Trial Courtship

“Did you tell the teacher?”

He shot her an incredulous look. “What good would that do?”

Poor little guy. Caught between a bully and a rap as a snitch. “Would you like me to call Mrs. Elliot?”

He shrugged. “That’ll jus’ make it worse.”

Heartsick, she turned into the drive of the Cape Cod house that had been her sister and brother-in-law’s home and was now hers. As soon as the car stopped, Nicky bolted, leaving his book bag behind. She stood, shivering a moment in the cool late-afternoon breeze, then bent and retrieved the bag. He wasn’t a thoughtless or bad boy. Just unhappy. And she had no idea how to help him.

Andrea followed him into the house, shrugged out of her cardigan and set water to boil for spaghetti. Then she carried Nicky’s bag upstairs to his bedroom, where he already sat engrossed in a computer game. Software and cyberspace—his retreats. She mussed his hair affectionately. “Dinner in forty-five minutes.”

He didn’t look up. “Okay.”

She paused in the entry hall to gather the mail stuffed in the brass door slot. Sorting through the envelopes as she walked back to the kitchen, she flipped past two bills, then stopped short. What on earth did Cuyahoga County want with her? Her heart skipped a beat. Surely nothing involving her custody of Nicky?

Easing onto the chintz-covered breakfast nook bench, she tore open the envelope. “You are summoned to appear in the Court of Common Pleas... Wednesday, November 18...to serve as a juror.”

Jury duty? Could there be a worse time—right before the holiday rush at her store? Perhaps she could get excused. She quickly censored that unworthy reaction. No question about it, fulfilling her duty as a citizen couldn’t always be convenient. She bit her lip. Serving would involve making arrangements for Nicholas, securing the cooperation of Phil Norman, her shop manager...

Bemused, she acknowledged a nudge of anticipation. She’d always been curious about what went on behind the closed doors of a jury room. And with uncharacteristic immodesty, she acknowledged her ability to be a fair-minded, impartial juror. Despite the bad timing, she would manage, maybe by adjusting her work schedule and hiring additional part-time help.

The hiss of water splattering on the electric burner brought her to her feet. Grabbing two pot holders, she removed the pan from the stove.

She was eager to show Nicholas the letter. They could talk about the court system at dinner. Maybe he’d think that was interesting. She hoped so.

“WATCH IT, KELL. You’re dribbling pickle juice on the contract draft!” Tony Urbanski leaned back in his chair and grinned across the conference table at Kelli Murphy O’Shea, expectant mother and legal whiz.

She waved a dill spear in his general direction. “Just because you’re the newest partner in Great Lakes Management Group, Skee, don’t think you can order folks around.”

He laughed. “Nobody gives you orders. How does Patrick put up with you?”

Rubbing her protruding abdomen, she chuckled wickedly. “Oh, my husband understands there are certain rather delightful compensations.”

Tony nodded at the smeared legal document. “That’s an interesting shade of green.”

She bent her dark head over the page, examining it, then looked up, her blue eyes twinkling. “Ah, laddie, it’s the leprechaun touch, doncha know? The luck of the Irish!”

“It damn well better be. I’m going to need all the luck I can get to put DataTech and Cyberace at the same table and hammer out this merger.” Already he could feel the ripples of tension in his chest. He had a huge stake in pulling off this deal. Harrison Wainwright, managing partner of his firm, demanded results. As the recently appointed head of the mergers and acquisition department, Tony could ill afford to mishandle his first huge negotiation since making partner.

“Hey, Skee.” Kelli reached across the table and patted his hand. “You’ll get the job done. I have every confidence in you.”

Good old Kell. Always the cheerleader. Ever since they’d joined the Cleveland office at about the same time two years ago, they’d been buddies. Her refreshing no-nonsense approach to life kept him honest. She had the uncanny ability to see right through him in ways that often made him uncomfortable.

She withdrew her hand and stood, rubbing the small of her back. “And,” she continued, “you have every confidence in you. That’s what makes you so effective.”

“Are you saying I’m cocky?”

She widened her eyes and regarded him archly. “Now would I say a thing like that?”

He scooped up the papers and rose to his feet. “Damn right, you would.” He stuffed the contract draft into his bulging briefcase, then checked his watch. “Jeez, Kell, I didn’t mean to keep you so late. I hope Patrick won’t be worried.”

“I called him earlier. Besides, you saved me. Patrick is putting up our Halloween decorations tonight. He really gets into holidays. You’d think he was still twelve years old. We’ll have skeletons hanging from trees, cobwebs draped all over the front porch and enough jack-o’-lanterns to illuminate our entire block.”

“I’m sorry. You’re missing all the fun.”

“I’ll have plenty of ‘fun’ getting ready for our party. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Tony hesitated. He wasn’t much for masquerade parties. “If I’m not too busy.”

“Too busy? Give it a rest. Halloween is on a Saturday night! It’ll be a blast. Do you have your costume?”

Costume? A disconcerting childhood memory surfaced of his father telling him boys didn’t “play dress-up” and that Halloween was for sissies. As a schoolboy, Tony had been forced to sneak bedsheets in order to transform himself into a perennial ghost “I’ll probably come as Urban Businessman, circa late 20th Century.”

“Wow,” Kelli said mockingly. “You really let yourself go, don’t you?”

Tony grasped for a change of subject. “How about you? What are you wearing?”

Kelli ran a hand over her stomach and smiled ruefully. “It seems to me I have two choices—Buddha or E.T.”

“With your big eyes, E.T.’s a natural.”

“I think so, too.” Kelli started toward the door.

“I’ll get my coat and walk you to your car. It’s dark out there.”

“Thanks. I’ll meet you at the elevator.” She paused at the door of her office. “And don’t forget to bring a date to the party!”

“Now you’ve pushed me too far.”

She shook her head disparagingly. “Somebody has to help you meet the right woman. Shall I line up one of my single friends?”

He shrugged. “Do I have a choice?” Before disappearing into her office, she shot him one of those looks that clearly said, “Mother knows best.” Someday maybe he’d think about marriage, family. But not now. He hadn’t worked backbreaking construction jobs to earn his way through Michigan State, driven a cab nights while he finished his MBA and clawed his way up the ranks of Great Lakes Management Group to be sidetracked from his goals. Now that he’d achieved a partnership, he wanted to solidify his reputation as the best negotiator the company had ever had, and that didn’t involve distractions of the female variety.

After delivering Kelli to her car, he walked briskly toward the converted warehouse—now a fashionable downtown address—where he had a third-floor flat. The aroma of hot mustard and sauerkraut wafting from the brown paper bag he carried made his stomach grumble. Thank God Kamp’s Deli had late take-out service. A guy could do a lot worse than the best pastrami on rye in northern Ohio.

Reaching his door, he clutched his briefcase under one arm and fumbled in his pocket for his key. Although it was already after nine, he still had the latest Cyberace annual report to review. But the prospect of another late night didn’t bother him. Deep in his gut, he had the feeling that, despite the obstacles, he could make this merger work.

He pushed open the door to his flat, switched on the lights and set his briefcase and sandwich on the chrome-and-glass table. He was proud of the sleek aesthetic decor—a black leather Eames chair and chrome reading lamp, a white sofa grouping, matching coffee and end tables, Klee and Picasso prints furnishing the only splashes of color. A far cry from his father’s double-wide trailer, which Tony had had to call “home.” Take a look, Pops. Your kid has made it.

Shucking his suit jacket, he shuddered against the distasteful image of Stan Urbanski, with the omnipresent cigar stub clenched in his teeth. Stripping off his tie, he then pulled a bottle of ale from the nearly empty refrigerator. Slowly pouring the contents into a chilled pilsner glass, he raised the drink. Cheers! An unexpected wave of loneliness swept over him. What good was success when there was nobody to share it?

Dispelling the maudlin thought, Tony turned his attention to the thick meaty sandwich, idly thumbing through the day’s mail while he ate. A renewal notice for the Wall Street Journal, an invitation to a charity ball at Shaker Heights Country Club—not bad for a nobody from Detroit—and an envelope with a Cuyahoga County return address. What the hell?

He slit the envelope with his pocket knife and pulled out the enclosed letter. “You are summoned to appear in the Court of Common Pleas...to serve as a juror.” November 18? Shoving his sandwich aside, he stared at the words. Not now! He guzzled the remainder of his ale, then slammed the empty glass down on the table top. Joseph and Mary. That was only three weeks away. Shortly before he had to be in New York City to handle the delicate final merger negotiations.

He started to ball up the offending notice, then thought better of it. No need getting in an uproar. Hell, judges were savvy individuals. Surely when he explained his role in a nationally significant business deal, no judge would insist he serve.

Still, it was damned inconvenient. He’d get on the phone first thing in the morning, speak to someone at the jury commission. With luck, maybe he’d be permitted to serve another time.