Naive by Charles Royce (world best books to read .txt) 📕

assistant, because it was right after his affair with Josh. Now, listen to me … Shawn says the letter isn’t in any of the files they confiscated from our condo, and it’s not in the discovery from the prosecution, so the only other place it could have been was in his files at work, or your files you took with you when you left.”

“I don’t know.” Jenna looks uncomfortable, which is annoying Micah. “I remember Lenny asking me to delete it several months after I transcribed it for him, and I barely remember what was in it. Plus, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do what anymore?”

“This. All of this.” She flattens her palm and rotates her hand around in a circle. “I want to help, I really do. But I’m scared to get any further into this.”

“Please just check, would you?” Micah finds himself over-enunciating. “I never read the goddamn thing, but because of everything Lennox told me about this guy, I think it might be key to who the company may have hired to kill him. Seriously. Help me here. Jury selection is beginning this week, for Christ’s sakes. Shawn has a plan for securing the right jury, but I’m not so sure about it.”

She sits there, lost in thought.

“Please, Jenna. Do it for Lenny,” Micah prods. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jenna says, forgetting the request as soon as she leaves.

C h a p t e r   3 3

I deserve this, Astrid thinks, congratulating herself as she takes off her high heels and pours herself a glass of cabernet. Although she hasn’t had the opportunity to spend much time at home over the past few weeks, she has set aside this evening to relax by working on her opening statement.

Two months ago, Assistant District Attorney Astrid Lerner bought the home of her dreams, a modest one-bedroom end unit in the historic Christadora House across from Tomkins Square Park in the East Village. The condo is shotgun style, on the fourteenth floor, with sweeping north, east, and south views. Manhattan is majestically highlighted through thick black iron-framed windows against stark white walls.

She fancies herself a bargain hunter, which was evident in the way she negotiated the deal on the condo itself. Even after her offer of $30,000 below asking was accepted, the appraisal came in way below offer. She stood her ground and decided not to walk away, forcing her real estate agency to handle further negotiations so they wouldn’t lose the sale. She ended up getting the $1.2 million condo for just under a million.

She tops off her glass and revels in her victories, not only her condo purchase, but also the fact that she has just negotiated the jury of her dreams … An all-male, all-Republican set of twelve. Almost.Just two questionable peers separate me from convicting him, she relishes. One is a lesbian activist, the other is the female CFO of a high-tech company. In this moment, she is confident with her odds, despite her suspicions of her opponent Shawn Connelly.

Three days of jury selection and only one peremptory challenge? She asks herself. It’s so unlike him to buckle like that. She takes another sip.

((Buzz.))

Astrid places the wineglass down, disturbed by the buzz kill, yet fully expecting the arrival of Detective Penance.

“Come on up,” she says into the intercom, and presses him in.

She takes her glass of wine into her bedroom, places it on her nightstand, and grabs a notebook from her briefcase. She reads the opening paragraph:

LADIES AND GENTELMEN OF THE JURY.

“Good beginning, Ass,” she says out loud. “Ass” a nickname she calls herself, especially when she notices something stupid like her own typo.

((Knock knock.))

She puts the notebook under her arm, grabs the glass of wine, and walks to the door.

“Detective.”

“Ms. Lerner.” Detective Bronson Penance does his best imaginary hat removal.

“Why, do come in.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“God, we are dorks.”

“You speak the truth, m’dear.”

Detective Penance sits down in the chair where Astrid was enjoying her wine, takes out some papers and photos and spreads them across the coffee table. Unshaven, with his shirt half untucked, he appears tired but restless. He feigns excitement, if only to boost his adrenaline for the conversation that’s about to happen.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?” He knows that Astrid has a lot of work to do the night before a trial.

“Before we start, did you hear about my jury?” She is still standing.

“You mean how you basically ran right over the legendary guru, Shawn Connelly, and negotiated the perfect jury? You found ten full-on conservative religious men. In New York City, for crying out loud.”

“Yeah, it’s strange. I would have thought he would have objected more, it was like we were looking for the same people, except those final two. Although I do like the lesbian as a person. And I think the CEO and I could be friends.”

“Maybe that’s his strategy. All he needs is one or two. A hung jury maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe, although he knows we’d turn right back around and pursue it again,” she answers, then gets distracted. “Oh, oh, get this … Do you know that one of the jurors actually made the statement … Wait, let me find it.”

She bends down, reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook, never putting her drink down.

“Here it is.” She begins to read. “Okay, so he says, ‘Faggot priests who abuse young children should be hung by their balls and have their fingernails ripped off one by one.’ Then he did the sign of the cross.” She mimes the movement using her wine glass. “Can you believe that?”

“In the courtroom?” He tries to hold in his laughter. “In front of Judge Wilson?”

“I thought he was gonna have a heart attack,” she says, sipping her wine.

“Please don’t tell me that guy is on the jury.”

“He’s foreman. Shawn was actually the one who asked the question about Catholic priests.”

“Something fishy there,” he says. “Who did he use the peremptory on?”

“Some juror