The Mia Quinn Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  Downstairs, Mia opened the kitchen cupboards, momentarily confused by their barrenness. “Cheerios or Raisin Bran?” she asked.

  “I want the chocolate cereal!”

  If memory served, that was the one with thirteen grams of sugar per serving. “We’re not eating that one anymore.” Luckily she had stashed the food bank bags in the hall closet. “Your choices are Cheerios or Raisin Bran.”

  “Then the one with marshmallows.” Brooke seemed to have forgotten the events of the night before.

  “No, remember, both those cereals have too much sugar. From now on, we’re going to be eating healthy food.”

  “But I like sugar.” Brooke’s expression looked mulish.

  “I know you have a sweet tooth, honey, but we’re going to be eating less sugar from now on.” Mia pulled a coffee filter from the pack.

  “Do you want to see my sweet tooth?”

  “Huh?” Mia stopped measuring coffee.

  “My sweet tooth. Do you want to see it?” Brooke opened her mouth wide and pointed at one of her back molars on the left side. She spoke around her finger. “Tha my swee too.”

  Gabe and Eldon shambled into the kitchen, and suddenly it felt really small. They both seemed so . . . male.

  At least they didn’t complain about the newly truncated choices. Gabe had started eating hard-boiled eggs for breakfast, as well as juice and a big spoonful of peanut butter. He plunked four pre-cooked, pre-peeled eggs into a bowl, then took the now-empty plastic wrapper to the garbage can.

  “What is this?” His foot was still on the pedal, and he was looking down. At the empty chip bag.

  Mia started with the truth and ended with a lie. “Last night I remembered we had some chips, so I put them in the compost.”

  “Uh-huh.” He tossed a dubious look at Eldon, who had the grace to look as if he believed her.

  Brooke tugged at Mia’s robe. “We have chips? I want chips!”

  And that was pretty much how the morning went.

  Before she went into the office, Mia stopped at Perk Up, a nearby coffee shop, and ordered a sixteen-ounce nonfat latte, even though she had already had coffee at home. The dairy was much-needed protein, she reasoned. And besides, she was exhausted.

  “Name?” the barista asked her.

  “What?”

  “What name should I put on your order?” The girl was Asian American with bleached blond hair. A reverse skunk stripe marked her part.

  “Mia.”

  “Mia?” The girl’s gaze sharpened. “Hey, what’s your last name?”

  “Quinn.”

  “So did that Chinese guy ever find you?”

  “What Chinese guy?” Mia was feeling lost, but then again she was not at her best this morning.

  The girl looked up at the ceiling, remembering. “He came in like, what, two weeks ago? He was trying to speak in Mandarin to me, but I barely know enough to order in a restaurant. He had a business card with your name on it, but he was asking for a Mrs. Scott.”

  “My husband’s name is Scott,” Mia said. It was easier to use the present tense, to pretend for a moment that Scott hadn’t died, than to explain to a stranger that he had been dead for months. “Did he tell you his name? Was it Lihong?”

  “He didn’t say much of anything past asking for you and pointing at your address. We had just opened. And then his friends came in and he left with them.”

  Before he died, Scott had befriended a young man named Lihong who worked at a restaurant called the Jade Kitchen. Mia had met Lihong a few weeks earlier. She was pretty sure he was an illegal immigrant, and it sounded like Scott had promised to help him, perhaps with his immigration status. It had been hard to understand Lihong, who only knew a few words of English. She had meant to follow up with him. She had meant to do a lot of things. Just one more item that had fallen off her plate. She made another mental note.

  Once she reached work, it was a different kind of torment. She spent the morning aimlessly looking through files, wondering what was going on in the jury room. Every few minutes a well-intentioned co-worker would stop by.

  “What time did the jury get the case?” Jesse asked.

  A half hour later, Anne stuck her head in. “How long have they been out?”

  Each time Mia answered in as few words as possible, hoping to cut off any further conversation. She knew they only meant to be supportive, or to strike up a conversation so they could discuss the case. But that was the last thing she wanted to talk about. She would rather talk about anything else—the stock market, the weather, the latest shenanigans of a movie star.

  She told herself she had picked the best people for the jury that she could, based on her experience and intuition and the luck of the draw. That was all you could do. Then you just prayed they could play nice with each other and reach a decision.

  When her phone rang, she pounced on it. But the voice on the other end of the line belonged to her father.

  “How are things going, honey?”

  It struck Mia with a spasm of sadness that the only people who called her “honey” these days were waitresses of a certain age and her dad.

  “Fine.” It was a relief to talk to someone who had no idea she was waiting on a verdict.

  “I would love to see my favorite daughter for lunch today.”

  She laughed. “Dad, I’m your only daughter. You wasted your talents as a manager. You should have been in sales.”

  While Mia was growing up, her dad had dedicated most of his waking hours to his job at a packaging company. His retirement funds had been invested solely in company stock. When the company went bankrupt a year after he retired, the CEO got jail time and her dad had been left with nothing but Social Security. Nine months ago, he had started going to church. Her dad! Church! Mia wouldn’t have been more surprised if he had taken up ballet.

  “So will you come?”

  “Of course.” Half superstitiously, she hoped that if she left the office it would lead to a verdict. “There’s a possibility I might need to come back here in a hurry so I’ll just drive my car and meet you.”

  An hour later, she barely registered the other cars as she drove to the restaurant. A clock was ticking in the back of her head. The jury had been deliberating for over ten hours over the course of two days. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? There were various theories—that a quick verdict meant acquittal, or no, that a quick verdict meant conviction—but no one really knew.

  She hurried into the restaurant her dad had chosen, then stopped short. Her father was already there. But so was a woman, and they were deep in conversation.

  When he saw Mia, he gave her a grin and a wave, while the woman shot her a quick glance and an uncertain smile.

  For years her father’s world had had little to do with Mia’s. Before her parents’ divorce, he had spent most of his waking hours at work. After the divorce, when she was in seventh grade, she had barely seen him at all. Now that he had “gotten religion,” he spent more time with Mia than he ever had before. She didn’t know what to think of his transformation. Was he lonely, bored, just feeling mortal? Or was it real?

  Now Mia wished she could turn back the clock to when her dad had called so that she could say no. Instead, she pasted on a smile and made her way over to the table. In the past there had been the occasional girlfriend, but her dad had had the good grace to keep them on the down low.

  He stood up when she got to the table. “Mia, I’d like you to meet my friend Luciana. Luciana, this is my daughter, Mia.”

  Mia stretched out her hand and smiled, but part of her withdrew inside, like a snail in its shell.

  Luciana was Hispanic-looking, and at least fifteen years younger than her dad. Maybe even twenty.

  And she was beautiful. Her black shoulder-length hair was parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears, from which hung simple silver hoops about the diameter of a half dollar. Her black-framed glasses didn’t fit her face at all. Both too narrow and too long, they just dre
w attention to her winged brows and high cheekbones. When she shook hands, she lightly grasped Mia’s fingertips and then released them as quickly.

  “So where did you two meet?” Mia asked brightly as they sat down.

  Her dad shot her a glance, and she guessed she wasn’t fooling him. “At church.”

  She was about to ask another question when the waitress appeared. “So does everyone know what they want to order?”

  Thinking of her vow the night before, Mia ordered an egg white omelet and unbuttered toast, and subbed fruit for hash browns. Her dad raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. After the waitress left, Mia said, “So where do you work, Luciana?”

  “Um, I am not working right now. I volunteer.” Her dad patted Luciana’s hand and then started asking questions about Gabe and Brooke, which Mia answered by rote. Luciana was quiet, keeping her eyes on her plate and picking at her food.

  Meanwhile, Mia was asking herself the questions she really wanted to ask her dad and this woman. What did a beautiful young woman like Luciana see in her dad? Was she even in this country legally? Or was she what Mia had heard referred to as a “green digger”—a woman looking for greenbacks and a green card?

  After about ten minutes, Luciana excused herself to go to the bathroom. As soon as she was a few feet away, Mia started in.

  “Are you, like, dating her, Dad?”

  “What are you really saying? What does she see in an old codger like me?” He grimaced. “We’re not lovers, if that’s what you are thinking.”

  Mia felt her face get hot. “Dad. Please. I did not ask you that. But what do you even know about her?”

  “I know plenty. And you would too if you would listen with an open heart instead of acting like you’re conducting an interrogation. Don’t worry. Just because I’m spending time with her doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend time with you. So there’s no need to be jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous. I’m just concerned.”

  The old version of her dad would have been yelling by now. Dad 2.0 just shook his head. “Sometimes I think your line of work has soured you on people. You’re always looking for the worst.”

  “I think it’s opened my eyes.” Her phone began to vibrate on the table. “Sorry,” she said, turning it over. It was Judge Ortega’s clerk.

  “Hello?”

  “The jurors have sent a note to the judge.”

  It wouldn’t be opened until they were all assembled. Mia’s stomach clenched, and she wished she hadn’t eaten anything at all.

  “Okay. It will take me about fifteen minutes to get to the court-house.” She stood up. “Tell Luciana it was a pleasure to meet her. But I’m needed in court.”

  CHAPTER 10

  As Mia drove back to the courthouse, her hands slid on the steering wheel and her stomach was in knots. She put her dad and his new whatever-that-woman-was into a box and closed it. She would think about them later. Right now she had to concentrate on finding out what the jury wanted, and then divining what it meant, if anything. A note from the jury could turn out to be anything from a simple request for a dry erase board to asking if they could view some of the evidence one more time.

  When she entered the courtroom, James Wheeler and David Leacham were already sitting at the defense table. When Leacham turned and saw her, he lifted his chin. It felt like a challenge. Mia matched him stare for stare, keeping her face just as expressionless.

  A few spectators were scattered on the benches. Bo Yee was in her customary place in the first row behind the prosecution table, looking as if she had never moved. She nodded at Mia, her expression unreadable behind her tinted glasses.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and Mia started. It was Charlie.

  “Sorry.” He gave her a half smile. “I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

  “Just a little anxious, I guess.” For a second, her dad and Luciana peeped out of their box. “If I gave you a name, could you run it for me? It’s personal.”

  Charlie raised one thick black eyebrow. “Who are you and what have you done to Mia Quinn?” More than once he had teased her for being such a straight arrow. When she started to stammer, he took her arm. “Don’t answer that.” He lowered his voice. “Just tell me the name.”

  Should she? Maybe she shouldn’t. Guilt wrestled with worry. Worry won. “Luciana Sanchez,” she said in a low voice. “I think she’s my dad’s new girlfriend. His way-younger girlfriend.”

  He nodded. Charlie had the ability to remember whole conversations without jotting down a note, so filing away a name was nothing.

  When everyone was in their places, Judge Ortega took her place on the bench. After the courtroom had settled back down into their seats, the clerk handed the judge the note from the jury. Judge Ortega slipped on the black-framed reading glasses that hung on a chain around her neck, then opened the note and read it aloud.

  “ ‘We have reached a majority, but we are having difficulty reaching a unanimous decision. We keep going in circles. We are struggling with our next step. Please advise, as tension is getting thick.’ ”

  Mia’s heart thudded dully in her chest. This was not good news. The jury was hung, and the trial would not be over until they made a unanimous decision—or until it was clear they could not make one. She could not bear to think all their work had been for nothing.

  The judge made a tsk-ing noise with her tongue. “I’m going to call the jury in and issue an Allen charge,” she said.

  An Allen charge took its name from a famous case when the judge had broken a deadlock by exhorting the jury. Because it was designed to dislodge jurors from entrenched positions, it was sometimes referred to as the “dynamite charge” or “hammer charge.”

  As the nine women and three men of the jury filed in and took their seats only a few feet away from her, Mia watched them closely, trying to figure out the lay of the land. She saw stiff legs, clenched fists, tight jaws, and furrowed brows. Sandra’s cheeks were flushed, and judging by Naomi’s red eyes and smeared makeup, she had recently been crying. Trapped in a small room with each other, jurors could quickly grow frustrated. They lacked the usual ways people had of dealing with conflict, such as leaving to get a beer or walk the dog or just going to another room. Mia knew of juries where insults had been thrown. Sometimes even chairs.

  Judge Ortega was silent for a long moment before she addressed them. The silence served to give her words even more weight.

  “Members of the jury, I know that each of you is dedicated to doing your duty and that you are being open-minded. And I know that all of you have been working hard to try to find a verdict in this case. It apparently has been impossible for you—so far.” She emphasized the last two words. “I’m going to ask that you continue your deliberations with the hope that you can reach agreement about a verdict and dispose of this case. I have a few comments I would like you to think about as you do so.”

  As she spoke, Jim, the accountant who was also the foreperson, scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked even paler, if that was possible, than he had looked during the trial.

  “First of all, this trial has been expensive in all ways: time, effort, and money. If you should fail to agree, the case may well have to be tried again. But there is no reason to believe that it could be tried again any better than it has already been tried, or that any more or clearer evidence could be produced.”

  After pausing to let this sink in, Judge Ortega continued, “Any future jury would be selected in the same way and from the same pool as you were. I do not believe that the case could ever be submitted to twelve men and women who would be more conscientious, more impartial, or more competent to decide it than you.”

  Having offered a carrot in the form of a compliment, the judge now went for the stick. “Remember that you have a legal duty to discuss the evidence with each other. Your goal should be to reach a verdict. Of course, you must each decide this case for yourself, but you should also consider the views of the other jurors. If a substantial majori
ty of you are in favor of a conviction, those who disagree should reconsider whether your doubt is a reasonable one.”

  Sandra, Naomi, and several other jurors turned to look at Warren, the young electrician with the two-toned mullet who had seemed uninterested when Mia gave her closing arguments. His expression vacant, he stared at his lap and gnawed on a nail.

  Why hadn’t Mia used one of her preemptory strikes on him? During voir dire Warren had seemed like a neutral choice, neither better nor worse than most of the other prospects. He had listened intently to both Wheeler and Mia, and answered their questions appropriately. Now any trace of alertness had vanished. He seemed lost in his own world.

  Judge Ortega continued, “On the other hand, if a majority are in favor of an acquittal, the rest should ask yourselves whether you should continue to accept evidence that is failing to convince your fellow jurors. Do not hesitate to change your opinion if you become convinced that you are wrong.” The judge was walking a fine line, asking jurors to change their minds. Showing her awareness of the danger, Judge Ortega added, “However, you should not change your mind just so that you can agree with the other jurors or just to return a verdict. At the same time, remember that it is your duty to agree upon a verdict if you can do so.” She took a deep breath, which seemed to echo in the stillness of the courtroom.

  “I have only one request of you. I want you to go back into the jury room. Then, taking turns, tell each of the other jurors about any weakness of your own position. You should not interrupt each other or comment on each other’s views until each of you has had a chance to talk. After that, if you simply cannot reach a verdict, then return to the courtroom, and I will declare this case mistried and will discharge you with my sincere appreciation for your services.” For a long moment, she looked from one face to the next. Even Warren gave her a flicker of a glance. “Please continue your deliberations.”

  As she walked out of the courtroom with Charlie a few minutes later, Mia asked him in a low voice, “So do you think it’s Warren?”

  “Either that or he’s been farting in the jury room. I would also guess he’s the only thing standing between you and a conviction.”