Читать книгу Trial Courtship - Laura Abbot - Страница 8
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
NOT ALL OF THE JURORS had seemed enthusiastic, but Andrea had been delighted when someone suggested they eat together and get acquainted. She sat at a long table between a pleasant African-American woman named Shayla Brown and Dottie Dettweiler, a grandmotherly lady with the wrinkled face of a crafts fair apple-head doll.
Dottie, looking to Andrea for reassurance, fingered the menu nervously. “I hope we’ll be finished before Thanksgiving. My kids and grandkids are coming, and I’ve got lots of baking to do.”
“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?”
She’d led herself right into that one. “Yes. You?”
“First, and I hope last. I don’t have time for this.”
“You must be a very important man.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I’m busy, too. We all are. But, as citizens, we need to make time.”
He kicked a bottle cap out of his way. “I agree, but the timing for me right now couldn’t be worse.”
She laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”
He stopped and looked intently at her. “So am I. But maybe not as sorry as I was a few minutes ago.”
“What do you mean?”
He covered her hand with his. “A few minutes ago I hadn’t met Andrea Evans.”
Andrea felt his hand squeeze hers just before they separated and entered the courthouse.
IN THE SECOND ROW, Tony leaned back in the less-than-comfortable chair, undoubtedly designed to keep bored jurors attentive or at least upright. The judge was explaining trial procedures and rules of evidence. Pretty standard stuff, although several of his fellow jurors frowned in concentration. Fortunately he’d had time at the restaurant to call the office and explain his situation to Wainwright, who, to Tony’s relief, had simply said, “I know you’ll do what needs to be done about your work.”
Since he was stuck in this jury box, maybe be could try to relax and make the best of the experience. And that definitely included a perusal of Andrea Evans, seated to his right in the front row. Light from a ceiling fixture rested on the tendrils of honey-blond hair that curled loosely at her shoulders. She hunched forward, taking notes on a pad the bailiff had provided. He could see only the curve of her cheek, but he had no trouble recalling the perfect peaches-and-cream complexion and the big blue eyes she’d turned on him outside. She came across as both fragile and determined. An interesting contrast. He admired her for taking the bigoted Swenson to task, but damned if he knew why he’d gone out of his way to meet her. Bull, you know exactly why. You like her.
The judge’s voice droned on, defining the differences among the various degrees of murder and manslaughter. Andrea was really into this jury thing. He’d watched her all morning, nodding in agreement with the judge, now scribbling fast and furiously. She reminded him of one of those red-white-and-blue-sequin-clad chorines strutting across the stage bare-legged belting out “It’s a Grand Old Flag.”
His amusement faded to acute physical discomfort when he realized what the image of a scantily dressed Andrea Evans had done to him. Clearly he’d been immersed in business too long if one attractive woman could have such a powerful effect.
Beside him, the redhead—what was her name? Arnelle something—drummed her fake fingernails on the armrest. She smelled like the bottom of an ashtray, and if she kept up the castanet action, he’d be forced to throttle her.
Finally, the judge stopped speaking. The attorneys fixed their attention on the bailiff who led in a slightly built teenager dressed in blue corduroy slacks, a white shirt a size too small and a crimson tie. Huge brown eyes dominated his pale face as he stared, like a terrified rabbit, around the courtroom. Jeez, he’s just a boy. Tony pushed that sentiment aside. He was just a boy cleaned up, groomed to look like a solid citizen and quite capable of firing a gun. Dressed in dark clothing with a stocking cap pulled over his short, sandy hair and holding a revolver, he would look convincingly menacing.
The judge glanced at the lead prosecutor. “Ready with your opening arguments, Mr. Bedford?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” The portly young man picked up his legal pad and stepped to the attorneys’ podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on behalf of the state, thank you for being here. We appreciate the inconvenience this trial has caused you, but feel certain you will exercise your obligation conscientiously.
“The state alleges that this defendant, one Darvin Ray—” he pointed an accusatory finger at the youth “—did, on the night of January 14, with malice aforethought, shoot and fatally wound Angelo Bartelli. The prosecution will present evidence of motive and opportunity. In addition, we will furnish testimony that places the accused at the scene of the crime and links him to the murder weapon.
“Undoubtedly the defense will attempt to prey upon your sympathies, citing the age and lack of criminal record of the accused. However, none of that matters now to Mr. Bartelli. It is he, his widow and children whom you must hold foremost.
“After we present our case, I am confident that the bulk and nature of the evidence will remove any question of reasonable doubt and lead you to the only possible verdict—guilty as charged. Thank you.” He paused, making eye contact with several jurors, then returned to his seat.
When the defense attorney rose, Tony watched Andrea flip to a new page in her notebook, then sit with her pencil poised.
Dressed in a tailored navy suit, the petite flftyish brunette, using different words, also thanked the jurors before launching into her argument. “The prosecutor would have you believe this trial is a mere formality, that their evidence is so overwhelming you will have little, if anything, to deliberate. They will try to convince you my client is a troublemaker with a history of behavioral problems, instead of the bright, responsible young man he is.
“They have told you my client had motive, opportunity and a weapon. They—” she glanced skeptically at the prosecutors “—would have you believe it’s all over but the shouting.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you permit them to plant such an image in your minds from the very outset of this trial, you will have done Darvin Ray and the judicial process a grave disservice.”
She moved closer to the railing of the jury box. Tony liked her natural-looking, makeup-free face, the power of conviction burning in her eyes. He made a mental note. She wasn’t the defendant; the kid, with clasped hands and bowed head, was.
“The defense will prove that Darvin Ray is not a criminal, that, in fact, he is himself a victim. We will show that the defendant was maliciously used by another person and framed for the unfortunate murder of Angelo Bartelli.
“Look at him—” she gestured with her arm toward the defendant, then waited while the jurors studied the frightened teen. “How in God’s name can we incarcerate a young man whose future lies before him for a crime he did not plan and, most assuredly, did not commit?”
She turned back to the jury, her hands folded in front of her. “In good conscience, we cannot. It is my job to convince you that in accusing my client of this crime, a terrible injustice has been done. It is my job to provide the evidence you need to acquit Darvin Ray and give him back his future. A job I take very seriously.” She stood for a moment, then uttered a quiet “Thank you.”
Tony was used to the rhetoric of persuasion, and this lady was pretty dam good. But she’d have to be able to do more than talk.
The state called its first witness, the homicide detective in charge of the case. He gave details about the police’s notification, the securing of the crime scene, the names and positions of other officials who were there and verified the identity of the deceased.
At four-forty, the judge, after listening to Ms. Lamb stipulate some facts regarding the investigation, adjourned the court until nine o’clock the following morning.
Tony leaped to his feet and buttonholed the bailiff, who, after what seemed an inordinately long time, returned his laptop and cellular phone with an admonition to leave them at home from now on.
Hurrying out of the courtroom, Tony dialed the office on his cellular, reaching Barry Fuller after a few moments. He stopped in the corridor, leaned against the wall and reeled off a list of documents he wanted Barry to gather for them to look over tonight. After disconnecting, he lurched upright and strode toward the elevator, passing the pay phone where Andrea was engrossed in a conversation. Just as he stepped into the elevator, he heard “Hold it, please,” and spotted Andrea running toward him, her arms full of books. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She looked as good from the front as she did from the rear.
She turned a dazzling smile on him. “Thanks.” The car started its descent. “Wasn’t today fascinating?” She seemed to have as much energy now as she’d had at lunch.
“I don’t know that I’d go that far,” he murmured dryly.
“I have to pay close attention to catch everything, but the process, I mean—it’s interesting.”
“Interesting...and time-consuming.”
“But,” her lips quirked coyly, “important.”
“Important,” he agreed, while in his head he could almost hear the band playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
BACK AT THE OFFICE, while he looked over the papers in his In box and waited for Fuller, Tony checked his answering machine. Routine stuff, until he heard the whiskey-rough voice of his father. “Hey, big shot, it’s your old man. I need to talk with you. Soon. Spend your nickel.” Tony frowned in irritation. Rarely did a call from his father signal good news. Better just get the conversation over with. Reluctantly, he dialed the number. The phone rang five times before his father picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s Tony.”
“’Bout time. I called this morning. Where ya been?”
“Jury duty.”
“That’s my kid. Always the model citizen, huh?”
Tony felt the familiar tightening in his chest. Would the world end if the man gave him a compliment?
His father continued. “What kinda case?”
“Murder.”
“Ooh, nothing but the best for my important son.”
“What do you want, Pops?”
“Can’t a father just chat with his son? Enjoy an...exchange of information?”
“Such as?”
“How’s that fancy job of yours comin’ along?”
“Fine.”
“That’s it?”
“What else should I say?”
“Aw, the hell with it.” He paused and Tony could hear him sipping and swallowing. “Your cousin Denny won the plant bowling tournament.”
“Tell him congratulations for me.”
“You got Thanksgiving plans?”
Here it comes. The invitation to hole up in that double-wide and watch parades and ball games while dear old Dad gets wasted. As a kid, Tony had dreaded holidays. No family gathered for a loving, bountiful feast. No laughter. No hugs. Just his father’s descent into the bottle. Despite the help Tony had offered through the years, some things never changed. “I’m working.”
“Big shot can’t even take a day off?”
His father knew all about “sick” days. “Let’s get to it, Pops. What exactly is the purpose of this call?”
“I need a loan.”
No surprise there. “The ponies let you down?”
His father hawked into the phone. “Little streak of bad luck.”
“How bad?”
“A grand.”
“I’ll send you five hundred.” Tony had learned the hard way about his father’s padded figures. “How soon do you need it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He’d get to the bank during lunch.
After hanging up, Tony stood, drawing deep, punishing breaths. So help me God, he promised himself, if I ever have kids of my own, I’ll bust my ass taking care of them, loving them, so they never feel about me the way I do about my father. The father who, no matter what, had stubbornly refused his son’s many attempts to get him into treatment.
Easing back into his chair, Tony buried his head in his hands and studied the thick Cyberace file on his desk. His secretary’s research was thorough. Each bio was three or four pages. On top was Rodney Steelman’s. Class of 1950, Penn State. Marine lieutenant with a tour in Korea. MBA, Harvard, 1958. Ten years with IBM. Now he was getting to the good stuff—how an IBM company man bolted, started with little capital but a lot of contacts and built Cyberace into one hell of a software company.
“Ready for me?”
Tony glanced up. Lounging in the doorway and wearing an eager smile was Barry Fuller, Princeton ‘92; MBA, Stanford. “Sure, c’mon in.” Barry was a good man, bright, thorough, ambitious, willing to learn. But—Tony succumbed to a moment of doubt—untried and overconfident. No matter what his flaws were, Tony needed him. And this negotiation was a great opportunity for the kid. Fuller uncoiled himself, entered the office and, carefully pulling at his trouser creases, sat down. “Man, this jury thing is really bad timing for you. How can I help?”
Tony outlined the tasks to be done, suggested some reallocation of personnel and then asked Barry if he felt comfortable spearheading the preparation while Tony was in court.
“Yes, sir, I do. I know things will come up that I can’t handle, but I’m not afraid to ask questions. Besides, I’ll be in touch with you every day, and I’m planning on being available nights and weekends as long as you need me.”
“I’m counting on it.” Tony picked up the bio file. “So let’s get started.”
Fuller scooted his chair forward, placed his legal pad on the edge of the desk and, as Tony outlined their strategy, began taking notes.
ANDREA SPRINTED TO CATCH the outbound Rapid Transit. She struggled down the aisle, juggling her purse and books as the commuter train slid away from the terminal. With relief, she sank into one of the few vacant seats. Though exciting, in many ways the day had been exhausting. Meeting people was nothing new; being in the retail business, she was used to it, but the careful listening was hard work. Especially with so much at stake! Still, she was reassured by the judge’s thorough explanations and by the fact most of her fellow jurors seemed to take their responsibilities seriously, except maybe for Chet and Arnelle and...she couldn’t tell about Tony Urbanski. At times he’d seemed preoccupied, detached.
But he had a winner of a smile.
And, in unguarded moments, an almost wistful expression. Listen to yourself. Manufacturing high drama about a virtual stranger. She allowed herself a slight chuckle. He was a very attractive virtual stranger.
She laid her head back on the seat. She hadn’t had much opportunity since the deaths of Tami and Rich to think about men. The suddenness of their loss had devastated the family, particularly Nicky. With the upheaval of moving into her sister and brother-in-law’s home and the radical adjustment both she and Nicky had had to make—were still making—her personal life had been subsumed. In the past few months, except for the rare date, she had been most decidedly out of the singles’ loop. She shook her head. Darn Tony Urbanski’s memorable eyes and engaging grin!
She struggled against a sudden, unbidden memory. John and the shock of his departure. She didn’t want to recall the pain and betrayal of discovering that the one man she’d thought she loved—her fiancé, for heaven’s sake—couldn’t handle her changed circumstances after Tami’s and Rich’s deaths. What kind of relationship couldn’t survive the addition of one small, heartbroken boy? Looking back, she wondered how she could ever have thought she knew John, much less loved him!
On the bright side, she was proud of the success she’d made of her store and the concept of combining the sale of children’s books with that of toys, clothes and other products related to familiar stories and poems. Yet there was lingering guilt that she’d had to use some of Tami’s and Rich’s assets as collateral for a bank loan.
The train rattled and bumped along the tracks. Outside, the smoke-begrimed brick of old warehouses and factories passed in a blur, slowly giving way to the fine old buildings and stately trees of the Heights area. When she’d called the shop during the afternoon recess, Phil had assured her the day had gone smoothly. She was lucky to have him, she thought, both as an employee and as a friend.
By the time she reached the Shaker Square station and climbed into her parked car, it was nearly dark. She’d made arrangements for Nicky’s grandparents, Claudia and Bert Porter, to pick Nicky up at school and keep him until she could swing by. As usual, they were delighted to spend time with him.
Why, even after all these months, couldn’t she shake the fear that one day they’d take Nicky from her? The Porters had not been happy to learn Tami and Rich had named her Nicholas’s guardian in their will. They’d stopped short of fighting her in court, but they took no pains to conceal their disappointment about not having custody of their grandson. She walked on eggshells around the two, and their disapproval settled heavily on her. It was as if they were just waiting for her to make a misstep.
It took ten minutes through heavy traffic to reach their imposing home on the southeast edge of Shaker Heights. The gardener was just loading his rakes into a dilapidated pickup when she pulled into the driveway. With the sunset, the air had turned chilly, and she hurried to the back door. Claudia, a denim apron covering her color-coordinated burgundy wool skirt and cashmere sweater, greeted her. “Hello, Andrea.” As usual she sniffed out the name. “You’re just in time. Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Dinner? All Andrea wanted to do was go home, nuke some leftover meat loaf and curl up on the sofa in her sweats, not sit stiffly in the Porters’ formal dining room engaging in stilted conversation and listening to Claudia remind Nicky about table manners as if he’d never had any instruction in the social graces. Her jaw ached. “Where’s Nicky?”
Claudia turned to the six-burner stove and began stirring the gravy. “Up in Richard’s bedroom with his grandfather.”
She should have guessed. Bert and Claudia had made a shrine of their only child’s room. She shrugged out of her coat and laid it carefully over the back of a kitchen stool. “I think I’ll go say hello unless there’s something I can help you with.”
Claudia’s spine straightened. “No, thank you. On your way upstairs, dear, would you please hang your wrap in the guest coat closet?”
Heaven forbid I clutter the spotless kitchen. Andrea escaped down the hall, the ritual offer of help having been refused, as always. What could an unmarried businesswoman who grabbed takeout on the way home from work possibly know about gourmet cooking?
She started up the stairs, caressing the timeworn carved oak bannister. On the fifth step she paused. As it always did, the large illuminated oil portrait of Rich as a college man, which hung on the wall of the landing, overwhelmed her. Dressed in a white sweater, he sat in the stern of a boat, his left hand casually holding the tiller, his curly black hair wind-tossed, his complexion glowing with a sailor’s tan. Each time she climbed these stairs, no matter what the angle, his dark, thoughtful eyes seemed to follow her. He had been a striking young man, and her sister Tami had been lost the first time she clapped eyes on him at a frat party her freshman year at Ohio State.
Andrea sighed, then continued toward the second floor. Despite the off-white walls, spacious airy rooms and tasteful, but understated furnishings, the house felt lifeless, as if it would be irreverent to laugh aloud. And this in a home that used to ring with the laughter of Rich and his friends. Ever since the accident, both Bert and Claudia, like the house itself, seemed different—empty, brittle, edgy.
From Rich’s old room, she could hear Bert’s deep voice. She approached and stood quietly in the doorway. Nicky perched on one of the twin beds, his hands clasped politely in his lap. His grandfather sat beside him holding a trophy between his knees. “...and this one your dad got when his Little League team won the championship. Do you remember what I told you about the double play he made against Creamfresh Dairy?”
Nicky nodded dutifully while Bert extolled Rich’s feats on the baseball diamond. Andrea took in the familiar room—done in a blue-and-red nautical theme. Model sailboats lined the long shelf over the beds and on the opposite wall a bookcase was crammed with additional trophies, framed certificates, a leather mitt molded through use to fit a youthful hand and a framed picture of Tami and Rich at a sorority dance. As if his mother had made a concession to youthful idiosyncrasies, on the far wall hung posters of Bruce Springsteen and the Rolling Stones. Not a cobweb or dust bunny anywhere.
“...so what do you think, son? Pretty impressive, huh?”
She could hardly hear Nicky’s mumbled, “Yes, Grandpa.”
Bert stood, studying the trophy in his hand, then crossed to the bookcase where he carefully replaced it before picking up the stained mitt. He looked at Nicky. “Pretty soon you can use this when you play ball.”
Nicky fidgeted, pinching the bedspread with his fingers. “Maybe.”
Bert replaced the mitt, then tousled Nicky’s hair. “That will be this spring, right?”
Nicky stared at the floor. “I guess.”
Determined to rescue her nephew, Andrea entered the room. “Gentlemen, ready for dinner?”
Bert peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Hello, Andrea. We didn’t hear you come in.” His tone made her feel like an unwelcome intrusion.
Nicky leaped off the bed and came to stand beside her, his arms around her waist. “Hi, Andie.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you have a good day at school?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Great. Let’s go downstairs and you can tell us all about it over dinner.”
After they were seated around the antique cherry dining room table, Claudia placed the pork roast, aromatic with garlic and rosemary, on the damask place mat in front of her husband. He dished up the servings, then passed a plate to each of them. Claudia ladled broccoli beside Nicky’s meat portion. He bit his lip and looked pleadingly across the table at his aunt.
“Your Mimi wants you to try her special recipe, Nicholas,” Claudia cajoled. “You and Andrea need to eat more vegetables.”
How would Claudia. know? Did she think they consumed nothing but greasy burgers and pizza? Nicky tolerated peas, beans and squash, but he hated broccoli. Andrea watched as he manfully shoveled a teaspoonful of the offensive green into his mouth, his jaws moving mechanically as he attempted to chew and swallow the stuff. She tried to divert Claudia. “The gravy is delicious.”
Claudia smiled smugly. “Thank you, my dear. Richard loved my gravy. Unfortunately your sister never mastered it.”
Bert set down his fork and cleared his throat. “Andrea, Claudia tells me you’re on a jury.” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively while he buttered his roll.
“Yes.” Why was it such a strain to conduct a conversation with these people? The three of them had loving Nicky in common, didn’t they? “It’s a murder case.”
Claudia’s fork clattered to her plate. “Oh, my.” She threw a nearly imperceptible nod toward Nicky as if Andrea had just brought up an objectionable topic.
For the first time since she’d arrived, Nicky’s face brightened. “Cool. Tell me about it.”
“Must we talk about it now?” Claudia frowned at Andrea.
“I wanna hear, Andie.”
“Actually, I’m not supposed to discuss the case itself. Mostly this afternoon we listened to the judge and the attorneys’ opening—”
“Nicholas, put your napkin back in your lap,” Claudia hissed, “and finish that broccoli. That’s a good boy.”
“How long do you think your jury duty will last?” Bert asked.
“I’m not sure, several days maybe.”
“I have a wonderful idea,” Claudia chimed in. “Nicholas can stay with us while you’re on jury duty. That way you won’t have to worry about him. Don’t you think that’s best, Bert?”
Andrea’s heart sank.
“...pack his things, and I could pick him up from school,” Bert was saying.
“Excuse me, but much as I appreciate your offer, I think it’s important for Nicky to continue with his normal routine.”
Bert turned to Nicholas expectantly. “What would you like to do, son?”
Nicholas flushed. “I...I don’t care.” He stared at Andrea beseechingly.
Andrea wiped her mouth with her napkin and tried to pull herself together. She would not be manipulated by these people. “No. Nicholas will stay with me although I’d appreciate being able to call on you for help. Now, while we finish this delicious dinner, why don’t you tell us about school, Nicky?”
Recognizing a reprieve, Nicholas picked up the verbal ball she’d tossed to him and began telling them about some new computer software the fourth grade was using in social studies. Andrea consciously slowed her breathing, unclenched her hands and picked at the pork roast, aware of the frozen expressions on the faces of her hosts.
“WHY DOES MIMI make me eat broccoli?”
Andrea maintained a neutral expression and concentrated on her driving. “Because it’s good for you.”
“Yuck. If I were God and was gonna make somethin’ good for kids to eat, it sure wouldn’t taste like that.”
“Well, you know how your grandmother is about her cooking.”
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his parka. “Yeah. But all she makes is grown-ups’ food. I bet she doesn’t even know how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“Why don’t you ask her sometime?”
He looked doubtfully at her. “Is peanut butter good for ya?”
She grinned. “Full of protein.”
“Then maybe I’D ask her.” He rode along silently for several blocks. Then he spoke again.
“Do I hafta play baseball?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Grandpa wants me to.” He was kicking the floorboard. “I don’t like baseball.”
Oh, boy. “Why not?”
Kick, kick. “I...I’m no good at it.”
“But you’ve never played.”
She barely made out his mumbled answer over the hum of the heater. “I wouldn’t be any good.”
“Nicky, you don’t know that.”
He raised his chin, and his voice was defiant. “Yes, I do. Everybody knows I can’t do sports. And don’t try to tell me I can.”
Oh, Lord. A reaction to Ben and the “weenie” comment? “Let’s wait and see. Maybe Grandpa and I can practice with you.”
In response, all she heard was the thud of more kicking.
A RAGGED VOICE SCREAMED into the gusting wind. “Dad! Dad!”
Bert windmilled his arms, struggling through the roiling waves, losing his footing in the sifting sands of the lake floor. “Hang on, I’m coming!” He half jogged, half swam toward the sound. Cold breakers, huge and powerful, beat him back, but he thrashed on.
“Bert!” Something hard—a piece of driftwood?—knocked against his shoulder. Again the cry. “Bert! Wake up!”
He fought onward toward...the red eye of the luminous dial on the bedside clock-radio, which read two-seventeen.
“Bert, are you all right?”
He pushed onto his elbows, struggling to free his legs from the tangled sheet. A cold sweat drenched his body. Shivering, he reached for the blankets at the foot of the bed. Finally, his respiration slowed. “Okay. I’m okay, now.”
Claudia turned on the bedside lamp. “Was it the dream again?”
Would he ever be free of it? “Yes.” He forced back the phlegm crowding his throat.
“Bert, it’s been eighteen months.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Are you sure you don’t need to see a profess—”
“No! I don’t want to hear any more about it. At least in the dream, I can see him, hear him....”
“It’s not good for you—”
“But I can’t reach him. God, I get so close.” His voice broke.
Claudia slipped out of bed and put on her robe. “I’ll bring you some warm milk. It’ll help you get back to sleep.” She glided from the room.
Sleep! He resisted it, feared it. Because no matter how hard he tried, how he willed it with every sinew in his body, he couldn’t bring Rich back. He threw an arm over his eyes and bit back a sob. His son. His only child. Gone.
After a few minutes, he sat up, leaned against the pillows and fixed his eyes on the familiar bedroom furnishings—the massive walnut armoire, Claudia’s dressing table, the built-in bookshelves. He concentrated on the normalcy of his surroundings. Yet the imprint of his son’s anguished face stared back at him everywhere he looked. God, if it weren’t for Nicholas, he didn’t know what he’d do. But he couldn’t spend time with Nicholas every day the way he’d be able to if his grandson lived here. He couldn’t oversee his upbringing. Couldn’t fill that empty space Rich used to occupy. It wasn’t Andrea’s fault, of course. She did her best, but, damn, it wasn’t the same as having Nicholas under the same roof.
Claudia eased open the door with her hip and backed into the room, carrying a tray. “Here we go.” She turned around and walked toward him, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Hot milk and graham crackers.”
“I’m not hungry.” Besides, he didn’t appreciate being treated like some small boy in a nursery, damn it.
“Now, Bert—” Claudia’s voice affected the patronizing tone of a nanny “—it’ll make you feel better.”
He waved the proffered mug aside. “Why can’t you understand, Claudia? Nothing is going to make me feel better.”
Eyeing him closely, his wife set down the mug and seemed about to say something critical when she apparently changed her mind and merely said, “Well, suit yourself, then. I’m going back to bed. Turn the light out when you’re ready.”
He couldn’t believe it. Within mere seconds, she was sound asleep. They simply didn’t understand each other any more. It baffled him that she had been able to go on so smoothly with her life, as if her son’s death were just another bump along life’s road instead of a cataclysmic upheaval. Most mothers would have disintegrated into grief, their lives forever altered. He couldn’t understand Claudia. Maybe denial was her way of coping, but it sure as hell wasn’t his.
He leaned over and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, he thought about Nicholas. At least he hadn’t forgotten Rich. But the lad seemed so sad, so unreachable.
If only he and Claudia had custody...
