Page 20 of The Woman on the Jury

“Say it was,” I agreed. “What do you expect from me?”

“I expect you to do something. Look what they did,” she demanded, reaching into her pocket, and I saw two of my men reach into their jackets. They dropped their hands when I raised mine. “Look,” she said, thrusting her phone across the table at me.

And, yeah, the old man got beat to fucking hell, there was no denying that.

But I was finding it hard to believe it was the Myers brothers.

“That sucks, but I’m still not seeing a good reason for them to do this.”

“Payback,” she said.

“Payback for what? For you not being able to make up your mind? ‘Cause that’s how this would look to an outsider.”

“Payback because they think I’m in your pocket,” she said.

That… was a fair point, actually.

It wasn’t exactly unusual for jurors in mafia cases to be bribed or threatened. It was why they would often sequester them. I think the only reason they hadn’t in this case was because I wasn’t one of the Big Five bosses. Capos had reach, sure, but not as far a reach as a Boss.

“Alright,” I said, taking a breath, then letting it out. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, all too aware that I needed to run everything by the boss right now. I was on thin enough ice already.

“You’ll… see what you can do?” she asked. She was shaking now, and I couldn’t tell if it was anger, fear, or cold. It was anyone’s guess.

“Yes, I’ll see what I can do,” I said, getting to my feet, and buttoning my jacket.

My suit had been a major bone of contention in my trial. Both my lawyers and my jury consultants wanted me in blue. Guilty men, apparently, wore black. Innocent, blue.

They hadn’t liked it when I’d reminded them that I was guilty.

“That’s not… what am I supposed to do until then?” she asked.

“Go stay with your friend,” I said.

“I… can’t,” she told me.

I probably should have asked why. That was what people did. But I didn’t give a shit why.

“Then stay at a hotel until you hear from me.”

“I can’t afford a hotel,” she said, spitting out the words like they were bitter.

I understood that feeling, though. My old man had been rolling in cash. But he made damn sure that we never got to spend any of it.

A hungry dog will bring home his own dinner, he’d told me more than a few times.

So, yeah, I’d been hustling since fucking grade school to have some extra cash.

I understood the humiliation of not having money like everyone else did to spend how they saw fit.

I reached into my pocket, pulling the clip off my money, and tossing a grand on the table.

“Get a hotel. Get some sleep. Leave your number with one of my men,” I said, waving toward them. “And I’ll be in touch.”

With that, I turned and walked away.

And absolutely did not think about how thankful this woman would be when I handled this problem for her.

Thankful enough to let me strip her out of those baggy clothes, and finally see what was underneath, perhaps?

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