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)
By the time the courtroom closes for the day, I’m also convinced that he’s one hell of an attorney who hasn’t earned his perfect track record of all wins and no losses by luck. He’s picked his clients wisely and defended them just as wisely. By the time I’ve left the day behind, and I’m back home in my PJs, with Chinese food and my MacBook both in bed with me, I’m convinced that nothing he said in that bathroom was accidental. I replay the conversation and focus on four significant words from our exchange: “You can quote me,” he’d said. Was that a test? To see what I would or would not write? I frown and decide that even if it wasn’t a test, it’s a message that he wants delivered.
With that in mind, I start working on my column, writing up my detailed outline of my day in court and then using my closing statement to deliver his message and summarize mine: With more horror-show antics that lacked evidence, once again the prosecution came up short and the defense made their case by simply pointing out the weakness in every witness that took the stand. I expected physical evidence, which hasn’t been presented. But tomorrow the medical examiner takes the stand, and that will be the real test of guilt or innocence in the eyes of the courtroom, at least from where I sit, which is admittedly pretty far back. As for where that will leave the defense once the torch is passed to them and they take the floor is yet to be seen, but I find Reese Summer competent and convincing.
On a side note, I’ve been told by those who know Summer that he won’t defend anyone he doesn’t believe to be innocent. In a short, unexpected encounter with him, that is exactly what he told me. He believes in his client’s innocence. I’m not suggesting that means that he’s right and the prosecution is wrong, but in our court system, you are innocent until proven guilty, and thus far the prosecution has not shown guilt. Will tomorrow prove a different story? We shall see. Finished, I sign off with: Until then, —Cat.
I reread and edit my work and then send it off to my editor before I close my computer. It’s done. I’m done. I’ve delivered a message to the general masses and the prosecution for Reese Summer, and I’ve sent a message to Reese Summer: He can trust me enough to grant me those interviews. The question is, can I trust him? With that question in my mind, I plop down on my back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, replaying my encounter with him in the bathroom, and damn it, I am remembering how good he’d smelled: Spicy and woodsy. How good he’d looked up close and personal. He’s still an arrogant asshole, but he’s also dirty, sexy trouble that I can’t escape as long as this trial is a live media charge. In other words, I have to be willing to play whatever game he plays with me, and games are how you get burned.
Chapter five
Cat
Day 3: The Trial of the Century
Iwake 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.”