His gaze scanned the room, landed briefly on Cynthia, widened with recognition, then moved swiftly away.
“Before we begin the selection process, I would ask if there are any among you who don’t feel you are either qualified or able to serve.”
Some in the group shifted or squirmed in their seats, but said nothing. Using the heel of one foot, she pushed the red satchel further underneath her section of the bench. Lips held snug together, she willed her cheeks not to flush.
The man provided a compelling argument. In fact, he made the idea of jury duty sound downright appealing. What else could she learn from him?
After a few seconds of silence, he went on. “That’s refreshing, you’re all willing. Now as your number is called, please rise and take a seat, possibly a temporary seat, in the jury box.”
For the next hour or so, individuals were summoned forward to be questioned by all or a combination of the judge and attorneys for both sides. Following that, some were asked to stay, with others being told they were free to go. Every once in a while questions drew answers that resulted in more questions, until more personnel populated the jury box than remained outside of it.
Though Cynthia did remain alert, listening for the number she’d been assigned, for the most part, the proceedings held little interest for her. Except whenever Judge Jonah Colt spoke. Or she was able to take a quick glimpse of him when his attention was occupied elsewhere.
“But we—”
The drone of voices suddenly grew louder and more distinct. One of the lawyers, and or his actions, had earned him the wrath of the judge.
“Is there some part of my question I failed to make clear, Mr. Johnson?”
“No, but we—”
“The word no is sufficient.”
“But we—.” When the bald-headed counselor began to sputter a protest for the third time, even the stern faced bailiff stepped forward. A slight hand movement from the judge stopped him.
Judging—she smiled at the pun—by snippets of the exchange, Judge Colt didn’t feel the court appointed attorney was properly prepared for trial.
Finally, Judge Colt raised one hand. “Approach the bench.”
It was hardly necessary to hear the actual words used. Deep furrows in his brow and dark eyes that sparked with anger told everyone the man meant business.
After barely a moment, stiff legged and red faced, the lawyer returned to his seat. And didn’t move a muscle as the judge continued to speak. “In light of the new developments in this case and given the seriousness of its outcome, I grant a two week postponement. I would advise you, Mr. Johnson, to cease your slip-shod tendencies and get your act together by then.” Anger flashed a second time. “A nice touch might be to get to know your client’s name and the charges filed, because, I must warn you, my patience has been tested. It would not be in your best interest to push your, but more importantly your client’s, luck.”
His expression softened as he regarded others in the room. “I won’t detain the rest of you any longer. This current pool of jurors is excused from further obligation with the court’s thanks.”
Excused from further obligation.
Those were the words he’d used. Which meant she, Cynthia Buckingham, was free to go. No longer legally required to be present in this courtroom, this courthouse. Now or in the future.
Zippity-doo-dah.
Before she knew it, Judge Colt banged the gavel once, nodded to the bailiff, then stood to swiftly exit the courtroom. And Cynthia’s life.
Chapter Four
The Athens Lake Country Club was legendary for its distinguished style and glamorous ambiance. A coveted site of ultra-extravagant events attended by the local social elite. As the current setting for the annual Friends of the Children Charity Ball, tonight was no different.
A wide winding staircase rimmed by ornate mahogany banisters and covered in plush maroon carpet, led visitors from a high ceilinged entryway to an elegant ballroom.
Climbing to the second floor with the latest wave of attendees, Jonah greeted those he knew with a polite word or handshake. Those he didn’t received a courteous nod. Conversations were going on everywhere. An indistinct maze of noise so loud, he wondered if anyone could actually hear what anyone else was saying.
The dimly lit ballroom was a mix of sparkling crystal chandeliers, lavishly set tables and two large, fully stocked bars. One at each end. From somewhere deep inside the cavernous room, continuous strains of harp and piano music emerged.
Jonah stepped to one side. The place was wall to wall people, a veritable collection of doyens and honchos, standing damn near shoulder to shoulder. With flutes of expensive champagne held aloft by most as they collected in small groups to engage in polite and superficial conversations.
Women were decked out in lavish sequined, satin or chiffon gowns in a range of colors from the drabs of gray and beige to the brights of crimson, lavender and blue. In contrast, their male escorts were all clad in laughably identical black tuxedo jackets. Much like the one clinging to Jonah’s shoulders.
He’d venture to say there were enough precious gems hanging from various necks and earlobes to stock a jewelry store.
Suddenly, the mass of voices rose up to create an unbelievable roar. Like a battalion of fully armed tanks revved up to clamber forward and crush whatever had the misfortune to stand in its path.
Hands at his sides, Jonah froze, images of a different day exploding inside his head.
A remote area deep within the unofficial combat zone, where he and a cadre of other weary fighters were being evacuated by helicopter to relative safety in a more politically correct area of the war torn country. Below them, so many innocent villagers he and the others had risked their lives for, were being left to fend for themselves.
Though he fought against it, the strife and chaos closed around him. The thick smell of fuel exhaust, the putrid aroma of human sweat and despair. The whomp, whomp, whomp of chopper blades mixed with screams of urgency and the faraway echo of gunfire.
None of those leaving wanted to think about the fate of the civilians they were forced to abandon.
Whack!
Jonah’s eyes flew open. His body jerked upright and it was all he could do to remain still, appear calm, and not crouch to assume the combat ready position. A subconscious survival instinct seared into his psyche so very long ago.
With his gaze clear, he tracked the sound that had snapped him back to the overcrowded room. A door had slammed against the wall to his right. An emerging waiter in black slacks, red cummerbund and white shirt swung a drink laden tray up to balance on one arm. Entering the ballroom, he weaved his way through the assembled throng.
On a deep breath, Jonah walked over to one side of the entrance where a drinking fountain stood. Depressing the metal switch, he bent over more to quiet the thrashing memories than to take a drink.
“Excuse me. Are you almost done?”
“What?” His eyes widened at the vaguely familiar voice.
“The fountain. Are you done with it?”
“Oh sure. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
She edged slightly sideways to get around him. When he finally straightened to move away, he was ready as he’d ever be to take on the evening. And could only hope his outward expression gave no hint of the turmoil that had raged within him.
“Joooooooooonah!”
For a second time his gaze snapped into focus as Mitzi Harrington, doyen extreme, clad in shocking pink wended her way toward him.
“Dah-ling! Don’t you dress up nice.” Her voice lowered to suggest intimacy as she drew nearer. “And oh so very sexy.”
A hand sporting lengthy fingernails heavily coated in more bright pink crawled up his tuxedo covered arm. Lathered lips pulled back from sparkling white teeth. An action scene from some shark attack clip flashed across his mind.
Grabbing hold of her wrist, he stopped the assault before those advancing talons came close to the area she s
eemed to be aiming at, the back of his neck.
He slapped on a smile. “Mitzi. It’s been quite a while.”
Just not quite long enough.
There was no way he could bring himself to ask how she’d been. When it came to this woman, he truly didn’t care.
Making sure he returned the captured hand to her side before letting go, he went for a less personal comment. “Nice party this group puts on.”
“It’s been a very, very long while, Jonah. I’ve missed you.”
As she slid closer, he backed away. “Life is busy.”
“Too busy to respond to my many dinner invitations?”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Having your assistant call to decline for you doesn’t count as a response in my book.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” But not sorry I did it.
Once and only once, he bit on one of those so-called dinner invitations of hers. It wasn’t until after he arrived, expecting a quiet evening with friends, he found a table set for two and no husband in sight.
He might be a lot of things. Home-wrecker wasn’t among them.
With finesse that surprised even him, he garnered two flutes of champagne from a passing tray then offered one to Mitzi with a head nod not meant to charm, only soften what he had to say next.
“You have a husband to share your dinners.” The resolve in his voice left her with no choice but to drop the subject.
“This gown Trenton bought me cost more than some people’s automobiles.” She avoided eye contact as she addressed him.
Not something I’d be proud of; no doubt you are.
He surveyed the tight-fitting sequined concoction. “Looks nice on you.”
God help him, that was no lie. After all, he wasn’t dead yet. No matter that by all odds he should be, given the number of insurgent strikes he’d survived. The woman had one hell of a nice ass. Good for one thing anyway. If you didn’t mind the emptiness of the heart and soul attached to the body.
She lifted the champagne to those heavily glossed lips. “Ooooh. It never fails. The bubbles do tickle.”
“Isn’t that part of the appeal?”
“You could say so.” The glass she lowered held a rosy smear on its rim. “So what’s keeping you busy these days?”
“Mitzi. There you are.”
Saved, before he had to come up with another damned platitude.
As if in answer to a fervent prayer, the husband walked up to attach a firm hand of possession to his wife’s elbow, then turned to smile at Jonah.
“Trenton. How’s business?” Shifting the champagne flute to his left hand, Jonah offered his right.
“Funny you should ask, Judge. There’s a case coming up that I have a particular interest in.” A hand came out to punch Jonah’s arm. “If you get my drift.”
Nothing like ditching any and all polite formalities.
Jonah stiffened while years of practice kept a tolerant smile in place. “It’s the week-end, Trenton. Not a time for talking business.”
“I’m not talking fancy or illegal.” The other man laughed. “Just askin’ if you'd like to talk to whoever might be—”
Pleasant expression intact, Jonah interrupted. “How about I pretend I didn’t hear what you just said.” And refrain from having your sorry ass hauled off to jail.
The Adam’s apple on a skinny throat bobbed. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Perception, Trenton, is a dicey thing. Especially in the profession I’m in.”
“Don’t tell me half you guys don’t take bribes.”
Jonah’s gaze flicked to one side of the man’s neck. And the exact spot a little well placed pressure would render him unconscious. “Okay. I won’t. Nice talking to you.”
With a head nod, more for any possible audience than courtesy, Jonah walked away. Not really hearing, nor caring what might have been mumbled his way.
Now he remembered exactly why he hated these things so much. Damned pseudo-socializing affairs. And there’s a whole half hour or so to endure before dinner.
Glancing down at the long stemmed glass he still held, he unclenched his jaw and paused to down a huge gulp. Then his head lowered to stifle a choke as the prickly liquid sprayed up to burn the inside of his nose and make his eyes water. This stuff was meant for sipping, not knocking back.
Unwilling to allow his righteous anger to completely ruin the evening, and not sure where, exactly he intended to go, Jonah strolled toward a far end of the room in search of anything to capture his interest.
All he found was one of many deep cherry-wood bus carts spaced along the walls with pans of dirty silverware and plates tucked discreetly into their shelves. Large cork lined trays on top were beginning to collect discarded glassware. Some still partially full, most drained dry, like the one he set there as he passed.
Next year, he’d write a check for two or three times the price of dinner and stay home. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened considerably at the decision. For now though, a trip to the men’s room would give him something to do. If nothing else, it might be nice to wash his hands.
Considering how pathetic that the highlight of this evening would be time spent in the public john, he turned toward the exit. And damned near landed on his face he stopped so fast.
Though he hadn’t seen her in a couple of days, her image had never left his mind. A smile emerged as his gaze came to rest on the attractive and intriguing woman from his recent past, talking to someone he couldn’t identify. Mostly because his full attention remained on her. Even with the dimmer lighting—ambiance or whatever the hell they called it—her dignified beauty enthralled him.
One good thing his mind had done for a change.
Her simple cocktail dress of light brown lace had a scoop neck, short sleeves and—his gaze slid down the appealing form—an even shorter hem. Damn but the woman did such great things for a pair of nylons.
Though he’d enjoyed their short chat in the hallway, when she appeared in his courtroom a short time later a strong sense of ethics kept him from looking up her name and address.
No such restrictions now.
Given that they’d informally met before, simple social etiquette dictated he acknowledge her presence. Share some harmless conversation. At least that was the bill of goods he sold himself as he made his way over.
But, then again, she might be waiting for a husband or whoever she’d arrived with.
Thinking back to their time at the courthouse, he tried to recall a ring on her left hand and found his usually sharp powers of recall lacking.
Whatever her current status, he’d take his chances. Whoever she’d been conversing with had moved on to someone else. She was beginning to walk away. He had to say or do something or she’d be swallowed up by the crowd of glitterati.
He couldn’t allow that to happen.
For all intents and purposes, she seemed to be alone as she headed toward one of the bars and took a seat once she got there.
“Nice stuff, huh?” From out of nowhere, a man pushed hard against Jonah’s left shoulder; bringing the thick smell of liquor with him. “I’ve been watching her for a while now myself.”
He acted as if they were some sort of perverted twosome. Without comment, as a hand went to push off his sleeve, Jonah stepped away, making him miss.
The drunk’s attempt to stand up straight came with a wayward sway. “I’m goin’ in, coach.”
After a few unsteady steps, he slithered up to her then said something Jonah couldn’t hear. When her head jerked around, a look of question became concern that bordered on alarm. The guy tried to take the hand she yanked out of his reach, and Jonah shot forward.
“... asked if you wanted to dance.” Leaning into her, the intruder made a second attempt to grab her wrist.
Jonah grabbed his first. “The orchestra’s not here until later.” Still hanging on, and bending the ensnared arm at its elbow, Jonah gave him a mild shove backwards. “Bu
t, my guess is she isn’t going to be interested then either.”
When she stood then shifted behind him, Jonah pressed his body into the side of the bar to form a stronger barrier for her.
“Hey, I just—”
“And I’m pretty sure this guy—” Jonah indicated the lone bartender who, with no other customers waiting, made a production of washing glasses. “—isn’t going to serve you anything more to drink.”
Taking Jonah’s cue, the kid looked up. “My supervisor will have to—”
“Make the decision to quit serving. I got it. Which I have no doubt will be a no-brainer.” He aimed the drunk toward the exit. “So I think you’d better just leave quietly. How about it?”
“I was going to anyway.” Head high, old blotto allowed himself to be pushed once more from behind before he teetered off. “Bet she’s a lousy dancer at that.”
The inevitable handful of gawkers, some subtle some not, lost interest and re-entered their lapsed conversations. Elbows resting on the surface of the bar, Jonah clasped his hands together and hung on as the adrenaline rushed his heartbeat up to roar in his ears.
Once again ready for battle, his alert gaze swept the horizon for evidence of more enemy presence. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror directly across, he forced the taut muscles of his face to unwind, ragged breathing to slow.
Coming to stand beside him, she closed her eyes and lowered her chin to let out a shaky breath. “It goes without saying, you are my newest hero.” Her voice remained tense and, whether consciously or not, she inched closer Jonah’s way.
“Not a hero.” He opened with that, then had to concentrate on taking his next breath. “Just doing what anyone else would do.”
“But didn’t.”
He agreed with a shrug. “Jerks like that deserve to be shot.” Or dealt with by the quickness of a trained hand.
“So, if I want to call you a hero. I’ll call you a hero.” As she looked over to study him, remnants of fear lingered in her eyes until recognition rose up to overcome it. “Why Judge Colt. It’s nice to see you again.”
Only If You Dare Page 3
