little more action.
If this trial were a play, it would close opening night. To mediocre reviews.
Abigail wasn’t dumb. She realized movies and plays about jury trials were a step beyond real life and were played for the dramatic moment. But since hers was a murder trial, she’d expected some excitement. Some surprises.
She chastised herself. It was only the first day.
Besides, getting off at four was a perk.
Inside her apartment building, Abigail’s path was blocked by the little girl from the first floor apartment sitting on the stairs, head in her hands. Abigail could never remember her name. Harley?
“Hi there, uh…?”
“Hayley.”
Right. “Are you bored, in trouble, or just thinking? Hayley.”
“I’m mad.”
“A fourth alternative. Is it justified or are you pouting just to pout?”
Hayley stood, glaring down at her. “I’m mad at life.”
Abigail stifled a laugh. “All eight years of it?”
“Nine,” Hayley said, plopping back down on a step.
Abigail looked at the upper landing, wishing she were there, past this impediment to the rest of her afternoon. She put her foot on the first step, hoping Hayley would move.
She didn’t.
Abigail sighed. “Have you talked to your mom about it?” Whatever it is?
“She doesn’t know anything about theater stuff.”
Abigail removed her foot from the stair. Her interest was definitely piqued, but she wasn’t going to be pulled in so easily. “You shouldn’t sit out here in the hall so anybody can nab you.”
“This is Branson. No one lives in this house but us, you, and Mr. Larson. No one’s going to nab me.”
She had a point. The small number of tenants was one of the reasons Abigail liked the place so much. Especially since Mr. Larson, who lived on the entire second floor and was in the import business, was off in Asia most of the time. That left a full floor between herself and the noise of Hayley’s family. (Abigail had seen a little brother.) Silence was golden.
“I’m nervous about the try-outs Thursday,” Hayley said.
The girl definitely had a talent for making leading statements. Abigail had no choice but to bite. “What try-out?”
“For Annie.”
“Who’s doing Annie?”
“The community playhouse. You were in Annie once, weren’t you?”
Abigail was impressed. “How do you know that?”
“I looked you up on the Internet.”
She was doubly impressed—and curious. “I’m on the Internet?”
Hayley shrugged. “Everybody is. I Googled you.” Hayley stood on the third step, meeting Abigail eye to eye. “I’ve never tried out before. Would you tell me how it works?”
Although Abigail loved nothing better than talking about the theater, she’d had a long day, and it was going to be a long day tomorrow—if not through activity, certainly through boredom. Plus, not having any children of her own, she didn’t relate well to the species. Kids and dogs. They always stole the scene.
“I liked you as Cynthia in that war movie.”
“You saw that?”
“I rented it. You die good.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
Hayley changed her weight to the other foot. “So, Ms. Buchanan? Will you help me?”
The manipulative little thing. Abigail headed up the stairs. “Are you sure you’re only nine?”
“I’ll be ten next month.”
None too soon. “You hungry?”
“Starved.”
“A starving artist. Get used to it, girlie. And call me Abigail.”
***
“Hi, honey. I’m home.”
Becky appeared in the kitchen doorway, a paring knife in one hand, a potato in the other. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
Tanner and Teresa left their coloring books and ran to him, each grabbing a leg. “Daddy!”
It was such a lovely sound.
“Hey, chicapoo and chicapoo-poo. How do you do?”
They stood on his feet and he took them along as he hobbled to greet his wife with a kiss. “We got off early.”
“I see that. But you’ve ruined the surprise.”
“What surprise?”
She lifted the potato. “A special dinner. Minute steaks, scalloped potatoes, creamed corn, garlic bread.”
“And cake, Daddy! Chocolate cake for dessert.”
Bobby flicked the tip of Tanner’s nose. “Should I go outside and sit on the porch until you’re ready for me?”
Becky turned back to the kitchen. “You could set the table and talk to me. Tell me how it went today.”
The kids jumped from their father’s feet and went back to coloring. Bobby washed his hands and got out plates that had daisies in the center.
“Not those,” Becky said. “Get the china.”
“Being on a jury isn’t that big a deal, Beck.”
“Having you home for dinner, not rushing off on your way to your other job is worth celebrating.” He must have made a face because she added, “You were planning on being here all evening, weren’t you?”
Actually…
She tossed the potato on the counter, where it rolled against the cookie jar. “You got permission from both weekday jobs to be gone while you’re on the jury. You have permission; I know you do.”
“But if I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I was thinking of working concessions tonight.”
Becky’s shoulders drooped. “I’d hoped we could have the whole evening, get the kids to bed early, then spend some time together.”
He knew what she meant. Romance had been lacking of late.
She turned her back on him and retrieved the potato. “I have to get these in the oven. I’ll hurry things along so you can get to work.”
“Beck…” He
was torn. Was being focused on providing for his family a bad thing? In a few months he’d have another mouth to feed. He wasn’t getting squat for pay from the court while he was on the jury.
Becky looked over her shoulder at him. She took a deep breath, put her utensils down, and wiped her hands on a towel. She came to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel guilty. You’re only doing what you think is best.”
Becky may have been a good woman in her moral being, but she was also good at doing what women did best.
He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll stay home, Beck. Tonight I’ll stay home.”
Her smile was his paycheck.
***
Ken tossed his keys and extra change in the bowl by the front door of his town house. After being on the jury he thought he’d feel better than this, more important. Truth was, the whole day had been rather boring. A lot of stops, starts, and recesses. The judge must have a bladder the size of a walnut the number of times he called for a break. Then there was the tedium of being led out then led back in. And he’d thought lunch was going to be served to the jury, gratis. That’s what he’d always seen in movies.
But apparently that was only after deliberations started. Up until then they were on their own. Yet, since they couldn’t talk to the other jurors about the trial, and since they didn’t even know each other, it was awkward. Ken never relished eating alone. He got enough of that at home.
So when he’d spotted the pretty blonde juror he’d taken a chance and asked her to join him for lunch at the deli across the street. He’d guessed correctly that she also wasn’t the type who wanted to eat alone. The classy way she dressed told him she was the sort who needed to be appreciated and noticed. He was happy to oblige.
The deli wasn’t a regular restaurant, and they’d stood in one line to order their sandwiches and in another to pick them up. Ken had gotten pastrami on rye and the woman had ordered tomato bisque soup and a tuna sandwich—hold the mayo.