Chapter 2: The Trial of the Century
Day 2: The Trial of the Century
I wake up the next morning with no intention of meeting Reese for
coffee. Any personal encounter with him would be inappropriate, and I'd
risk my credibility as a reporter with a potential scandal. Which means,
instead of my normal routine that would include showering and dressing
before heading to the coffee shop, I'm still in my PJs when I walk into my
kitchen and put a chocolate-flavored pod in my Keurig. While it brews, I
proceed to think about the man I'm avoiding. If I were another reporter, I
would take him up on the invitation and corner him for an interview, but
I'm not big on the sex-for-information kind of reporting, and that's how that
reads to me. Besides, no one likes to be stalked by the press, and while
Reese Summer might be an asshole, I'm not. Nor am I chasing headlines,
but rather meaningful, objective commentary that has often been the reason
I am awarded interviews I would not otherwise be awarded.
Steaming cup in hand, I sit down at my white marbled kitchen island and
proceed to finish two cups of coffee, while doing what I do every morning.
I read my Cat Does Crime write-up in hopes that I won't hate what is now
published, and today, thankfully, I do not, though sometimes I do. And I
didn't have much to work with to start. There were opening statements,
some heated words between counsels, and the judge pulling them back
behind closed doors, in what became the end of the day. But reading over
my published piece, I made it work. There is a nice mix of personal insight
into the case, the judge's general attitude and presence, as well the jury's
engagement in the courtroom events. Additionally, I share my opinions on
what should happen, has happened, or has not happened. Finally, I end with
a closing statement of my own:
The prosecution's opening statement promised to prove a good-looking
billionaire to be a monster in disguise. The defense, led by Reese Summer,
in turn, promised to prove them wrong. It's a predictable narrative, of
course, except for one thing. The sensationalism in the courtroom for the
defense, in what appears to be the JFK effect of good looks and charm,
wins the day. Summer slays the jury and the audience, convincing them that
the prosecution is on a witch hunt. And since the prosecution chose to
present their case with over-the-top drama akin to a B-rated, poorly shot,
Friday the 13th movie, they better have facts as backup to win. Until then,
—Cat
I left out the part about me having met Reese, finding him to be an
arrogant ass, and that he still had me actually contemplating getting naked
with him. I don't even know where my head was. Reese personifies the
very man who has always been a problem for me. I know Reese is trouble.
If the prosecution doesn't know that by now, they will. Just to arm myself
with facts, to back up those statements, I google him now. In the name of
research, of course. I write down the details in my notebook:
Age: 35
Yale Law School graduate, eight years ago
Single
Never lost a case
God, the man has a résumé that matches that of my father, two brothers,
and Mitch, my ex. If only I'd stuck to fucking that man in his office, I might
not have minded that he'd also fucked his secretary in his office. Funny
how that works. And on that insightful note, I shut my computer. Time to
shower, dress, and head to court, sans a stop by the coffee shop for a white
mocha and a brush with Mr. Arrogant Asshole.
By the time I'm out of the shower, I start to wonder if I've let my
irritation and attraction to Reese Summer cloud my judgment about meeting
him. In an effort to not appear unprofessional, have I decidedly acted
unprofessional? I'm going to want to interview him. Why would he grant an
interview to a woman who stood him up? Of course, I didn't agree to meet
him and it wasn't a date, but still…
By the time I've dressed in a fitted black suit-dress with a V-neck, and
have pinned my hair neatly at the back of my head, I'm certain I've
misstepped. Determined to fix that problem and catch Reese before he
leaves the coffee shop, I pull on a black blazer and my knee-high black
boots, and then slip my briefcase and purse across my chest on my way to
the door. I've just finished the fifteen-floor elevator ride and stepped into
the lobby when my cellphone rings.
I cross the lobby while scooping it out of my unzipped purse to note my
friend Lauren Walker's number.
Waving at Adam, the doorman, I exit the building and answer the call.
"How's the baby?" I ask, answering the call.
"Are you talking about the one in my belly or the one in my bed?" she
asks.
"You're the only person on this planet that would call your beast of a
husband and ex-FBI agent a baby."
"Baby is the wrong word," she concedes. "Protective bear is more like it.
He hovers worse than the DA, and I know you know what that means."
After three years of working with her and under said DA's operation, I do,
but I get it. She miscarried last year. Her husband is worried. Still. "Royce
can't be that bad."
"He is. So are his brothers. Soon I will have a drone following me to the
bathroom."
I laugh. "That would be bad. Really bad. But sympathy aside. How are
you feeling?"
"Sick. I hear that's actually a good thing. But me aside, I have a client
meeting in a few, but there was a purpose to this call other than drones and
hovering men. I thought you'd want to know that Royce got a call from the
defendant in the case you're covering."
I frown. "Nelson Ward wants to hire your husband's company to protect
him?"
"He isn't pleased with the company he's using to handle the threats he's
getting."
"And?"
"Royce immediately declined. He just feels it's bad mojo to aid in the
defense of a guy who might have killed a pregnant woman, especially with
a pregnant wife of his own."
"I think he has a point."
"Of course he does, but I know Reese Summer. I don't believe he'd take
this case if he believed Nelson to be guilty."
I turn a corner and keep walking, weaving through the crowd. "You've
met Reese?"
"Yes. I know I told you that."
"No. No, you did not tell me that, though I suppose it's logical, since
you're both working criminal defense attorneys. Are you telling me now
that you're going to talk Royce into taking the case?"
"No," she says. "I tried and failed, and I know what battles to pick with
the Walker men. And I read your rundown on opening statements, which
was not only excellent, by the way, it cements my belief that Mr. Hotness
wins again."
"Mr. Hotness?" I ask, stopping dead in my tracks only a few steps from
the coffee shop. "What does that mean?"
"Oh gosh, you don't know Mr. Hotness? What kind of reporter are you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Reese was on TV last year, and it sparked all kinds of fantasy blogs
about him. It's insanity the way it took off. He hates it."
"Reese Summer is Mr. Hotness?"
"Yes, but like I said. He hates it. He feels it degrades his skills. He's a
good guy. And he is hot, but don't tell Royce I said that. He's been very
jealous since I got pregnant again, which is just silly. I'm pregnant, for
God's sake."
"Like you have eyes for anyone but Royce anyway."
She sighs. "I really do love that man. Anyway, I have to go. But for the
record, I'll bet you a Chocolate Avalanche Sundae at that ice cream place
we found a few months back that the woman's ex-boyfriend killed her."
There are voices in the background before she says, "I need to go, but I
expect courtroom gossip you tell no one but me." And on that note, she
hangs up.
I lower the phone and blink with the realization that right now, the
biggest gossip I have to share, or withhold, is me meeting Mr. Arrogant
Asshole while reading about, and admittedly living, a mini-fantasy about
Mr. Hotness, both of which are Reese. How is this even possible?
I glance at the time on my phone and realize how close I have to be to
missing him before he heads to court. Shoving my phone back inside my
purse, I hurry forward and open the door just as Reese is exiting. Before I
can even blink again over this man, his hands come down on my shoulders
and he turns me to the side of the door. "You're late," he says, his hands
scorching my arms, while a fall breeze is now tinged with the spicy,
masculine scent of his cologne.
"I don't remember setting a date or time."
"And yet we did," he says. "But you obviously had to talk yourself into
showing up."
"I came for coffee."
"Liar," he says.
"I came—"
"For me," he says, his voice a low rasp as he adds, "Come for me again.
Tomorrow. An hour earlier than today."
"I need—"
"Good," he says. "And I want to hear more. Tomorrow. I have to go." He
releases me then he's walking away. I rotate to watch him depart, and Lord
help me, the man really is Mr. Hotness and I can still feel him everywhere,
and he didn't touch me anywhere but my arms. He's also gone before I've
confessed my identity, and I consider chasing him down and explaining
myself, but he's headed to court. I'm the last thing that he has on his mind
today. And yet he was here. For me. I'm not sure what to do with that little
tidbit of information. But then, men like him love the chase, and I didn't fall
at his feet.
It's about the chase.
Until he decides I set him up to get the interview I still need from him.
This really can't end well, or even naked. No one is going to come, at least
not Reese and myself together.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone