Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,21
Now, about the windows. I want you to pay attention to the things you hear and see while you’re here. Nothing that frightens or startles you is silly. Tell the officers. It’s their job to check out anything that looks, sounds or even smells suspicious. I don’t care if you call them a hundred times about cats fighting.”
She gave a small laugh. “I promise, despite the surroundings, I’m really not a hypersensitive Victorian maiden.”
“You’re doing fine,” he said, patting her hand.
Immediately, her expression hardened and she drew her hand away. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Prosecutor.” She gulped a large sip of coffee and picked up the cinnamon roll with her fingers. “So, are we ready to prep?” she asked, then bit into the gooey roll, leaving a bigger dollop of icing on her lip this time.
Harte’s insides ached at the sight of her tongue slipping out to catch the sugary frosting. She was fascinating. Haughty as a runway model one second, stuffing her face like a college kid the next. He looked at a point somewhere behind her head and forced himself to ignore her unconscious sensuality. He swallowed. “We’ll start this evening. Unfortunately, you don’t have a lot of evidence to testify about. Not that your testimony is not important. Just the opposite. I believe we might have a chance to put Ernest Yeoman behind bars for the first time ever. I merely mean that your testimony probably won’t take that long. Still, I want to make sure you’re comfortable enough with what you’re going to say that you come across as earnest and likeable.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she retorted. “You know, every bit of what I told you and the police is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” She stuck her chin out defiantly, although since she was still chewing, it made her seem like a stubborn kid.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m not questioning your honesty, but you know as well as I do that if a witness is nervous or too emotional, it doesn’t matter if she’s telling the truth. What matters is the jury’s perception of her. And I want the jurors to see you as the grieving granddaughter who is bravely holding it together, even though her heart is broken.”
“Wow. Queue the violins,” Dani said sarcastically. “Think you can pull that off?”
Harte grimaced at her tone. “I’m not implying that you’re not. I know how much you loved your grandfather,” he said. “All I’m trying to do is—”
“Right. Save it for your closing arguments.” She got up and took her dishes to the sink and turned on the water.
He sat there staring at her back. He prided himself on doing a good job of easing the pain of grieving loved ones, but somehow, he’d managed to screw this up. She sounded contemptuous, just as she’d been back when they’d faced each other across the courtroom as opponents. But he’d heard a catch in her voice.
He wished...hell, he didn’t know what he wished. Maybe that she’d trust him to keep her safe and get her through the trial.
He looked at his watch. “I’m due in court soon. I’d better go.” He stood and picked up his mug, preparing to take it to the sink, but she whirled and snatched it out of his hand.
“I’ll do that.”
He pressed his lips together. “Okay. I’ll see you this evening.”
“What time?” she asked, then shook her head. “Oh, right,” she said sarcastically, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll be here.”
“It depends on when the judge in my case recesses for the day. I hope it’ll be by six at the latest. Want me to bring you something for dinner?”
She eyed him narrowly. “I’ve been craving jambalaya. And the best jambalaya in the world is Mama Pinto’s.”
“Where is that?”
“You’ve never had Mama Pinto’s jambalaya? Oh, your mouth is going to thank you! It is seriously the best in the world.”
“And it’s—?”
“Oh, just off Tremé. It’s only about three miles from here.”
“Tremé? Seriously? You want me to navigate through the area where they’re filming the TV series during rush hour? It’ll take me an hour to get from the courthouse to there and from there to here. And that’s if Hollywood South is done filming. If they’re still on-site, it’ll be longer. I tell you what. There’s a café that makes killer jambalaya about three blocks from here on Tchoupitoulas,” he said hopefully.
“Okay, never mind,” she said, her voice dripping with disappointment.
She didn’t fool him. He knew what she was doing. She