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“I’ll call her tonight. You need to focus on you and the trial, not my agent drama.”
“Cat. This is your career.”
“This trial is my career. I’ll call her.” It hits me that he’s the only man, of the many in my life, that actually presses on matters that concern me. We stop at a stoplight and I turn to him. “I promise. And thank you for pushing. I know it’s because you want to look out for me.”
“I owe you. Your input on this trial has been invaluable.”
The light turns and he motions us forward. A few steps past the intersection and we arrive at the coffee shop, and avoid talking about the trial while we wait in line. Instead, we talk about his parents. “Tell me more about the ranch your parents own.”
“They have stallions. Do you ride?”
“No,” I say. “But I’ve always wanted to.”
“I’ll take you up there. We’ll figure out when and do it.”
He wants to take me to his parents. “You want to take me to your parents?”
His eyes soften. “Yes, Cat, I do. Just be prepared for a cranky married couple. And my brother, who rivals my sister in attitude.”
“I’m used to brothers.”
“You’ll like my sister.”
“Does she work at the ranch?” I ask.
“No. She’s an interior designer, but she only lives an hour from the ranch. She’ll show up if I show up.”
It’s our turn at the register, and it’s not long until we have our coffee and we’re finishing the short walk to the courthouse. I stop him a block away. “You don’t need to walk in with me, Reese. Mr. Hotness gossip isn’t what you need right now.”
“Cat—”
I push to my toes, lean into him, and kiss him. “Please. Go on without me. And go Team Summer. Kick ass.”
“Are you Team Summer, Cat?”
“You had me the minute you cut in line and earned your temporary Mr. Arrogant Asshole title.”
He laughs and kisses me again. “I’ll see you for lunch unless some hell breaks loose.”
“See you at lunch.”
“Call your agent,” he says, and starts walking.
“Ex-agent!” I call after him, but he’s right. I need to call Liz.
I glance at my watch, and it’s actually early. I have time to call her. I walk onward to the courthouse, and since the picketers have already started, I round the corner and sit on a bench. I punch the autodial for Liz and the moment is rather anticlimactic, since I get her voice mail. I text her: I’m headed into court. I’ll try and call you at lunch. I disconnect, place my phone on vibrate, and head inside. A few minutes later, I’ve claimed my spot in the courtroom and pull out my notebook, not sure if I did the right or wrong thing when I wrote that closing statement and read it to him.
It’s a half-hour later when Reese walks into the courtroom, and he’s relaxed, confident, charismatic. The room expands with his energy. If he’s rattled, it doesn’t show. It’s not long before the trial is underway, and Reese sticks to his plan. He calls the investigator. A man named Kevin Smith who is in his mid-forties, an air of confidence about him, with gray streaks at his temple and speckled through his dark hair. He’s good looking. If he’s articulate and smart, he’s dangerous.
“Detective Smith,” Reese says. “I have here,” he holds up a document, “your written statement. Please read the last paragraph to the court.”
Detective Smith shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. Reese walks to him and hands him the document. The detective picks it up and reads from the paper. “In closing, Nelson Ward knew the victim. He had frequent communication with her, but there is no physical evidence to point to him as the person responsible for the murder of Jennifer Wright and her unborn child.” The detective sets down the document.
“There was no evidence to point to him as the person responsible for the murder,” Reese repeats. “And yet my client is on trial today. Did you have new evidence presented after you wrote that statement?”
“None that I’m aware of,” Smith says.
“I’m finished with the witness,” Reese says, walking back to his table and sitting down.
