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“My mother taught me right. Manners and honesty.”
“I won’t argue the accuracy of your statement, considering the fact that I was an asshole.”
“Well, good,” I say, curious about this turn of events. “We agree on something.”
His eyes light with amusement. “I’d apologize, but then this would be over.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“Meet me here in the morning and we’ll negotiate the terms of my apology.” He steps around me, and I whirl around to face his back.
“You’re an attorney, aren’t you?” I say, because I know the lingo, the style, everything about this man. And I am, in fact, a Harvard graduate attorney myself, as are two of my three brothers and my father. Them by choice, me by pressure that I stopped caving into two years ago next week.
He stops walking and rotates to face me now. “Yes, Cat. I am. Which means that you can handle Manners 101 and I’ll handle Negotiation 101.” He smiles—and it’s one hell of a smile—before he turns and walks away.
I watch him disappear in the crowd, knowing I have two options: Forget him or show back up. This is crazy. Men like that one are trouble, and I don’t like trouble, so why the heck am I staring after Mr. Arrogant Asshole? I’m not meeting him. End of story.
Shaking off any other thought, I walk back to my table and glance at the computer screen, where I’ve typed “Mr. Hotness,” and decide that hot little blog post is half the reason that Mr. Arrogant Asshole was able to get to me. I’m not meeting him. Of course, if I did, I’d do so with the understanding that trouble can be managed, and in this case, in his case, that would be with a dirty, rich one night stand.
Or by simply not meeting him again, but this is my coffee shop and I won’t be run out of it.
An hour later, I’ve written my intro for today’s courtroom activity, detailing what I know of the crime in question and the accused killer himself, before heading to the courthouse. I arrive forty-five minutes before the start of the trial, and it’s a good thing I do. The outside of the courthouse is crowded with picketers and press. Inside the courtroom, cameras and people have hoarded ninety-nine percent of the space. I squeeze into the back row and remove my brand-new leather-bound notebook, open to the first page, where I write: Murder: Guilty or Innocent? I follow with random questions I hope to answer today and during the trial, as I did in the two major trials I sat in witness to prior to this one.
I’ve just finished my list when the courtroom activity begins. The jury enters. The defendant and his counsel enter, but the stupid cameras block my view. The judge enters next, and we all stand, which means I have an even worse view. Finally, we all take our seats and the lead counsels for both sides approach the bench. They are only there for a minute at most before they turn back to the courtroom. It’s then, as Reese Summer, lead counsel for the defense, takes center stage for opening statements that my lips part in shock, and with good reason. Reese Summer is Mr. Arrogant Asshole. I sit there, staring at him, dumbfounded for the first five minutes of his opening before I even remember that I need to take notes. I start writing, studying him as he walks, talks, and presents not just his case, but himself, to the jury, audience, and cameras.
“Nelson Ward met Jennifer Wright when she was scared of her boyfriend and he didn’t look away like most people would. He looked at her. He saw her instead of seeing through her or past her. He told his wife about her. And together he and his wife, helped her seek shelter and a job. Nelson did not have an affair with Jennifer Wright. The DNA has proven that the child Jennifer Wright was carrying was not his, but rather her boyfriend’s, who was abusing her. The prosecution wanted to make the public happy and they needed a victim to convict. And that’s what my client is: A victim. The prosecution will present fingerprints on the doorknob of Ms. Wright’s house as evidence. That was the bombshell that landed Nelson Ward in this courtroom. My fingerprints are all over this courtroom. Did I commit a crime here? No. I did not. Has a crime been committed here? Yes. In fact, there have been three murders on this very property. According to the prosecution’s handling of this case, you all must now need lawyers. Why? Because that is the only evidence they have against my client, fingerprints on a door. I don’t know about you, folks, but I’m terrified at the idea that we can be convicted of a crime off nothing but our fingerprints on a door. Not on a weapon. On a doorknob used over and over by many people.”
He continues, and there are quips, and murmured laughter, and intense scowls. He takes everyone on an emotional journey. When he’s done, I sit back to assess his skill, and I judge him as a man that can seduce a courtroom as easily as he seduced me.
He’s trouble.
Big trouble.
And it’s now my job to make him my obsession for the remainder of this trial. Which means a dirty, rich (naked) one night stand can’t happen until there can be that pretty little orgasmic goodbye. Anything else would be a mistake I’ve already made. Once. Never again.
Chapter two
Cat
Day 2: The Trial of the Century
Iwake up the next morning with no intention of meeting Reese for coffee. Any personal encounter with him would be inappropriate, and I’d risk my credibility as a reporter with a potential scandal. Which means, instead of my normal routine that would include showering and dressing before heading to the coffee shop, I’m still in my PJs when I walk into my kitchen and put a chocolate-flavored pod in my Keurig. While it brews, I proceed to think about the man I’m avoiding. If I were another reporter, I would take him up on the invitation and corner him for an interview, but I’m not big on the sex-for-information kind of reporting, and that’s how that reads to me. Besides, no one likes to be stalked by the press, and while Reese Summer might be an asshole, I’m not. Nor am I chasing headlines, but rather meaningful, objective commentary that has often been the reason I am awarded interviews I would not otherwise be awarded.
Steaming cup in hand, I sit down at my white marbled kitchen island and proceed to finish two cups of coffee, while doing what I do every morning. I read my Cat Does Crime write-up in hopes that I won’t hate what is now published, and today, thankfully, I do not, though sometimes I do. And I didn’t have much to work with to start. There were opening statements, some heated words between counsels, and the judge pulling them back behind closed doors, in what became the end of the day. But reading over my published piece, I made it work. There is a nice mix of personal insight into the case, the judge’s general attitude and presence, as well the jury’s engagement in the courtroom events. Additionally, I share my opinions on what should happen, has happened, or has not happened. Finally, I end with a closing statement of my own:
The prosecution’s opening statement promised to prove a good-looking billionaire to be a monster in disguise. The defense, led by Reese Summer, in turn, promised to prove them wrong. It’s a predictable narrative, of course, except for one thing. The sensationalism in the courtroom for the defense, in what appears to be the JFK effect of good looks and charm, wins the day. Summer slays the jury and the audience, convincing them that the prosecution is on a witch hunt. And since the prosecution chose to present their case with over-the-top drama akin to a B-rated, poorly shot, Friday the 13th movie, they better have facts as backup to win. Until then, —Cat
I left out the part about me having met Reese, finding him to be an arrogant ass, and that he still had me actually contemplating getting naked with him. I don’t even know where my head was. Reese personifies the very man who has always been a problem for me. I know Reese is trouble. If the prosecution doesn’t know that by now, they will. Just to arm myself with facts, to back up those statements, I google him now. In the name of research, of course. I write down the details in my notebook:
Age: 35
Yale Law School graduate, eight years ago
Single
Never lost a case
God, the man has a résumé that matches that of my father, two brothers, and Mitch, my ex. If only I’d stuck to fucking that man in his office, I might not have minded that he’d also fucked his secretary in his office. Funny how that works. And on that insightful note, I shut my computer. Time to shower, dress, and head to court, sans a stop by the coffee shop for a white mocha and a brush with Mr. Arrogant Asshole.
