Abby’s heart pounded loudly with her acknowledgment that Ben Wyeth was not only good looking and companionable, but the sexiest man she’d seen in years. She felt the animal magnetism that radiated from him, felt it in the tingling response of her body.
They straightened slowly as a pair, neither breaking the silent spell. She took in his rumpled hair, his sweaty brow, the night’s shadow of his beard and felt all the more attracted. Then her gaze fell to his lips and she watched them move.
“We’d better go in,” he murmured.
She nodded mutely but couldn’t budge.
“Abby…”
Eyes widened, she met his gaze, knowing only that she wanted him to kiss her. But his tone had been of warning and he clamped his mouth shut, daring only to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand before pushing himself to his feet.
Then he cleared his throat. “I think we ought to get showered and dressed,” he said, offering her a hand up. “They say breakfast is set for seven-forty-five. We’re supposed to be at the courthouse an hour after that.”
Where better judgment hadn’t had a chance, mention of the courthouse brought her to her senses. The trial…she’d nearly forgotten why she was here, why he was here. With a soft moan of self-reproach and an apprehensive wince, she walked, head down, through the door he held and moved distractedly toward the stairs.
The trial…beginning in just about two hours. Her stomach fluttered in a totally different way than it had moments before. As she headed up the first flight, she wondered what it would be like to sit there in the courtroom and not only watch the proceedings but be a vital participant in them.
It was only when she’d reached the landing of the second floor that she realized Ben was still beside her. “I’ll…I’ll see you at breakfast,” she half-whispered, then turned to mount the flight to the third floor. Her footsteps were echoed the entire way. At the top it was Ben’s turn.
“See you later,” he murmured, waiting for her to turn left to his right. When she turned right as well, he stood stock still and watched her go.
Her hand was on her doorknob before she looked back at him. When she frowned and tipped her head in puzzlement, he advanced. He stopped no more than an arm’s length away—an arm’s length from Abby, an arm’s length from his own door.
Suddenly his expression warmed with that same humor she’d found so appealing from the start. “This may prove to be as much of a trial as the other,” he drawled, staring at her a minute longer before letting himself in and shutting the door.
Abby knew exactly what he meant.
Three
Her pulse quickened. It was one thing to know that Ben’s room was right next to hers, that each time she dressed or showered or climbed into bed he’d be doing the same little more than a wall’s width away. But to arrive in court and find that they’d be seated beside one another throughout the long trial process was something else. It, too, was the luck of the draw—her twelfth to his thirteenth—and she had mixed feelings as to its merit.
There was, on the one hand, a certain solace at having him so close. While her own stomach knotted in anticipation of the start of the proceedings, he sat calmly, quietly, exuding a tranquility that gave her strength.
On the other hand, though, there was the way he looked, all clean and fresh and startlingly vibrant. His shirt was crisp and white, his blazer a dignified navy, his slacks…his slacks…she knew them to be gray, though her eye was more entranced by the way they spanned his thigh as he crossed one knee over the other.
All things considered, Abby wondered whether her stomach fluttered in response to the air of expectation in the courtroom…or in response to the stimulus of one thoroughly virile Benjamin Wyeth.
“Everything okay, Abby?” he asked softly. “You look a little peaked. We didn’t wear you out this morning, did we?” The last was on a gently teasing note.
“Not on your life,” she countered, quickly rising to his bait with the shadow of a smile. “I’m impressed that you guys kept up as well as you did.” Then she glanced toward the crowd in the courtroom and her smile vanished. “It’s this whole thing, I guess,” she offered in explanation of her pallor. “I just wish we’d begin. It doesn’t look like there’s a free seat here.”
Ben joined her in scanning the packed courtroom. “Only the defendant’s. They must be waiting—ah, here he comes now.”
A hush settled over the crowd as a door at the front of the courtroom opened and the defendant emerged accompanied by two guards, both uniformed, both alert. Abby noted that Derek Bradley was impeccably dressed, conservative in a dark gray three-piece suit and dark cordovans. He was freshly shaven, well groomed, and good-looking. When he offered a fleeting smile toward the front row, where members of his family sat grouped together, Abby could see how many a woman might be charmed.
“I’m surprised the prosecution didn’t challenge your selection,” Ben leaned sideways to whisper. “Derek Bradley is young and attractive. And if he smiles at you that way…”
“Don’t be absurd,” she came back with a forceful whisper of her own. “He’s not that good-looking. Besides, he can’t be a day over thirty. I like my men older…more mellow.”
He arched a brow. “That’s encouraging. Maybe the prosecution knew what it was doing after all. Either that…or they ran out of challenges.” His eyes were warm as they studied her, and Abby felt her cheeks flush in response. But she was saved from the need to answer him by the loud rap of a gavel to her left.
“Please rise in honor of the court,” the clerk of court intoned loudly. Every soul in the courtroom stood.
Abby gripped the wooden railing that separated the two rows of jurors and watched wide-eyed as the judges appeared at a door to her right. Single file, with black-robed Theodore Hammond in the middle, the three slowly mounted the bench.
“Be seated,” the clerk directed. Every soul in the courtroom sat.
Abby was only too glad to be off her feet again. Her knees had been none too steady, her palms none too dry…and Benjamin Wyeth had been far too tall and straight by her side to ignore. At least now the arms of the brown leather chairs separated them.
Glancing down, she was caught by the contrast of her creamy silk sleeve against his of navy wool, her slimness against his muscled strength. A wave of primal sensitivity surged through her. So much for the saving grace of brown leather chairs, she mused in dismay as she diplomatically tucked in her elbows, folded her hands in her lap, and did her best to turn her attention to the court.
The crowd stilled when the clerk stood to read the indictments, naming the defendant, Derek Bradley, on charges of kidnapping and assault and battery. At the arraignment months before, pleas of not guilty had been entered. Now the words reechoed through the courtroom.
Then, as Grace had warned, the judge took several minutes to address the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began gravely, “you’ve been asked to make a sacrifice that many of your fellow citizens have never and will never be asked to make. For the sake of justice, you have agreed to surrender your freedom for the duration of this trial. The court recognizes the extent of this sacrifice and hereby thanks you on behalf of the state of Vermont.”
Abby hung on his every word, as did each of her fellow jurors. Not one moved. Not one acknowledged the fact that the eyes of the courtroom were upon them.
“As this trial progresses, you will be presented with arguments and evidence by representatives of two opposing sides. We ask that you listen carefully to each and every point, since it will be your job to make a final decision as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant.”
He paused to frown at the papers on his desk before continuing. “As you know, the purpose of sequestration is to prevent your being influenced, one way or the other, by outside forces. The only sources of input you’re to have regarding this case are myself and my side judges, the prosecution team and its witnesses, and the defense team and its witnesses. You are neither to hear anything a
bout this case from nor discuss anything about this case with any other person.
“Unfortunately, that includes each other. Difficult as it may be, I ask that you don’t discuss this case among yourselves. When the time comes for deliberations, you will be able to do so—but only after each side has rested its case.
“If you have questions or problems of any sort, the court officers are at your service. Wherever possible they’ll try to minimize the inconvenience that this experience must be for you. Feel free to ask their help.” Looking first to one side then the other, the judge silently asked his partners on the bench if they had anything to add. When two head-shakes had been received, he nodded and turned to the prosecution table. “Mr. Weitz?”
The opening argument of the state’s attorney lasted for nearly an hour. It was offered in the low-key style that would come to be associated with David Weitz, but was as emotion-packed in content as its presentation was straight.
The prosecutor began with the premise that Derek Bradley, in a cool and premeditated act, had kidnapped his former lover, Greta Robinson, with the intent of punishing her for spurning him and forcing a return of her affections. He went on to paint the defendant as a self-centered man, a man of inherited wealth, who had come to believe that his power was boundless, that his will was the law. He cited witnesses who would testify not only to the facts of the case but to Derek Bradley’s arrogance, his selfishness, his tyrannical personality. And he suggested that, after days of emotional torture in an isolated cabin, Greta Robinson was scarred for life.
When he’d concluded his opening presentation, the judge called a fifteen-minute recess and disappeared with his colleagues into their chambers. The jury was led down to the first-floor jury room, where coffee and doughnuts were served.
Abby took a chair by herself, deep in thought, neither terribly thirsty nor particularly hungry. She was amazed at how simple he’d made Bradley’s action sound, how clear-cut, how wrong. Had a vote been held at that very minute she would surely have found Derek Bradley guilty. But there was still another side to hear, she told herself, and this was just the opening argument.
“I can’t get you any coffee?” Ben asked, bending over her chair, his hand on its back.
Startled from her thoughts, she looked up quickly. “Coffee? Uh…no, no, thanks.”
“It’s good coffee.” He tried temptation as he settled down beside her. Leaning forward with his elbows propped on his thighs, he balanced his own cup between his palms.
Abby smiled begrudgingly. “I think I’ve got enough adrenaline surging through these veins to forgo the caffeine. It’s not good for you, you know…caffeine. Does a job on the pancreas…among other things.”
Ben shot her a glance as he took a deliberate sip from his cup. “So they tell me,” he murmured in amusement. “Is the nurse a crusader?”
“This is the woman speaking…and I’m certainly no crusader.” She gave a pert shrug. “Feel free to drink whatever you want.” Then she paused to watch him swirl the cup, lift it to his lips, scowl, and lower it again without so much as a sip, and she stifled a smug grin. “I’ll bet you down plenty of that stuff when you’re working to finish a manuscript.”
His gaze was enigmatic. “A manuscript?”
She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I keep coming up with China…was that it?”
“…It was.”
Hearing the hesitation in his voice, Abby eyed him quizzically. “You seem disturbed. Is something wrong?”
“No…Not really. I’m just…surprised. That book wasn’t exactly a best-seller.”
“Andre seemed to think it was great.”
“Who’s Andre?”
“A friend.”
“A fiancé type of friend?” he asked, a bit of the old humor returning.
Abby couldn’t help but chuckle. “No. A friend type of friend. He owns a bookstore, and I happened to be around when your books first arrived. I got the impression that they sold well.”
“China’s an ‘in’ topic.” He shrugged. But he’d straightened in his seat and was far from nonchalant.
“Don’t tell me your book is a travelogue,” she teased.
“No.” He seemed hesitant to discuss it though, somehow uncomfortable.
“Well…” she prodded softly, allowing curiosity to get the better of her.
Overcoming reticence, he spoke at last. “It’s an analysis of transitional politics in the People’s Republic. China has fascinated me for years. When the opportunity to visit it finally came up, I knew that I’d have to write the book.” It was as though he were excusing himself. Abby couldn’t understand it.
“That’s great, Ben. You must be proud of the book. Was it your first?”
“First significant one…yes.”
“Have you written others since?”
“One other.”
Her eyes lit up. “Finished?”
“Uh-huh.”
There was something that wasn’t being said. She could see it in the depths of his eyes, feel it in his quiet intensity. While she waited expectantly, he sat perfectly still.
Suddenly the wheels of her mind fell into gear and began to turn. Yesterday morning, here in this same jury room, they’d shared something none of the others had felt. It had been a mutually favorable bent toward serving on this jury. Abby knew her reasons for welcoming the experience. As of this morning, Ben knew them too.
But as yet the tables hadn’t been turned. She was still in the dark as to his motives. Now…to learn he was a writer…She stared at him with growing awareness. Could he…would he…
At that moment, the break was declared over, and the jurors stood to file back upstairs. “Ben…?”
A long forefinger touched his lips as he signaled her to silence. “Later,” he murmured, guiding her before him, out into the hall toward the stairs. Hopelessly immersed amid the others, Abby had to be satisfied with the quiet promise.
Back in the courtroom, David Weitz put on his first witness, a woman who testified to having seen the abduction. It had been dusk. She’d been driving home from work when she’d seen a man step smoothly from his parked car and grab the arm of a passing woman. There had been an argument, then a tussle. The man had finally pulled the woman around the car to the driver’s side and had forced her in before slipping in himself and driving off.
On direct examination, the witness identified photographs of the victim, Greta Robinson. She also described the assailant as a man of the same height, weight, and build as Derek Bradley but could go no further toward a positive identification since the man she’d observed had been wearing a wool hat and tinted glasses and his parka collar had been pulled to his ears. She admitted to having shrugged off the incident as a domestic feud…until she’d seen photographs of the missing woman in the newspaper several days later.
Abby listened intently to the testimony. One question at a time was asked of the witness, and only the simplest answer was allowed. It was a slow and painstaking process, but the state’s attorney was determined to do it right.
Under cross-examination by defense counsel, the witness was treated less kindly. Was she sure there had been an argument? How could she tell, if her car was several lengths away and her windows rolled up against the February chill? Did she actually hear anything? Did the alleged victim struggle as she was being led to the driver’s side of the car? What did this struggle entail? It had been dusk; could she be sure that she’d identified the victim correctly? And the defendant—how could she discern his build through his parka? What color had his parka been? Could she be sure that it was Derek Bradley she’d seen? Could she be absolutely sure?
The tone of the session had risen in pitch with the defense’s cross-examination. If David Weitz was generally soft-spoken, William Montgomery was his fiery counterpart. By the time the witness had been dismissed and the court recessed for lunch, Abby had had a taste of the challenge she and her fellow jurors faced.
As she’d only suspected earli
er, facts that seemed crystal clear one minute were easily clouded the next with the introduction of a second side, a second point of view. Despite oaths to tell “the whole truth and nothing but,” there were any number of different perceptions and interpretations of the truth. This was what the jurors would have to wade through before their own ordeal was over.
If Abby had hoped to gain courage from Ben during the ninety-minute lunch break, she was to be disappointed. For he was somehow separated from her during the walk downstairs, and she found herself eating lunch with Patsy and Louise.
All three were subdued, as indeed were the others. With the morning’s testimony fresh in their minds, there was much to consider, little to discuss. The meal was brought in to the jury room and was a soup-and-sandwich-to-go affair that would set precedent for the days ahead. The room itself—the same one in which Abby had sat yesterday, the same one to which the jury had been brought first thing this morning, the same one in which their break had been held earlier—was T-shaped, with straight wooden chairs, side to side, lining every wall, and a large central table on which the food was set.
An Irresistible Impulse Page 5
