“What if they lock you up and don’t let you out until you all agree?”
Summer Byrne shook her head at the question, the tenth or so one her daughter, Faith, had posed since she’d informed her she might be late picking her up from school that afternoon. “Doubtful. Besides, it’s Friday. Even if I get picked for a jury, and that’s a big if, it’s probably going to be for something minor and the case will be wrapped up before the weekend. Attorneys don’t like to have a verdict hanging out over the weekend.”
“How do you know so much about being on juries?” Faith asked.
Summer’s stomach churned at the question, but thankfully, she pulled into the driveway for Faith’s school—the perfect moment to change the subject. “Hey, kiddo, time to get your learnin’ on.”
Faith sighed as she gathered her things. “Mom, please don’t try to sound cool. It’s not working for you.”
Summer laughed at Faith’s serious expression. Faith’s first year in middle school meant Summer was ancient and out of touch instead of the cool mom she’d been all through elementary school. Summer wrote off the change in her status as a natural by-product of having an almost teenager. At least she’d never be as decidedly uncool as her own overly formal mother who insisted on setting out cookies and milk for Summer’s friends long after they were old enough to drive and make out in the back seats of their boyfriends’ cars.
“Thanks for being concerned about my welfare. Much appreciated. Now go, so I can get to the courthouse and be the nerd that I am. I’ll text you when I know if I’ve been picked.”
She watched Faith go, a little jealous of her middle school regimen. She’d been doing temp work for the last few months since they’d moved back to Dallas—boring, administrative stuff for various businesses—and the lack of any kind of consistent routine was starting to wear her down. Routine kept her focused, kept her from getting restless, and kept her mind from wandering. Right now, she could use a healthy dose of same old same old, but the jury summons in her purse was about to wreck that. Hopefully, she’d be in and out within an hour, two tops.
This courthouse was like others she’d frequented, a combination of anxious and overbearing people mixed with a cacophony of sounds humming all around her. The central jury room was marked with a large sign, and she entered the room and took a seat toward the back, seeking respite from the buzz of nervous energy in the room. It didn’t work. She’d brought a paperback, a mystery she’d swiped from her grandmother’s collection, but after reading the same paragraph a dozen times with little to no comprehension, she shoved it in her bag and gave in to the unspoken voices in the room.
“If I don’t get back to the restaurant, I’m going to get fired.”
“They don’t even reimburse you the full price of parking.”
“Should I tell the bailiff I have a conviction on my record or should I wait and tell the judge? They’re not going to pick someone with a record, are they?”
Summer breathed in and out slowly, seeking some sense of calm as a shield against the onslaught of other people’s thoughts, but it was her against at least a hundred other folks. By the time they called her name, she was weak with resistance.
“Summer Byrne, please report to the bailiff.”
The woman calling her name pointed to a man in uniform standing by the door they’d entered. Summer hesitated for a moment, praying the bailiff was simply going to tell her how to claim her parking voucher. She tentatively approached him while the rest of the room resumed its low buzz. “Hi, I’m Summer Byrne. They just called my name.”
He consulted his clipboard. “Fourth floor. Court twelve.”
Summer frowned as she tried to digest the terse phrases. “Excuse me?”
He repeated the same information and Summer resigned herself to the fact she was moving on to the next phase. The lobby was crammed with people waiting for the elevator, and the last thing she wanted was to be stuffed in a tiny space full of thoughts that weren’t her own, so she spent a moment searching until she found the stairs. By flight three, she was winded and vowed to get more exercise if the universe would only let her have the strength to make it to the next floor alive. She emerged from the stairwell in time to hear her name being called out by another uniformed man who was guarding a large plastic trash bin full of clipboards.
He shoved a clipboard her way as she approached. “You’re number twenty-two. Fill this out and bring it back.” He immediately shouted out another name and pulled another clipboard from the stack.
Terseness was a systemic issue here. One more big city thing Summer would have to get used to. She glanced over the questionnaire. She’d seen plenty like it before, but there was definitely something different about viewing it from the perspective of the answerer of questions instead of the evaluator of the answers. She zoomed through most of the questions, leaving blank her response for spouse’s name and occupation—thanks, Universe, for reminding her of her perpetual single status and the fact she hadn’t yet found a permanent job.
When she reached the questions about whether she or any of her family members worked in law enforcement, she tapped the pen against her clipboard and contemplated her response. Technically and literally, the answer was no, but it wasn’t an entirely honest answer. If she were to be completely honest, her answer would only invite follow-up questions. Questions she didn’t want to have to answer at all, let alone in front of a bunch of strangers in open court. She weighed the question, examined it from all angles, and ultimately decided based on the tense of the question, she was going to stick with a literal answer to the straightforward inquiry, and she left the box unchecked.
A long twenty minutes later, she filed into the courtroom with the rest of the potential jurors and took her seat in the first spot on the second row—right on the edge of the safety zone for a misdemeanor case where the first six people on the panel who weren’t struck for cause or for some gut feeling on the part of either side would wind up in the jury box hearing testimony in this trial. Once she was settled into her seat, she focused her attention toward the front of the room where the judge, a tall, slender Black woman, stood at the bench, towering over several people who she presumed were attorneys and the defendant standing at tables situated so the chairs faced the jury box.
“I wonder what he did.”
“Looks guilty to me.”
“Which one’s the defense attorney? Doesn’t matter. They both look like trouble.”
“I hope we get a break for lunch.”
“Wow, who’s the hot juror in the second row?”
The last voice jarred Summer out of her reverie and she turned to see a tall, striking woman walking down the aisle toward the front of the courtroom. She locked eyes with Summer for a moment, and Summer spotted a trace of a smile before she sat at the table closest to her side of the room. Every other voice blurred into the background, and Summer was riveted by the woman’s controlled but engaging smile and her piercing dark brown eyes. Faith would describe her as dope or some other resurrection of retro cool, and if that meant intoxicating, then Faith would be right. The women’s suit looked perfectly tailored and every hair in her cropped cut was perfectly coiffed. Summer ran a hand through her own hair, conscious she could use a haircut and wondering if the small stain from this morning’s coffee on the sleeve of her sweater was visible from the front of the courtroom.
“Good morning,” the judge said. “My name is Judge Audra Dewitt. Thank you all for showing up today to perform your civic duty. Without your participation, the justice system would grind to a halt.”
Summer listened as the judge continued with her introduction and outline of the type of case they would be deciding if they were selected to be on the jury, and focused her attention on shutting out the anxious thoughts of the people around her that ranged from dread about having to decide someone’s fate to fear that missing work to help so-called justice would mean the inability to put food on the table. Even when the other voices faded to the background, she didn’t hear another single thought from sharp-dressed Brown Eyes in the front of the room, and that piqued her curiosity.
“Representing Mr. Jex, the defendant, is Tom Moss,” Judge Dewitt said. “And for the state, we have assistant district attorney, Ben Green…” the judge paused while the pudgy, slightly rumpled man seated next to Brown Eyes waved at them, “and ADA Owen Lassiter.”
Owen rose slightly at the introduction and nodded at the assembled jurors. Deferential, but still powerful, and Summer found herself nodding back, and the simple act was like a tractor beam, drawing Owen’s attention to her. They locked eyes again, and Summer felt stripped and vulnerable under Owen’s steady gaze.
The entire exchange lasted less than a minute, but Summer’s entire body was buzzing after. Whatever had just happened between them was important, monumental even, and she couldn’t discern if it was good or bad, but it definitely wasn’t neutral. Maybe jury duty wouldn’t be so bad after all.
✥ ✥ ✥
Owen Lassiter crouched over the desk in the DA workroom and shifted through the questionnaires, cross-checking them with the meticulous chart her second chair, Ben, had prepared while she’d been questioning the jury panel. Part of jury selection was math. If each side had three strikes and six people wound up on the jury, then ostensibly the first twelve panelists were the only ones that mattered. But the judge had already agreed to release some jurors for cause—lack of child care, insisted they couldn’t be fair given their background, etc., which left the attorneys looking deeper into the available jurors, leaving them to make some educated guesses about how to use their preemptory strikes. The better the guess, the more likely you could net the people most sympathetic to your case, and Owen was known throughout the courthouse for being the jury whisperer. She had a perfect trial record because of it. Each side had had an hour to ask the panel questions, and now they had thirty minutes to list their strikes. In another room, the defense attorneys were engaged in the same guessing game. The key was to not only strike the jurors you didn’t want, but to anticipate who the other side would strike so that you didn’t use up your strikes on people they were going to get rid of anyway.
Ben shoved one of the questionnaires toward her. “This guy hates cops.”
“Hate’s a strong word, Ben.”
“Strongly dislikes, then. Every time you brought up how the arrest went down, he looked like he’d eaten a lemon. Besides, there’s the issue of his brother getting arrested last year. I don’t care what he said to Dewitt about how he could put aside his own experience, he’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to bust some balls.”
He was right and Owen knew it, but part of her job as the chief of the misdemeanor courts was to teach the prosecutors she supervised, and getting Ben to articulate his process was key to her success. The primary evidence in this case was the police officer’s testimony, making it paramount to root out any bias against cops. “Okay, put him down as a no. Who else?”
Ben rattled off a few more names and they settled on another strike among the first twenty jurors on the panel. Then he tapped his finger on juror number twenty-two. “She looks okay on paper.”
And gorgeous in real life. Known for being unflappable in the courtroom, Owen had almost lost it when caught in juror twenty-two’s gaze. She glanced at the name on the questionnaire. Summer Byrne. She schooled her face into what she hoped was a neutral expression. “She barely said anything.”
“She said she could be fair when we polled the panel, and she sounded sincere. Nothing of concern on the questionnaire.”
Owen looked at the form, impressed by the beautiful cursive handwriting that seemed so old school and yet endearing. Ostensibly, Summer Byrne was the perfect neutral juror, but Owen had a feeling Summer wasn’t quite what she appeared to be, although she couldn’t articulate a reason why. She reached for Ben’s chart. “Who’s number twenty-three?”
“Lance Goetz. He’s got a family member who’s been arrested before. If you’re choosing between these two, I’d strike Goetz.”
It was an easy decision, and Owen wrote Goetz’s name on the list without hesitation. Bonus points that she’d get to spend the rest of the trial looking at Summer, provided the defense didn’t use one of their strikes on her. She handed the completed form to Ben so he could turn it over to the bailiff, and after checking to see that she still had a few minutes before they were to reconvene, she walked out of the room to stretch.
The hallway outside of the courtroom was teeming with jurors waiting to hear their fate, but she ducked her head and kept walking as if she didn’t see them, trying to act like she couldn’t hear them as well. Still snippets of conversation floated their way to her ears.
“I have places to be.”
“This is a waste of time.”
“I wonder if the cafeteria is any good.”
She resisted responding to the last one—only if you know what to order. She kept walking, but then one voice stood out.
“I told you I have jury duty today…No, I don’t know when I’ll be done. You should probably not count on me to show up. It’s not like I did this on purpose. Look, I have to go. If something happens and I’m available this afternoon, I’ll let you know.”
Owen slowed her pace and shot a quick glance toward the voice, confirming it was Summer talking to someone on the phone. Eavesdropping on jurors’ private conversations wasn’t something she did on a regular basis, but she told herself this was different. The level of tension she heard in Summer’s voice would have captured anyone’s attention, and she was merely being a concerned citizen. When Summer looked up and met her eyes, all reason faded. She should exercise some discretion and look away, but she couldn’t help but linger for the chance at getting another glimpse at those captivating blue eyes outside of the confines of the courtroom. It didn’t hurt that Summer stared right back as she disconnected the call.
“Well, that was embarrassing.”
Uh-oh. Owen paused her stride at the remark, half-hoping it wasn’t directed at her, but she knew it was. Sidelong glances at a potential juror was one thing, but she couldn’t be seen speaking to her, not until after the trial was over if Summer was selected to be on this jury. She flashed what she hoped was a reassuring smile, nodded, and kept walking. It wasn’t easy to walk away from a beautiful woman who appeared to be in distress, and it took all of her resistance not to look back over her shoulder, but she held strong. Damn.
When she reached the stairwell, she heard a voice calling her name. She turned to see her best friend, Mary Pierce, running up behind her, puffing from the effort.
“You must be in trial mode. I yelled your name like a dozen times,” Mary said.
“Maybe I was just ignoring you.”
“As if. Seriously, though, I know it’s a big case and you’re probably deep in thought about strategy.”
Owen sighed. Mary had been ribbing her for days about her plan to beef up the training of the misdemeanor prosecutors under her command. She’d pledged to try a case with one of them a week to demonstrate the techniques she’d used to amass a perfect record of not guilty verdicts. So far, her record was intact, even though there had been a few close calls over the past month from junior prosecutors who seemed determined to blow the cases she handpicked to try. “I think I can handle it. Ben seems like he knows what he’s doing, generally speaking.”
“Then leave him to it and come to lunch with me. I want to hear all about how you snagged the Adams case from Ron,” she said, referring to a highly anticipated upcoming trial involving the murder of the county commissioner’s wife.
“I didn’t snag anything. The case was over his head and he mouthed off to the press, so M—Ms. Rivera pulled Ron and bumped me up to first chair.” She stumbled over the elected district attorney’s name, almost slipping by using her first name instead of the customary formality.
“Who’s going to try it with you?”
“Angling for the job?”
“Maybe. The mini-cap I had set for next month fell apart, which means I have the time. Unless there’s someone else you have in mind.”
“Let me talk to Rivera. She’s taking a special interest in this case and I don’t want to do anything unexpected.”
“Got it. Did you hear there was another mugging last night? This one was downtown.”
“I saw that,” Owen said. “That’s the sixth one since the first of the month. I heard DPD is assigning a bunch of undercover officers to try to catch this guy, but he keeps striking in different places, so it’s pretty much a guessing game as to where he’s going to show up next.”
“That’s a case I want to try. I hope they catch him soon.”
“Agreed.”
“Great. Now for lunch.”
“No can do.” Owen glanced at her phone. “Time to find out who wound up on the jury. I love this part.”
Mary laughed. “Said no one else ever.” She play-pushed Owen’s shoulder. “Go. Be the nerd you are and win Ben’s case for him.”
Owen laughed, but secretly she wished Mary would quit ribbing her about her win record, not because she wasn’t proud of it, but she feared too much talk would jinx her success. She spent the few minutes it took her to walk back to the courtroom centering her mind on the case ahead. Yes, it was a simple possession of marijuana case, and if convicted, the defendant was likely to get probation, but the key to her success had always been the way she treated every case like it was the most serious one that would cross her desk and knowing how to pick her battles. This case had the opportunity for some great teachable moments, but it should be a slam dunk if bad mojo didn’t get in the way.
As she walked into the courtroom, she scanned the crowd to size up the panel one last time, but when her gaze settled on juror number twenty-two, her body hummed and she couldn’t help but smile. If Summer wound up on the jury, this case could wind up being way more interesting than she’d imagined.