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“Yes.”
“I approached him for an interview and he told me he knew me and he’ll write his own book.” That made no sense at that point in time, but now it does.
She laughs. “Obviously the publisher had been talking to him.”
“So tell me again why we’re meeting? Because to make matters worse, I haven’t been favorable to his trial skills.”
“I’m aware of that fact. We all are aware of that fact, but the publisher seems to believe your present tone only makes you two teaming up all the more interesting.”
“They’re just looking for scandal on top of scandal,” I supply.
“They’re looking to sell books,” she says, and without giving me time to respond, she adds, “Call me after,” and hangs up.
I blow out a breath. I could be partnering with Reese’s adversary, while I’m presently trying to recover from Reese’s hands on my body and his mouth on mine.
Could this get any more complicated?
I’m still asking that very question as I reach the courthouse and discover that I’m running so late I need a guard to allow me inside the courtroom. The judge, jury, and legal teams are in place, which means I am forced to claim a back seat, or walk down the aisle and in front of all of the cameras. I’m not a newscaster for a reason. I don’t like the invasion of the cameras lenses on ten different levels, which is something that someone other than me can analyze, preferably never.
The court is called to order, for once without counsels taking a walk to the bench. Reese works the courtroom, an edge of control and determination about him. He calls his first witness. The victim’s boyfriend, whom Lauren is certain is the killer. He cries. He shouts. He cries some more. Guilty or not, he’s painted himself as a victim, and I believe him. Right up until Reese turns the tables on him.
“Was it true that Jennifer was afraid of you?” he asks of the victim.
“Of course not.”
“Are you certain that no one I put on the stand will say that Jennifer was afraid of you?”
“There are people who don’t like me. I can’t know what they will say.”
“Which people?” Reese asks.
“Her mother, for one. She doesn’t seem to even consider that I lost the woman I love and my unborn child. That is punishment enough without her attacking me. I can’t deal with her attacking me, too.”
“You’ve been accused of being abusive.”
From there it doesn’t get better for the witness, but it does for the accused. Reese doesn’t produce a confession, but he opens the door to another suspect, and does so artfully in every way.
The prosecution is just about to cross-examine when the judge calls a short break. “Thirty minutes for lunch,” he says. “It’s Friday. I want to get people out of here and to their families tonight.” The gavel hits the wooden block. The break is barely long enough to scarf something from a machine and pee, and, I reluctantly admit, my disappointment at the absence of a meetup with Reese. I’m leaning on a wall, watching people pass by and shoving a bag of peanuts down, when my phone buzzes. I dig it out of my purse to find a text message from Reese that reads: You taste as sweet as you look in that pink dress, but not quite as innocent.
I glance up and my gaze pulls right, to find Reese leaning on this very wall, a good ten feet away. Those blue eyes of his fix on me, and for just a few moments I think of what the witnesses feel on the stand. The steel force of his attention consuming them as it is me now. We stare at each other for several beats, but he doesn’t move toward me, he keeps a distance, respecting the professional lines I’ve established between us. And then he’s gone, walking away before we become obvious, and I watch him join one of his co-counsels and disappear down a hallway.
I could type a reply, but I have no idea what to say. None. Zero. Zip. I write words for a living and I can’t find any words to type. This man really is making me crazy. And exceptionally warm. I guzzle my water, but what I really want is a long, tall drink of Reese Summer. I glance at my watch and confirm that The Reese Summer Show is about to start again. That means I’m one step closer to removing my no sex during the trial rule.
Chapter eight
Cat
Four hours later, the courtroom of jurors, press and observers, has endured the tedious cross-examination of the victim’s boyfriend and the tears of her mother. The testimony drags onward, and the day does not end early because it’s Friday. But ultimately Reese tries to give us all an ending to the trial. Come nearly six o’clock, he stands and addresses the court. “Judge,” he says, “the defense respectfully requests the dismissal of all charges. There has been no evidence presented to support charging my client. At this point, I think we can all question why my client was charged at all. With the obvious lack of evidence against my client, and a number of suspects, did the prosecution simply pick the one that gets them the biggest book deals?”
The courtroom erupts in murmurs and chaos, while I cringe at the personal note this has hit for me. I’ve been flirting with Reese. I’ve all but promised to get naked with Reese. I have a meeting about writing a book with the prosecutor, this very hour, perhaps. Turns out I know the answer to my earlier question: Yes. It can get more complicated.
The judge bangs his gavel and shouts, “Order!” pulling me back into the moment as he looks directly at Reese. “Unless you get me a confession by someone other than your client, the jury will decide this case, not me. Don’t argue. You won’t like the results. Court adjourned.”
And just like that, the trial will continue on Monday, and I have drinks with the prosecutor instead of coffee followed by sex with Reese Summer. This day needs a do-over.
I don’t wait to find out if there are press conferences after court. I analyze and opine on crimes. I don’t push and shove. I don’t hide in bushes or around corners to get stories. In other words, I don’t wait to find out if there is a press conference after court that will include nothing more than more of the same huff and puff I listened to all day. A short walk later, I arrive at the Johnnie Walker bar, on the ground level of the Johnnie Walker Hotel, before the clusters of tables are filled. I glance around the spacious bar, the décor all brown leather and wooden masculinity, the lights dim.
I cross the room and settle into a seat by a window, away from any other tables, allowing for a private conversation with Dan that could include sensitive and confidential information, if we can get past our dislike for one another. It also allows me to see the door, at least at the moment, before the crowds erupt. For the time being, I ignore the entrance, and the menu on the table that I know from previous visits sports a wide variety of Johnnie Walker scotch. I’m not a scotch girl. I’m not a drinker at all—at least, not when I need my head on straight. Which means I will never drink with Reese Summer.
