Jury of One

79

Paul Riley pushed the remaining half of his dinner away. “Well, Shelly Trotter, I have to tell you that I’ve seen quite a few cases in my time, and heard lots of interesting stories about people’s lives, but-”

“I’m topping the charts.”

“Hey.” He shrugged. “All’s well that ends well.”

It had ended rather well, she would have to say. The jury had returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of self-defense after four hours of deliberations. Alex had slept in his own home for the last two nights. His legal problems were over. He had already pleaded out his drug case with the U.S. Attorney, and now his murder charge was beaten. There was always the possibility that the county attorney would charge him for extorting Ray Miroballi, but there would be no way to make that case. Alex hadn’t admitted to that on the stand. He had testified, when pressed by Dan Morphew, that he had never asked Ray Miroballi for money, and there was no one alive to refute it. And she was relatively sure that the county attorney would never have the appetite to prosecute Alex for that, anyway.

Ronnie Masters had not been entirely forthright in his plea agreement with the county attorney. It was debatable whether he had lied about a material fact, which is what would be required to tear up the plea agreement, but at a minimum he had omitted some important facts, which would be grounds itself. In the end, however, all legal technicalities aside, Ronnie had simply helped Alex after the fact in a crime for which Alex had been acquitted. And the county attorney had suffered some embarrassment. Elliot Raycroft had informed Shelly yesterday that he considered the matter closed with regard to Ronnie.

Did her father have a hand in that? She had to concede the probability. This was different from dropping the charges in the middle of a cop-killing trial. This was a fairly technical application of the law concerning a broken plea agreement, which was not particularly interesting fodder for the press. The media had been far more fascinated with the facts that Ronnie disclosed on the stand than in whether he had technically played loose with the county attorney. This gave plenty of leeway for Raycroft’s office, and for whatever reason-a political favor, the desire to put the entire affair behind them, or the feeling that the interests of justice did not require charging Ronnie-Raycroft was taking a pass.

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you did, Paul. Your advice. Your firm’s financial support. You have been wonderful.”

He responded in typical fashion, deferring the praise. She saw something more, too. Paul was trying to read between the lines. This, she knew he was thinking, sounded an awful lot like goodbye.

He clapped his hands together. “So what are your plans now?”

She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I was thinking about going back to the law school.”

“Mm-hmm. That’s where your heart is, I suppose. You could stay with us. Run our pro bono program full-time. Christ knows, we need someone to do it.”

She smiled at him. “That’s very kind of you-”

“Make three times the money and do a lot of the same stuff.”

She looked down. “I think you hit on it. The school is where my heart is.”

That, she was sure, was something Paul Riley could understand. The law was his passion, too, even if it took a different form. She missed that place dearly, she now realized. She missed Rena, the students, their fresh idealism and commitment.

Paul was watching her. There was a sense of loss about him. She imagined that Paul Riley rarely felt vulnerable.

Oh, he really was such a wonderful guy. Beneath that polished exterior were a compassion and tenderness that he had willingly allowed her to see. She had kept him at arm’s length and he had accepted it; he had been patient with her. It was just-just-

Not now.

She had so much time to make up with so many members of her family. She would be thrown into the fire when she returned to the law school. “Paul,” she began, keeping her eyes down, “I want you to know-”

She felt his hand on her wrist. He looked at her with an intensity she had never seen from him.

“Let me in,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, let me in.”

She looked up at him sheepishly.

He shook her wrist. “Or tell me you have no feelings for me. That-that I could accept. But this. This I can’t accept.”

“What is the ‘this’ you’re referring to?”

“This whole act of yours. This whole thing about keeping everyone at bay. Would you just take your goddamn foot off the brake?”

She put a hand on her chest in defense. “My foot’s on the brake?”

“Hey.” He softened his grip on her wrist. “Look. I see things about you that I didn’t before. You went through some terrible stuff. You experienced some real trauma. You separated from your family. But look at you. Look at what you’ve accomplished, in spite of all that. You’re a talented, beautiful, compassionate, courageous person. You can have so much if you would just come out of that damn shell-”

“I get it, Paul.” She withdrew her wrist from his grasp. “Fear of commitment, I get it.”

“I’m in love with you, Shelly. Don’t ask me why or how, the way you’ve been stiff-arming me. But I am.” He drew his hands back and forth between them. “See what I’m doing here, Counselor? I’m putting myself out there. I’m opening up. I’m taking a chance.” He looked up, held open his palms. “And I don’t see the sky crashing down.”

She realized that her mouth had fallen open. “Well.”

Paul trained a hand in the air. “I-look. I certainly don’t expect you to return the compliment, Shelly. I’m just saying, Think about it. Just think about what I said and maybe-get back to me. Okay?” He signaled for the check.

The waiter arrived shortly. They knew each other and chatted briefly. The waiter made a joke about his wife and walked away. Paul smiled and watched the waiter leave, probably because he didn’t want to return his focus to the table. “Anyway,” he said. “Enough of the serious talk. I’m sorry, it just sort of came out. This was supposed to be a celebr-”

“I’m a vegetarian,” she said to him.

He didn’t catch her point. “I know that.”

“Yeah, but I don’t even really like seeing other people eat meat.”

He watched her a moment, then chuckled. “I can’t swim.”

“I have a scar like you wouldn’t believe from the Caesarian.”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t like olives on pizza or anything else, but I love them in martinis.”

“I think I snore.”

“How would you know?”

She smiled. “I woke myself up once.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t like being judged for liking meat.”

“I have a teenaged son whom I plan to spend a lot of time with.”

“I have a legal practice that is rather demanding as well.”

The waiter arrived, cracked another joke with Paul. He signed the receipt and handed it back with a remark of his own. Somehow, Paul seemed to know that this young man was putting himself through college. He looked back at Shelly with a measure of expectation.

“You really can’t swim?” she asked.

“Just flop around in the water like a drowned kitten.”

She released a laugh. She didn’t know what the term ready meant. Paul was right; she had spent so many years with the brakes on, she couldn’t even find the accelerator. But it felt-what was it with him?

Possible. Yes. Possible.

“Slow,” she said to him.

“Hey, slow is good,” he answered. “I like slow.”