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The female juror answers no.
The questions continue. Everyone gets asked about any ties to domestic violence, if they or anyone in their family has ever worked in law enforcement, or been involved in politics. If anyone they know has ever experienced a death of a suspicious nature.
The longer the void dire goes on, the more intrigued I become. Judging by the kinds of questions she’s asking, as well as the questions coming from the defense team, I deduce this isn’t just any trial. We are being interviewed to be jurors for a murder trial.
Holy shit, I think, biting my tongue so I don’t cuss out loud.
I glance around the room. Down the row from me is Sam, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes cast downward. He’s disappointed. He really doesn’t want to be here. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend or important things to do at the ranch.
Me? Aw, hell yeah. A murder trial…this is a fucking dream come true.
And who knows? Maybe, in addition to performing my civic duty, I’ll find some way to cheer up my friend Sam in the process.
Chapter Three
Sam
Why in the Sam Hill did they pick me?
I curse under my breath as I press my last pair of Wranglers, hang them on a hanger, and unplug my iron. A few pairs of good jeans and starched button-up shirts should be enough to last me for a few days, but what then? What if the trial’s not done yet? Should I pack for a week? Two weeks? And what do they think they’re going to feed me? Because I can’t live on sandwich shop food. I need my red meat.
Ah shit. Who am I kidding? Not only did I just get picked for a trial, but for a murder trail.
And not just any murder trial, but the murder of that state senator a few counties away from here. I heard about it on the news last year.
Even worse, the judge decided that because this a high profile murder, the state must use our tax money to sequester all of us jurors in a hotel for the duration of the trial. Turns out the local jury pool was too influenced because the victim was their state senator, so they moved the trial here to my county.
I slip my jeans into my garment bag and zip it up, then examine the contents of my old suitcase that lies open on my bed. Surveying my belongings, I remember the last time I got this travel gear out.
The memory of packing and unpacking these bags and suitcases before my would-be honeymoon all those years ago twists my stomach into a knot. I try to forget it by choosing to focus on the current situation.
I’m not a fan of anyone telling me where I can and cannot go. There was a time if someone told me I couldn’t go home, I’d bash them right in the bread box.
I’m a slightly wiser, less feral man now.
I just want to tend to my cattle, read my books, and be left alone. I don’t mind serving on a jury. But getting locked down in a hotel for who knows how long? Judas Priest.
I slam shut my suitcase and twist the tiny key in the miniature padlock. After I toss the stuff in the back of my pickup, I decide to stop at the library for something to read.
While I drive, I wonder if it’s too late to try to get out of jury duty. I’ve never tried to get out of it before, but this is going to be miserable.
Maybe I could say something crazy and get myself kicked off. Start spouting off about conspiracy theories. Nothing illegal, just enough to get me excused and bump up one of the alternates.
But you’d better keep your mouth shut, ‘cause you know you want to keep looking at her.
The thought of that little chick who sat next to me in the jury pool room yesterday keeps floating into my head. I should cut it out; she’s gotta be half my age—maybe even younger. But the more I try, the more I remember the sassy quirk of her smile, her violet eyes full of mischief, her odd but beautiful hair. And those bare legs like a ballerina, with shorts so short I could see all the way up to her nether region. Or, imagined I could.
When I arrive at the library, my ranch manager Smitty texts me, and I send back some last minute instructions.
“We got you covered, boss,” he says.
Smitty is a trustworthy sort of guy. I hired him when he was just a kid. A runaway from an abusive home, I was approached by the juvenile group home many years back and asked if I’d consider giving him a job. I gave him a chance and I was immediately impressed. He never complained about the messier aspects of ranch work, the long hours, or the inevitable heartbreak that comes once you start thinking of your farm animals as pets.
I would trust Smitty with my life. He’s come so far from the out-of-control teen he was. In a weird way, I’m almost sad he’s not a kid anymore; he’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to raising a kid. “I know you do. Still, you know how to get in touch with me if things go sideways,” I text back.
“Yeah, boss. But don’t worry, they won’t.”
I chuckle and reply, “Sounds like you’re trying to put me out of a job.”
