“Or to sell. In order to finance the breast implants she claims are essential to her career as a nude dancer,” Luke added dryly.
“And she also countersues him for harassment or interfering with her civil right to work or whatever.” The young woman rolled her eyes heavenward. “I tuned out at that point.”
“Did you hear that both parties are demanding punitive damages for their emotional pain and suffering? As if either one feels any emotion except pure greed—and possibly revenge.”
“Why can’t they settle it themselves like civilized human beings? Why do they have to go to court and drag all of us into it?” she railed. “Who can side with either one, anyway? He’s a fickle cheapskate and she’s a manipulative—”
She paused for a moment.
“Perhaps litigious, silicone-endowed nude dancer is the term you were looking for?”
“I had something a bit less flattering in mind. Already, I can’t stand either one of them, and I’ve never even met them.”
“Did you say that to the lawyers?” quizzed Luke.
She nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“So did I. Must be why we were picked. Better to dislike them both than to side with one. The lawyers would consider that fair and impartial.”
“It’s a lot like politics after all,” she said thoughtfully. “Where you don’t like either candidate but are supposed to vote for one. It boils down to the lesser of two evils at worst, or at best, two jerks.”
“Evil or jerk.” Luke held back a sigh. “I’m going to take a wild guess that you think all politicians are unlikable, morally corrupt, sleazy…. Feel free to jump in and stop me at any time.”
She didn’t. Which apparently meant she agreed with his assessment?
“I was attempting to be ironic,” he said to enlighten her. “There are exceptions to the corrupt politician stereotype, you know.”
“I’ll take your word on that.” She looked bored with the subject.
From his past work in the field, Luke was aware that politics tended either to bore or inflame, and unless one was canvassing for votes, a change of topic was advisable. Still, he was unable to let it go.
“One exception is my brother, Matt Minteer. He’s a congressman.” Luke’s voice held a note of fraternal pride. “Matt is the representative for the Johnstown district, which includes this county, so that would make him your congressman.”
“Matt Minteer,” she repeated. “Is he the one who fired his own brother for dirty tricks or nasty campaign tactics or something like that? I heard about it when I moved here last year.”
This time Luke didn’t suppress his sigh. He let it out heavily. “Yeah, that would be Matt. The nasty, dirty-tricks-playing brother is me. I was fired two years and eight months ago, but the story is still being told, I see.”
“And those lawyers picked you for the jury anyway?” The young woman was incredulous. “Wow! They are really, really desperate.”
“No charges were ever filed against me. It’s not as if I’m a convicted felon.” Luke was defensive. “Although as far as my brother’s staff is concerned, I might as well be. They’re a very traditional group, set like cement in the old ways. When I tried to be innovative and competitive, to take some risks and implement some new ideas and methods for—”
“Translation,” she cut in. “When you used dirty tricks and nasty tactics, they didn’t approve, and you got the ax.”
Luke scowled. “Are you always so…blunt?”
Though she’d pretty much summed up the situation, it didn’t mean he liked hearing it.
“Yes,” she said…bluntly.
“Well, why should you be different from everybody else?” Luke was aware that his voice held just the faintest trace of self-pity. He didn’t care. “No one else in the district bothers to hold back their opinion of me, including my own family. Everybody reminds me that, though to the world at large I may be a bestselling crime fiction writer these days, in this district, I’m still Congressman Minteer’s brother, the weasel.”
She arched her dark brows. “Crime fiction?”
Luke brightened. Even the locals who disapproved of him as an innovative, risk-taking political mastermind bought his book. Everybody, everywhere, had, bringing him national success as an author.
“I wrote a bestselling crime novel about a serial killer that was published in hardcover and did well and then hit number one on the New York Times list when it came out in paperback. It’s still on the bestseller lists, although farther down by now, of course, and—”
“I don’t read crime fiction, and I’d never read about serial killers,” she said disapprovingly. “Why would anyone want to read about such evil and ugliness? Why would anyone want to write it?”
“You aren’t the first to ask that question.” Instead of taking offense, Luke grinned. “In fact, most of my family does. But I do have one favorite aunt who tells me to make the crimes in my next book even more grisly.”
“Well, I don’t agree with your favorite aunt. Glorifying crime is…is toxic.”
“I don’t glorify—” He began to argue, but inevitably, his sense of humor kicked in. “You are brutally frank. Opinionated, too. Those lawyers in this trial might think you’re a malleable little mommy, but it looks like the joke is on them. You’ll probably hang the jury and they’ll have to try the case all over again.”
The bailiff appeared again, instructing the chosen twelve to report back to the courtroom tomorrow morning at nine-thirty for the beginning of the trial. Then he excused them for the day.
Everybody stood up. None of the selected jurors looked happy with their fate.
“It’s four o’clock,” muttered one of the older men. “The day is already completely wasted. Why did they take so darn long to pick us? All those foolish questions they asked us…”
“I had to take two buses to get here,” complained an elderly woman. “Now I have to take two to get home—and do it for heaven only knows how many more days, until this is all over.”
“I’m bringing my knitting with me every day,” said another woman defiantly. “I have to finish an afghan for my great-niece’s new baby in time for Christmas. That’s little more than a month away.”
The two pierced, tattooed young men slunk off. Luke stared after them, bemused. He noticed that the pregnant woman was looking at them, too.
“What are the odds of two jurors sporting identical dragon tattoos that stretch the length of their arms?” he murmured. “I’d never put that in a book. My editor would say, ‘Come on, Luke, that’s too over the top.”’
“Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Which is a creepy thought, considering some of the fiction being written these days.”
“I assume that’s another potshot at my writing career?” drawled Luke. “Nobody can accuse you of being subtle.”
She and Luke faced each other.
“Since we’re fellow jurors, we might as well introduce ourselves. I’m Luke Minteer.” He offered his hand to her.
“Brenna Morgan.” She shook his hand but withdrew her own quickly.
“You look like you want to wipe your palm on something. Don’t worry, I’m not infectious,” Luke said drolly. “I’m merely the bad-guy brother of your good and honorable congressman, and that is not contagious.”