Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Chapter eight
Cat
Four hours later, the courtroom of jurors, press and observers, has endured the tedious cross-examination of the victim’s boyfriend and the tears of her mother. The testimony drags onward, and the day does not end early because it’s Friday. But ultimately Reese tries to give us all an ending to the trial. Come nearly six o’clock, he stands and addresses the court. “Judge,” he says, “the defense respectfully requests the dismissal of all charges. There has been no evidence presented to support charging my client. At this point, I think we can all question why my client was charged at all. With the obvious lack of evidence against my client, and a number of suspects, did the prosecution simply pick the one that gets them the biggest book deals?”
The courtroom erupts in murmurs and chaos, while I cringe at the personal note this has hit for me. I’ve been flirting with Reese. I’ve all but promised to get naked with Reese. I have a meeting about writing a book with the prosecutor, this very hour, perhaps. Turns out I know the answer to my earlier question: Yes. It can get more complicated.
The judge bangs his gavel and shouts, “Order!” pulling me back into the moment as he looks directly at Reese. “Unless you get me a confession by someone other than your client, the jury will decide this case, not me. Don’t argue. You won’t like the results. Court adjourned.”
And just like that, the trial will continue on Monday, and I have drinks with the prosecutor instead of coffee followed by sex with Reese Summer. This day needs a do-over.
I don’t wait to find out if there are press conferences after court. I analyze and opine on crimes. I don’t push and shove. I don’t hide in bushes or around corners to get stories. In other words, I don’t wait to find out if there is a press conference after court that will include nothing more than more of the same huff and puff I listened to all day. A short walk later, I arrive at the Johnnie Walker bar, on the ground level of the Johnnie Walker Hotel, before the clusters of tables are filled. I glance around the spacious bar, the décor all brown leather and wooden masculinity, the lights dim.
I cross the room and settle into a seat by a window, away from any other tables, allowing for a private conversation with Dan that could include sensitive and confidential information, if we can get past our dislike for one another. It also allows me to see the door, at least at the moment, before the crowds erupt. For the time being, I ignore the entrance, and the menu on the table that I know from previous visits sports a wide variety of Johnnie Walker scotch. I’m not a scotch girl. I’m not a drinker at all—at least, not when I need my head on straight. Which means I will never drink with Reese Summer.
I’ll order coffee.
It’s safe.
Or not.
It’s not safe, but it is lucky. Coffee is how I met Reese. Coffee is how I ended up kissing Reese. I’m not writing a book with the prosecutor. If I’m going to write a book with anyone, I’ll write it with Reese. I’ll propose that idea to him and the publisher. I just need to do the obligatory meeting I have set tonight.
Instead I order a White Russian with a half pour, which ensures I drink more cream than alcohol. While I wait for it and Dan, a television nearby has been tuned to the news and a familiar broadcaster is standing in front of the courthouse, where there is nothing but picketers being reported. I get one look at a “kill the baby killer sign” and I think I need the rest of that pour. But too late. My drink is here, and so is Dan Miller, and he looks as angry tonight as he does pretty much always.
Dan locates me quickly, proving once again that this day needs a reset button. He crosses the room: Tall, lanky, and in his forties, with a hint of gray in his brown hair. Too soon, he sits down by the window opposite me. “I assume you chose this location to be seen. The reporter that scooped the prosecution.”
My anger is instant, but my legal training and debate skills remind me to clamp it down. “First,” I say, biting out a controlled reply, “I didn’t choose this location. My publisher did. Second, I don’t scoop stories. Ever. I write expert analyses and true crime novels.”
“Right,” he says. “And I gave in and agreed to meet you. No more need to stalk me at coffee shops. Now what?”
I give an incredulous shake of my head. First Reese with the stalker thing. Now him. “I live by that coffee shop, so perhaps you were stalking me to get a true crime book deal.”