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“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.”
