The Trial of the Century

The Trial of the Century

I wake to my phone ringing, and a dark room, with a quick look at my

clock that reads 6:30 a.m. I answer without even looking at the number.

"Who died?

"You quoted me."

My eyes go wide. "Reese Summer?"

"You know my voice."

"Don't let that go to your head," I say, scooting up to lean on my

headboard. "Even if I hadn't been listening to you talk for two days now,

which I have, you're the only person I quoted. And before this goes any

further. You said, 'You can quote me on that,' twice, and so I quoted you."

"Yes. I did. I liked your insights."

"Because I said you were winning."

"Admittedly, that did help."

"Did you call to tell me I'm getting an interview?"

"If I say no, what will you write about me tomorrow?"

"The truth," I say, "just like I did today. I want to interview you and your

client, but I'm not a child who will throw a literary tantrum if I don't get

one. There will be another case. Another time. A little less coffee to fight

over."

"Yes. Coffee. I'll see you at the coffee shop in an hour."

He hangs up.

I lift the phone in the air and stare at it. Coffee. Reese. The mistakes I

could make because of how good he smells. The way he just ordered me to

show up. The way I have no idea the purpose of this meeting. I call him

back. "Hello, Cat," he greets me.

My name is like silk on his tongue.

I love it.

I hate it.

"Am I meeting you for an interview?" I ask.

"No."

"Then I'm not meeting you for coffee."

"Why?"

"One," I say, without missing a beat, "you didn't ask. I don't take orders.

Two, if I met you, you wouldn't know if I'm there for the interview or sex

or your stunningly humble personality. And I wouldn't know if you were

trying to sway my coverage. Three, even if you did ask, I would not say yes

until this trial frenzy was over."

I hang up, throw away the blanket, and twist around to settle my feet on

the floor. My phone rings. I answer again without looking at the number.

"Hello, Reese," I say, mimicking his greeting.

"I'll call. I'll ask. I'll impatiently wait until after the trial."

He hangs up.

He is making me crazy. He's making me want to know him.

I don't want to know him.

Only maybe I do.

I head to the bathroom and remind myself that there is a reason I just had

a six-month relationship with an artist. Powerful, money-hungry,

controlling men like Reese Summer are not my kind of guys. Then again,

neither are artists, since the whole live in the moment with no planning

thing drove me nuts, and no amount of sex, which the man called his

"creative outlet," could change that. But my newly crossed-out artist

boyfriend isn't the point. I've been here with a man like Reese, done this

simmering burn before, and I cannot forget how this plays out. The sex is

wild, the connection explosive, and then the crash and burn is hard, fast,

and painful.

I will not fall for Reese "Mr. Hotness" Summer.

Three hours later, I am dressed in a black pantsuit—meant to fight the

chill outside and inside the courtroom, which had everyone shivering the

afternoon before—and heading out the door. With plenty of time to spare,

and since that coffee date with Reese is on indefinite hold, I stop by the

coffee shop. I endure the line and grab my white mocha, hoping the earlier

hour will allow me to get a closer seat to the action. I fail miserably. I work

my way toward the front door and the picketers and the camera crews seem

to swell by the moment. My press pass is the only saving grace but I'm still

delayed entry into the courthouse. Once I'm finally inside the building, I'm

through security, and to the courtroom quickly. I'm also stuck in the back

row again, but just as I'm pulling my things from my bag, a security guard

steps beside me. "If you'll follow me, miss," he says, "I'll be relocating

you."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Not that I know of," he says, motioning me forward.

The next thing I know, I'm being shown to a seat just behind the families,

sitting with the high-powered television news media and not far from where

Reese is seated. The court is brought to order, and we all stand. The normal

order of events takes place and Reese and his counterpart do as they have

every morning: Approach the bench for some argument they are both

already making. When Reese turns back to walk to his table, his eyes land

on me, and while he shows no outer reaction, I feel the silent nod. The

confirmation that he put me in this seat. And I'm not sure how to feel about

it. Yes, I want the seat. Yes, I want an interview. But I don't want the sex for

an interview thing. That isn't who I am, and maybe this has gotten so far

out there with us that I just can't ask for an interview.

It's not a thought I hang on to for long, as Nathan Miles, the medical

examiner on the case, is called to the stand, where he proceeds to deliver a

convoluted testimony. The prosecution keeps him tied to the stand for

hours, and I take pages of notes, but find no proof in anything presented.

There is simply gore meant to drive the jury to convict. Come lunchtime,

Reese hasn't even been given the chance to cross-examine, though he's had

his share of objections.

The court dismisses everyone for an hour break, and I stand up, waiting

for the crowd before I can exit my row. I'm stopped dead in my tracks and

end up scanning the courtroom, where Reese remains by his table, and my

eyes lock with his, the instant punch of awareness between us something I

feel to my toes. My God. What am I doing with this man? Someone knocks

into me and bodies fill the space between us, breaking the connection but I

still feel it. I'm hot all over despite the courtroom being an icebox again

today, and I waste no time hurrying through the building to exit the front

door. Security has the picketers and the cameras pushed to one side, while a

pathway is clear for the rest of us humans. I walk down the dramatic

concrete steps and to my right, where there are food trucks parked. I'm

starving and I want to stop, but there are hordes of reporters everywhere. I

hurry away, take another two right turns, and head to a small park down the

way that is my secret courtroom escape.

Once I'm there, I'm free from the crowds, and I have food trucks and

even a bench when I'm ready to eat. I stop at a place that has candies and

nuts and order two bags of the latter.

Once I've paid, I turn around and walk straight into a hard chest. "Oh

God. I'm sorry. I—" I blink up and into Reese's eyes, that spicy scent of

him now becoming familiar. "How are you here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he says.

"You were behind me again, remember? I was trying to escape the

crowd." And suddenly I'm aware that my hand is on his chest. I pull back.

He catches my hip, his hands settling just under the hem of my jacket.

"Seems we were both trying to escape the crowd."

"Right. Of course." I hold up my bag. "Nuts?"

"No, but I really want to kiss you right now," he says, his voice a low

intense rasp, his eyes a simmering hot invitation.

"That would be a bad idea," I say, when I really want him to just do it.

Kiss me right now.

"Make your case, counselor."

"For the same reason your hand shouldn't be on my hip. We are most

likely being watched, and you're feeding your Mr. Hotness reputation."

His entire expression sharpens. "I hate that damn name," he says, his

hand sliding from my hip. "I need a hotdog. You want a hotdog?"

"No, but thank you," I say, making a point of showing off my manners.

His lips curve. "You're welcome, Cat. How was that for manners?"

"You're learning."

"Maybe I won't end up single and alone after all," he teases, before

motioning to a truck a half block down. "Walk with me."

I nod, and we fall into step together. "You're really getting a hotdog?"

"Yes. What's wrong with hotdogs?"

"I once worked for a concert venue, as a teen, of course, and the hotdogs

we were putting out were green before they were heated."

"I love concert hotdogs," he says.

"I don't even know what to do with that statement."

"Cover those dogs with mustard and relish, you won't know anything but

how good they taste." We stop at the truck and he glances at me. "You want

something else?"

"A bottle of water, please," I say.

Five minutes later, we're on the opposite side of the truck, on a bench just

inside the park, and out of easy view. "You don't seem like a hotdog kind of

guy," I comment, tossing some nuts in my mouth and watching him

devouring his lunch.

"I'm a Texas cowboy, sweetheart," he says. "Hotdogs around the

campfire at the ranch used to be gourmet."

"My brother lives in Texas, but he doesn't like hotdogs."

"Is he an attorney?"

"No. He hates the legal profession. He's an engineer and went to school

in Austin and just stayed. I thought your parents were law professors, not

ranchers? And yes, I read up on you."

"For the record, I looked you up as well, and yes. My parents are

professors. My grandparents owned the ranch. They passed and my younger

brother took it over a few years ago."

"How old is your brother?"

"Twenty-eight. And to be clear, this conversation is not an interview."

"I'm not a tabloid or even a scoop reporter," I say. "I write opinion pieces

and I've written a true crime novel, and have a second coming out in a few

months. I don't do this for money."

"Because your father is Mike Maxwell."

I arch a brow. "How do you know that?"

"I told you I checked you out." His lips curve. "I called Lauren."

"You called Lauren," I repeat. "That wouldn't surprise me if she would

have actually told me."

"It was right before court."

He was thinking about me right before court instead of his work. "And

what did she tell you?"

"Good luck."

My brow furrows. "Good luck?"

"She said I'd need it to get anywhere with you."

"She's right," I say, and quickly turn the topic back to him. "Why didn't

you run the ranch with your brother? That has to be a big job."

"I need more than horses and hay. He didn't, and I didn't miss how you

just deflected from you back to me."

"How old are you?" I ask.

"Thirty-five."

"Ever been married?"

"Never," he says. "Must be my bad manners, right?"

"Exactly," I say. "They say you can tell a lot about a man based on his

manners and his mother."

"So says my mother when she calls me three times a week, usually to

bitch about my father. They've been married forty years and hate each

other. I'm not inspired to fall in love. What about you? What's your story?"

"Thirty next month. Never married. If my mother was still alive, your

parents and mine could be best friends, based on what you just told me

about yours. And as for the interview, I don't want it anymore."

He crumples up his paper and tosses it into the trash before turning his

big body and the full force of his blue-eyed stare on me. "Why?"

"Okay, I do want it but I don't want it because you—we—whatever this

is that we're doing."

"Whatever this is wouldn't be happening if I thought that's why you

wanted the interview. You still have a job to do, and this case will be over

soon."

"You're going to move to dismiss, aren't you?"

"What would you do, counselor?"

"Move to dismiss, but there's pressure on the judge and cameras on the

court. It will be declined. But I'd then quickly establish another suspect,

point out that the lack of evidence just as easily points to that person, and

then move to dismiss again and quickly."

"Why aren't you practicing?"

"I never wanted to practice. It was just what was expected."

He studies me for several intense beats. "I have to get back to court, but

I'll call you for coffee and that kiss, sooner rather than later. For now." He

picks up my hand and kisses it. "I'll settle for that."

He stands up and leaves.

Hours later in court, the prosecution rests. There is a quick-held breath as

everyone waits to hear what the defense will do next. Will they move to

dismiss? And, of course, he does. But the judge declines his request. The

court is adjourned, and it's not long before there's a press conference

outside, put on by the prosecutor while the defense stays in hiding, most

likely preparing for tomorrow.

I stand on the sidelines and listen to what amounts to more of the

courtroom conversations. Hours of the blown-up nonsense, and I'm sad for

one reason. Right now, there will be no justice for a dead woman and her

unborn child.

Twenty minutes later, I'm in my favorite coffee shop, at my corner table,

heading to the bar to collect my order. It's then that I notice the prosecutor,

a tall, lanky man in a basic blue suit and tie, sitting alone at a table and

working on his MacBook. Seeing an opportunity, I walk up to his table.

He glances up at me. "Cat from Cat Does Crime," he says. "I was a fan

until you dogged my performance. I read your true crime on the Piaz

murders. It was good, but I'll write my own book on this. Move along. I'm

busy."

Okay.

Reese just lost his title. He's no longer Mr. Arrogant Asshole. This guy

stole it from him.

I walk back to my seat, sit down, and spend the next hour working on my

column. My closing statement is this: When you charge a suspect without

proof to satisfy the public, you disappoint that very public when you can't

deliver a conviction. But it's not just the public you fail. It's the charge when

you have proof, and not sooner. And so, I'm going to challenge the defense

to do more than protect their client. Give us the killer. Give that woman and

child, and their family, justice. Until then, —Cat.

I look up to realize that some time along the way, the new Mr. Arrogant

Asshole has left, and I grab my phone and dial Reese. His voice mail picks

up and I leave a message.

"Hopefully that hotdog didn't kill you and you get this message. Here is

my closing statement, which I'm not changing, but I want you to know

about it." I read it to his voice mail and then add, "Good night, Reese." I

end the call and pack up, heading back to my apartment.

As I enter the building, I stare at the fancy tiled floors and glance up at

the towering ceiling. I inherited my apartment when my mother died. It had

been her getaway. Her escape from my father, and he knew about it. I was

unsure what to do with that little piece of information when I found out

about it, but I tucked it away and pretended it didn't exist. Or I thought I

did. Now, tonight, something about that encounter with Reese has stirred

old feelings I don't want to feel, back to life. I don't even know what to call

the feelings. Betrayal. I'd felt betrayed when I realized nothing about my

life was exactly what I'd thought it to be. My parents were not happy.

And so I do what I do when I feel lost. I enter my luxury apartment, pour

wine, and find my way to my favorite spot. A claw-foot tub hugged by

windows, the moon and stars sparkling outside the window. I waste no time

running a hot bubble bath, stripping down, and climbing inside. I'm

halfway finished with my glass of wine when my phone rings. I glance at

the number I now know to be Reese's and, with wet, bubble-covered hands,

answer on speaker.

"Hello, Reese," I say.

"I'm going to tell you what I told Lauren, when I told her I was going to

pursue you."

"You told Lauren that you were—"

"Yes. I did. And she wished me luck. To which I replied: Challenge

accepted. Which brings me to your closing statement: Challenge accepted,

Cat. Good night."

He hangs up.

I sit up and forget how wet I am, calling Lauren. "I wondered when you

were going to call," she says.

"Did Reese—"

"Yes. And I told him good luck."

"And he said?"

"Challenge accepted. But I know you. He's the kind of man you're drawn

to and fear. And he's your job. What are you going to do?"

I don't deny anything she's just said. We worked twenty-hour days

together at the DA's office. We talked. A lot. Lauren knows me more than

most. More than anyone, really.

"Cat?" she presses.

"What am I going to do?" I repeat. "I'm going to get naked with that man

and say goodbye."

She laughs. "Then I'm going to tell you what I told him. Good luck."

I scowl as if she can see me. "Challenge accepted."

She laughs louder, and I hang up.