Although I don't relish it, I feel like this won't take long.
“All right then, let’s take our first vote. Raise your hand if you think the defendant is guilty.”
To my complete shock, everyone raises their hands. Everyone, but Wren.
I stare at her. My heart races. Is she messing with me?
“Ma’am?”
“All those who think the defendant is not guilty, raise your hand.”
Wren raises her hand.
People around the table mutter. A few utter curses under their breath.
“Of course that one has to disagree.”
I have to control the urge to backhand that dude. “Ms. ... I mean, Juror Number 12, explain why you think the defendant is not guilty.”
She looks around timidly. I feel bad. But she’s got to convince us. It’s the only way to avoid a hung jury.
“Well,” she says. “It just doesn't make sense. I think she had ample opportunities to kill him, many of which would have been better. They owned guns. She had a pharmacy full of drugs in her medicine cabinet. There were any number of less personal ways for her to kill him. And she wasn’t even in a fit of rage at the time. She was drunk, and everyone she knows told us she was a happy drunk. They’d never seen her physically act out.”
Wren goes on to point out all the inconsistencies in the arguments of the prosecution.
Finally, after about an hour of back and forth, she gets one more vote.
Mine.
Everyone eyes me suspiciously.
“This was supposed to be an open and shut case,” whines Juror Number Seven.
“This is supposed to be about us using our brains and doing the right thing, Seven,” I say.
Arguments go on for another hour, until it’s time for a break and the bailiff brings us our food orders.
But neither Wren nor I can eat. I hate seeing her get verbally beaten down.
She’s right though. There’s not enough evidence to convince me beyond a reasonable doubt.
I still believe she did it. But I have enough doubt that I can’t convict her according to the instructions we’ve been given.
The deliberations continue after lunch. One by one, the jurors seem to come around to understand Wren’s arguments.
She’s one hell of an arguer. And she becomes more and more confident the more people decide she’s correct.
At 4 p.m., I call for another vote.
This time, it’s unanimous. I inform the bailiff and we are escorted back into the courtroom.
I deliver the verdict with shaking hands. “Your Honor, we, the members of the jury, find the defendant, Ellen Jacobsen, accused of the charge of murder in the first degree, not guilty.”
The defendant drops her head onto her forearms in relief and what appears to be grief. The prosecution team looks stunned. People in the courtroom gallery grumble in anger and some cry out in gratitude.
The judge pounds her gavel and demands order.
We, the jurors, are quickly escorted out of the courtroom, processed out, and told to wait together for the shuttle to take us back to the hotel so we can gather our things.
We get our phones back from Officer Max, who tells us we are free to speak to the media if we wish, but we’re not required to. Our jobs here are done.
But I have no interest in speaking to any members of the media. Instead, I call Smitty.
While we’re waiting for the shuttle van to take us back to the hotel, I realize Wren is not by my side. I have half a mind to hang up the phone and go looking for her, when she comes outside to join us. Late as always, I think.
She winks at me and I almost don’t notice Smitty has answered the phone. Before Wren is in earshot, I tell Smitty and the guys to take a few days off. I’m going to need some time to unwind and get Wren settled in at the ranch, and I want to keep her all to myself for a while.
Chapter Ten
Wren
“Whose permission do I need to get for you to marry me?”
The question comes as Sam and I are sharing peach pie for dessert.
It’s our first meal together outside of sequestration and it’s mercifully quiet. Free of the ever-present, ever-bored Officer Max.
Sam let me use his kitchen to cook us dinner, and he actually ate my stir-fried rice with tofu and vegetables, and liked it. Or so he said.
Now we’re eating pie together—one pan, two forks. It feels super cozy and romantic; I can’t remember feeling this content. Ever.
“Me,” I reply. “I’m the only one,” I reply.
“There’s gotta be somebody who looks after you besides yourself,” Sam insists.
I shrug and shove some of the pie into my face. It is the best pie I’ve ever had in my life. Apparently the guys who work for him can cook too, and left him some meals and desserts in the fridge as their way of welcoming him back home. It gives me a good feeling; he must treat his employees well if they do that kind of thing out of the goodness of their hearts. As if there was any doubt.
“Maybe my brother. He’s at college three hours away though.”
“We can drive up there tomorrow,” he says, as if it’s non-negotiable.
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What’s your hurry? We just came home from the most mentally exhausting week of our lives,” I reply.
He grins at me. “Because you’re pregnant, and I want to make an honest woman out of you.”
I wave him off. “There’s no way to know I’m pregnant already.”
“I can tell. You’re glowing and you’re tired.”
“I’m tired because I just spent five hours arguing in a jury room. I’m glowing because I’m happy.”
Sam sits back. I take in the full view of him. A man. A bachelor for almost too long, too tall for this tiny farmhouse kitchen.
“If I’m going to marry you, we need to make this kitchen bigger,” I say, gesturing around the room with my fork.
“Why?”
“Am I gonna be a rancher’s wife or are you just planning to keep me locked up in the bedroom?”
He grins. “A retired rancher’s wife. I’m going to sell the business to Smitty and keep some of the land on the other side of the pasture to build my log cabin. It overlooks the hills. There’s a pond, fed by a nice big stream full of fish. How does that sound to you?”
“As long as you catch and release only.”
He nods. “Whatever you want, darlin’. Hey, you want me to become a vegan, I will.”
I’m aghast. “What will people say? The retired rancher’s now a vegan? They’ll miss you down at the chophouse.”
Sam acts like this is no big deal. As if I’ve asked him to change to LED lightbulbs and not give up red meat, his favorite food. “Yeah, but I’m kinda liking the idea of trying new things.”
I smile mischievously. “Oh yeah? That have anything to do with my surprise?”
“Sure does.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Will I?”
He stands up. “Let’s find out.”
Sam doesn’t bother cleaning up the dishes before picking me up and hoisting me over his shoulder. I give a loud squeal. Nobody’s ever thrown me over their shoulder before. But then nobody’s ever claimed me so thoroughly before either. I like it.