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Forty minutes later, Reese is in a blue suit that I picked out with a blue pinstriped tie and is headed downstairs to make coffee and read over his opening statement. I’m in my robe doing my makeup. I’m about to get dressed when a wave of sickness hits me. It comes hard and fast and I rush to the toilet, fall to my knees and hug the bowl. I heave and it’s horrible. My stomach is empty and the clenching of my belly muscles is torture.
“Cat!”
I cringe at the sound of Reese’s voice and in another instant, he’s on a knee beside. “Sweetheart. What’s happening?” He hands me a washcloth.
“Stupid olives,” I say wiping my mouth. “I told you they tasted off.”
“What can I get you?”
I twist around to face him. “A kickass opening statement. I’m fine. It’s passing. I just need to get dressed.” I cup his face. “I’m ready to go to court.”
“Cat, sweetheart. If you need to miss—”
“I will never miss one of your openings, ever. Ever.” I try to stand and he helps me up. “I’m good, but I should probably brush my teeth again. Go get ready. I’ll be dressed and ready myself in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re sure? Maybe we should have someone come be with you in court today, in case you get sick again.”
“Reese,” I say, grabbing his arms. “It’s nothing. I’m better now. I promise.”
He hesitates and backs out of the small room, guiding me with him, but he doesn’t leave. He hovers until I brush my teeth and prove I’m fine again. Once I’m minty fresh, I kiss him. “I’m great. I’ll be right down.”
His cellphone rings, and he grabs it to eye the caller ID. “Royce.” His lips thin. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” He disappears out of the bathroom and I suspect that Royce calling means that we already have picketers though I’m not sure what they will picket and not even because of the case, as much as the company the family owns. They’re like a Wal-Mart, so big that the public has high expectations and no matter what they do, they never meet those expectations. But the bottom line is the picketers make the trials nuts and I know they would make Reese worry about me if he knew I was pregnant. I’m making the right decision to wait.
Eager to find out what’s going on with Royce’s call, I head into the closet, pull on a pale pink sleeveless suit dress with a jacket. That way I’m prepared for a hot or cold courtroom, and the ever-changing October weather. I give myself a once-over in the mirror, my hand settling on my belly. I got sick and that feels like a normal thing for a pregnant woman. I smile. I’m pregnant and I think we’re having a girl. It’s just a gut feeling I’ll have to write about in the journal. I hurry to the sink, gloss my lips pink and then grab my purse.
My cellphone buzzes with a text and I glance down to find a message from my editor: Have I told you how much I love the way you tease readers? They know you know more than you’re telling and it’s making them crazy. The hits to your article this morning are insane. Now, off the record, did she do it?
I grimace and type a reply: Reese doesn’t defend guilty people.
Her reply is instant: But that recorded phone call had to have taken him off guard.
I’m irritated and concerned. My editor is smart and wide in her thinking, and yet she is focused on the scandal of that call. She didn’t really hear it and that worries me. I think of Reese’s opening statement and type: If anything that call proves innocence.
Once I’m downstairs, I find Reese in the kitchen, staring at his MacBook. The minute I walk in, he glances up, giving me a critical eye. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” I step to the island opposite him. “What was up with Royce?”
“The courthouse is a madhouse. His team will be here in a few to escort us.” He motions to my computer. “I read your column. Brilliant as always.”
“Thank you.” I consider a moment and then say, “I want you to read this exchange with my editor because I think you need to know what you’re up against.” I offer him my phone with the messages pulled up. He accepts it and reads the messages before handing it back to me. “In other words,” he says, “my client is guilty until proven innocent.”
“Can you convince your client to push the trial back?”
“No. She won’t do that. I’ve tried.”
“Then what are you going to do, Reese?”
“Win by making that call, and the assumption of guilt, work for me and my client. I tweaked my opening statement.” The doorbell rings and he stands up. “I’m ready. I feel in the game now.” He heads for the door and my stomach churns again. He’s in the game now. I cannot let him see me get sick again. I rush to the pantry, grab some crackers and stuff them in a baggy, before tucking them inside my purse.
I’ve just finished packing up my MacBook when Reese joins me to do the same of his. That’s when Royce appears in the archway, and his eyes meet mine, a question in their depths. Reese glances at a text message and I answer Royce’s unspoken question by giving a tiny shake of my head. His eyes darken with what I think is disapproval. He thinks I should have told Reese, even though he himself said to wait until after opening. I want to throttle him and worse, I share a secret with Royce that I should be sharing with my husband. The wrong man knows I’m pregnant.
I suddenly can’t wait to get to a place where I can start writing in my journal. Putting down my feelings there is clearly going to be the only way I survive the guilt of keeping this from Reese.
Chapter forty-seven
Cat
The minute we’re in the back of the black SUV with Royce and his look-a-like brother Luke, in the front seat, Reese grabs my leg and pulls me close. He says nothing, but his actions are words. He’s nervous, but nerves are good. Nerves force you to be one hundred percent present and I’ve watched enough of his trials now that I know he settles into his zone. When he steps behind his table in the courtroom, he owns the room. And he needs to be in that courtroom fully, not worried about his pregnant wife. I made the right decision to stay silent, but I hate that Royce knows and Reese doesn’t. How do I justify that part of my silence?
