Trial Courtship

“We have a week before then, but I have no notion how long a murder trial takes,” Andrea said.

Shayla leaned forward. “My brother used to be on the police force. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

“It probably depends on the evidence,” Andrea suggested.

“But it is kinda exciting,” Dottie conceded. “Did you ever watch People’s Court? I was pretty good at figuring out what the judge oughta do.”

“No, but I watched the O.J. trial,” Shayla commented. “As if that would do us any good. We better avoid discussing that verdict. We might divide this jury into two camps right away.”

Andrea laid down her menu. “I hope that doesn’t happen. Surely we can all listen to the evidence and come to a just conclusion.”

Shayla raised an eyebrow. “Girl, I do believe you’re one of those starry-eyed optimists.”

“At this point, there’s no reason not to be.”

“Ma’am, may I take your order?” The waitress stood at Andrea’s elbow.

“Oh...maybe the tuna salad plate.”

The young man with horn-rimmed glasses sitting directly across the table from her kept glancing around furtively, then taking sips of water. Conversations ranged all around him, but he seemed oblivious. Andrea moved the dried flower arrangement aside, so she could see him better. “I’m Andrea Evans.”

He turned bright red, then extended a cold hand. “Hi. Roy Smith.”

Andrea grasped his limp fingers briefly. “Have you been on a jury before?”

He shook his head. “Never. I wish I weren’t now.”

“Really? In some ways, I’m finding it very interesting.”

“Not me.” He gulped from his water glass again, then leaned forward confidingly. “To tell you the truth, I’m scared.”

“Scared?”

“It’s too much responsibility. What if we make a mistake?”

“The system should help prevent that. If twelve people conscientiously review the evidence, they should be right most of the time.”

Roy ducked his head. “I dunno.”

Down the way on the other side of the table, the large man with the Browns sweatshirt drowned out those around him. “It should be pretty damn simple, folks. We listen to the mouthpieces, go in the jury room, take a vote, collect our measly paychecks and go home. Piece of cake.”

A frowsy redhead with long carmine nails made a circle of her thumb and forefinger. “Bingo, Jack. In and out, clean as a whistle.”

“You got it right, baby, except for the name.” He grinned lasciviously and stuck out his paw. “Chester Swenson. Chet to my friends.”

“Well, Chet,” she batted her heavily mascaraed eyelashes, “since we’re on the same wavelength here, that oughta make us friends, doncha think? I’m Arnelle Kerry.”

“But, Mr. Swenson—” Andrea caught the man’s eye “—we’re talking about a young man’s life.”

“The kid’s prob’ly scum. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

The waitress set the tuna salad in front of Andrea. Scum? The callousness of the remark ruined her appetite. Beside her, she heard Shayla mutter under her breath, “Takes one to know one.”

Andrea, feeling color rising to her cheeks, leaned forward so she could look directly at Mr. Swenson. “I have to speak out here. I think that kind of blanket generalization is not only inappropriate, but, frankly, offensive. We haven’t heard any of the evidence and—”

Chet, his mouth full, shook a spoon at her. “Hey, lady, it’s a free country. I have the right to say any damn thing I please.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree, Chet.” The man sitting next to him, the one who’d brought his laptop, laid a hand on Swenson’s shoulder. “But we have to walk a tight line when we’re discussing anything that might relate to the case. I suggest we change the subject.”

Chet shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t need no lessons from her.” He glared at Andrea.

Smoothly, the man cut through Swenson’s diatribe. “We’ve got a long haul ahead of us. There will be plenty of differences of opinion before this trial is over. It’s a little early to start getting on each others’ cases, don’t you think?”

Chet crumbled a saltine into his chili. “Maybe.”

Grateful for the tactful intervention, Andrea heaved a sigh of relief before eating a forkful of salad. Although she hadn’t met all the jurors yet, this pointed exchange reinforced her uncomfortable feeling that unanimity would be elusive. Their backgrounds were so diverse. In addition to those she’d met, there was the handsome man who’d just engineered the detente, a sour-faced elderly woman, a fortyish man in a city sanitation department uniform, a young guy wearing a Case-Western Reserve sweatshirt, a weather-beaten man in jeans and a flannel shirt, and a distinguished-looking, silver-haired gentleman. Five women and seven men. Plus the alternates, both women.

To her left, between bites of her chicken sandwich, Dottie was cataloguing all the chores she had to complete in preparation for the holiday. The litany of a true martyr.

Shayla shifted in her chair and whispered in Andrea’s ear, “Don’t look now, but the hunk who just bested our buddy Chet can’t take his eyes off you.”

Prickles of discomfort raced down Andrea’s arms. Yet curiosity overcame her. She turned her head slightly and, out of the corner of her eye, saw that the black-haired young man was, indeed, studying her. Before she could avert her glance, the corners of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, and when he winked at her, her breath caught. When she dared to look back, he was absorbed in winding spaghetti on his fork.

Shayla beamed. “You go, girl.”

“Shame on you, Shayla. This is hardly the place for meeting men.”

“It’s as good as any. So you’re not married?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see what ol’ Shayla can drum up.”

“Really, I’m not—”

Shayla stabbed the air with a fork. “Sure you are. You just need a little nudge.”

After lunch as the jurors filed out of the restaurant into the bright winter sunlight, Andrea felt someone take her by the elbow. She looked up. Him.

“Since we’re going to be spending time together, we might as well get acquainted. I’m Tony Urbanski. And you are—?”

He still had hold of her arm. “Andrea Evans.” She was struck by the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his dark brown eyes. His demeanor conveyed confidence, even a kind of cockiness.

He assisted her over the curb, then let his hand drop. “Your first time?”

“On a jury?”

He paused a beat, then grinned. “What else?”