Free The Jury Master by Robert Dugoni

and became stone-cold gray when she was unhappy. She either ignored the unsolicited advances, put the attorney in his place with a deft comment—often about his spouse—or left the party early before the alcohol loosened tongues.
    “Are you all right?” She crossed her arms like a school principal expecting a truthful answer.
    “I’m fine,” he said.
    “You look tired.”
    “I am tired. That’s what trials do; they make you tired.”
    “You’re not sick?”
    “You’re not that lucky.”
    She stepped closer, considering his face. “What’s with the bump on your forehead?”
    He pulled down the brim of his hat. “Just a bump. Hit my head.”
    “Rock climbing?” she asked with disapproval.
    “Not yet.”
    He took off his windbreaker and slid into the leather chair, but Tina remained resolute. After so many years together she knew his bullshit, and God knew she never hesitated to call him on it.
    He sat back. “Okay. Someone broke into my apartment and trashed it pretty well. I’ve been up most of the morning dealing with it.”
    “That’s horrible. Did you—”
    “Call the police? Yes. And they came and took a report and that’s as far as it will go because they have no suspects and it does not appear anything of value was taken.”
    “Are you going to—”
    “File a claim with my insurance company? Yes. It’s another one of the reasons I came in.”
    “Do you—”
    “Have any idea who did it? No, just the usual suspects who hate me.”
    She frowned at him. “Fine, be that way.” She turned to leave.
    He put down the stack of mail. “Tina?”
    She turned back to him.
    “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit tired and frustrated. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
    “Apology accepted. Is there anything I can do?”
    “How are you at picking out furniture from catalogues?”
    “They wrecked your furniture?”
    “I need a sofa and a matching chair. Leather. Basic colors. Just a place to sit. I’ll also need a television, a stereo, and a new mattress.”
    “They stole your mattress?”
    “Just ripped it open.”
    “Why?”
    He shrugged. “That is the question. Find some place that will deliver. Put it on my credit card.”
    “Do I have carte blanche?”
    “Don’t empty my account. Oh, and would you bring my personal insurance file on the building?”
    He waited for her to close the door behind her. Then he swiveled his chair toward an expansive view of a crystal-blue, cloudless sky above the slate-gray waters of the San Francisco Bay. An airplane had left a small white streak, like a painter’s errant brush on a blue canvas.
    Five minutes later Tina walked back in. “David—what are you looking at?”
    He turned from the window. “Just thought I’d admire the view for a moment.”
    She walked to the window. “Why?”
    “What do you mean, why? Why not?”
    “Because in the ten years I’ve been here I’ve never seen you do it before.” She handed him three pink message slips and four unsigned letters. “I forwarded the rest of your messages to your voice mail.”
    With his success she had started screening his calls and his e-mails. He recognized the first two messages and categorized them as “not urgent.” He did not recognize the third name.
    “Who’s Joe Branick?”

10
    Charles Town,
    West Virginia
    M OLE!”
    J. Rayburn Franklin’s voice rumbled down the hall like an avalanche, spilling coffee cups and papers from desks. Marty Banto jerked in his chair, banged his knee on a drawer, and swore. “Damn. Here we go again.”
    Franklin’s appearance was always a letdown. He was the only man Tom Molia had ever met who couldn’t compete with his own voice. The voice belonged to an overweight, cigar-smoking politician or a high school football coach. With round, wire-rimmed glasses on a thin, perpetually strained face, Franklin looked like a constipated accountant during tax season. The deep baritone had to have been a gift from God, a weapon in what appeared to be an