Laura Abbot - Trial Courtship

When a boisterous group of students exploded from the school, she searched eagerly for Nicky. He wasn’t among them. She checked her watch. He ought to be along any minute. The children split off in pairs and threesomes and scampered away. Maybe she should go inside.

No, there he was. Head down, dragging his book bag by the strap, Nicholas slowly approached the car. She sighed. He looked so lonely. Opening the door, he threw his belongings onto the back seat, pushed his glasses up on his nose, plopped down beside her and, as an afterthought, pulled the door shut.

“Nicky? Are you all right?” She studied the slightly built, raven-haired boy, who sat, hands folded politely in his lap, studying the ink spot on the left knee of his khaki trousers.

He nodded.

She hated to pry, yet the signals he sent off so often concerned her that it was difficult to keep her mouth shut. Every now and then, he would open his shell a crack, permit her in briefly. Then, as suddenly as he’d revealed himself, he’d clam up.

She drove slowly through the residential area toward home. “What was the program at Science Club today?”

“Bats.”

“That should’ve been interesting.”

“Yeah.”

Nothing about bats hanging by their feet, residing in caves or employing nature’s “radar.” Just “yeah.” Something had happened. She knew it. She tried another tack. “Why didn’t you come out with the other kids?”

“I waited.”

“Oh?”

As if discovering a curiosity, Nicky rubbed the ink stain with a stubby forefinger.

One more try. “Did something upset you today?” She watched a flush creep up his neck. “Nicholas?”

“Jus’ Ben again,” he mumbled.

“Ben? What now?” She steeled herself for his answer.

“He called me a weenie.” He paused before adding, “Said he was gonna beat the crap outta me.”

“Did you tell the teacher?”

He shot her an incredulous look. “What good would that do?”

Poor little guy. Caught between a bully and a rap as a snitch. “Would you like me to call Mrs. Elliot?”

He shrugged. “That’ll jus’ make it worse.”

Heartsick, she turned into the drive of the Cape Cod house that had been her sister and brother-in-law’s home and was now hers. As soon as the car stopped, Nicky bolted, leaving his book bag behind. She stood, shivering a moment in the cool late-afternoon breeze, then bent and retrieved the bag. He wasn’t a thoughtless or bad boy. Just unhappy. And she had no idea how to help him.

Andrea followed him into the house, shrugged out of her cardigan and set water to boil for spaghetti. Then she carried Nicky’s bag upstairs to his bedroom, where he already sat engrossed in a computer game. Software and cyberspace—his retreats. She mussed his hair affectionately. “Dinner in forty-five minutes.”

He didn’t look up. “Okay.”

She paused in the entry hall to gather the mail stuffed in the brass door slot. Sorting through the envelopes as she walked back to the kitchen, she flipped past two bills, then stopped short. What on earth did Cuyahoga County want with her? Her heart skipped a beat. Surely nothing involving her custody of Nicky?

Easing onto the chintz-covered breakfast nook bench, she tore open the envelope. “You are summoned to appear in the Court of Common Pleas... Wednesday, November 18...to serve as a juror.”

Jury duty? Could there be a worse time—right before the holiday rush at her store? Perhaps she could get excused. She quickly censored that unworthy reaction. No question about it, fulfilling her duty as a citizen couldn’t always be convenient. She bit her lip. Serving would involve making arrangements for Nicholas, securing the cooperation of Phil Norman, her shop manager...

Bemused, she acknowledged a nudge of anticipation. She’d always been curious about what went on behind the closed doors of a jury room. And with uncharacteristic immodesty, she acknowledged her ability to be a fair-minded, impartial juror. Despite the bad timing, she would manage, maybe by adjusting her work schedule and hiring additional part-time help.

The hiss of water splattering on the electric burner brought her to her feet. Grabbing two pot holders, she removed the pan from the stove.

She was eager to show Nicholas the letter. They could talk about the court system at dinner. Maybe he’d think that was interesting. She hoped so.

“WATCH IT, KELL. You’re dribbling pickle juice on the contract draft!” Tony Urbanski leaned back in his chair and grinned across the conference table at Kelli Murphy O’Shea, expectant mother and legal whiz.

She waved a dill spear in his general direction. “Just because you’re the newest partner in Great Lakes Management Group, Skee, don’t think you can order folks around.”

He laughed. “Nobody gives you orders. How does Patrick put up with you?”

Rubbing her protruding abdomen, she chuckled wickedly. “Oh, my husband understands there are certain rather delightful compensations.”

Tony nodded at the smeared legal document. “That’s an interesting shade of green.”

She bent her dark head over the page, examining it, then looked up, her blue eyes twinkling. “Ah, laddie, it’s the leprechaun touch, doncha know? The luck of the Irish!”

“It damn well better be. I’m going to need all the luck I can get to put DataTech and Cyberace at the same table and hammer out this merger.” Already he could feel the ripples of tension in his chest. He had a huge stake in pulling off this deal. Harrison Wainwright, managing partner of his firm, demanded results. As the recently appointed head of the mergers and acquisition department, Tony could ill afford to mishandle his first huge negotiation since making partner.

“Hey, Skee.” Kelli reached across the table and patted his hand. “You’ll get the job done. I have every confidence in you.”

Good old Kell. Always the cheerleader. Ever since they’d joined the Cleveland office at about the same time two years ago, they’d been buddies. Her refreshing no-nonsense approach to life kept him honest. She had the uncanny ability to see right through him in ways that often made him uncomfortable.

She withdrew her hand and stood, rubbing the small of her back. “And,” she continued, “you have every confidence in you. That’s what makes you so effective.”

“Are you saying I’m cocky?”

She widened her eyes and regarded him archly. “Now would I say a thing like that?”

He scooped up the papers and rose to his feet. “Damn right, you would.” He stuffed the contract draft into his bulging briefcase, then checked his watch. “Jeez, Kell, I didn’t mean to keep you so late. I hope Patrick won’t be worried.”

“I called him earlier. Besides, you saved me. Patrick is putting up our Halloween decorations tonight. He really gets into holidays. You’d think he was still twelve years old. We’ll have skeletons hanging from trees, cobwebs draped all over the front porch and enough jack-o’-lanterns to illuminate our entire block.”

“I’m sorry. You’re missing all the fun.”

“I’ll have plenty of ‘fun’ getting ready for our party. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Tony hesitated. He wasn’t much for masquerade parties. “If I’m not too busy.”

“Too busy? Give it a rest. Halloween is on a Saturday night! It’ll be a blast. Do you have your costume?”

Costume? A disconcerting childhood memory surfaced of his father telling him boys didn’t “play dress-up” and that Halloween was for sissies. As a schoolboy, Tony had been forced to sneak bedsheets in order to transform himself into a perennial ghost “I’ll probably come as Urban Businessman, circa late 20th Century.”

“Wow,” Kelli said mockingly. “You really let yourself go, don’t you?”