Sweet as Honey (The Seven Sisters) - By Caitlyn Robertson Page 0,14

though, so she tried to reassure herself that everything was fine. Besides, she had other things to worry about at that moment, because the lawyers had taken their places, and to one side the defendant had entered the court and stood nervously, looking at her feet.

She was medium-height, of medium prettiness, with shoulder-length mousy brown hair. She picked at her nails and refused to look up at the people waiting in the gallery. Honey could understand her fear. How intimidating to come into the courtroom and see all those people looking at you, all judging you before they’ve even heard your story. What had she done? Stolen something? Honey had feared it might be a horrible case, with the defendant accused of being a rapist, or worse, a murderer. She couldn’t believe this young woman had murdered anyone. She knew she shouldn’t draw conclusions before she’d heard the evidence, but then that’s what first impressions were all about, weren’t they? That’s why the woman wore a neat blouse and skirt, and why she’d brushed her hair and put lipstick on. Her lawyer would have instructed her on how to present herself, to ensure the jury’s first impression was a good one.

The door opened for the judge to enter, and everyone rose as he made his way to his seat. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair who scared Honey and she hadn’t even heard him speak yet. But when he finally did speak, his voice was low and reassuring, and he welcomed everyone to the courtroom and asked them to sit.

The registrar read the charges to the defendant. Honey had trouble concentrating, her head buzzing with a hundred different things. Something to do with wounding with intent—the woman had attacked someone?

“How do you plead?” the registrar finished.

The woman cleared her throat. “Not guilty.” She glanced at the judge, then looked away.

The judge nodded and began to explain the jury selection process. He outlined how they should walk into the courtroom if their names were called and pass the two lawyers sitting at tables in the middle of the room. If one of the lawyers called out “challenge,” they were to turn around and walk back to their seat. If they weren’t challenged, they were to walk to the jury box and take their place. They would be sworn in once all twelve jurors had been chosen.

The registrar had a wooden box on a stand in front of her, and she began turning it as if she were going to call out Lotto numbers. Then she pulled a number out and checked it against her list. “Shatner, William,” she announced.

Honey blinked, a bizarre image flitting through her head of Captain Kirk walking toward the jury box as he asked Scotty to beam him up. It was a young man who came forward, though, smartly dressed, a look of irritation sweeping briefly across his face as he entered the courtroom. He walked past the lawyers, who looked him up and down.

“Challenge,” said the defending lawyer.

The young man stopped, turned and walked back, rolling his eyes. Why had the lawyer challenged him? Presumably because he thought the guy may be overly sympathetic toward the prosecution. Interesting.

She watched the next names come out of the barrel. Another man, slightly older, this time allowed to pass. A young woman, younger than herself, challenged by the prosecuting lawyer. An older woman, unchallenged, who took her place on the stand. A very old man, white-haired, unchallenged. Then another younger man followed by a younger woman, both challenged.

Honey’s heart began to sink. The more challenges, the more likely it was she’d be called.

And sure enough, with only three places left to fill, the registrar said, “Summers, Honeysuckle.”

She got to her feet and squeezed awkwardly past the others in her row, clamped her handbag underneath her arm and walked into the main courtroom. She fixed her gaze on the floor, saying in her head over and over again Please challenge! Please challenge! She felt the lawyers’ eyes on her, but her feet kept walking and nothing was said, and then she was at the jury box, and the woman standing there asked her whether she wanted to swear on the Bible or take an oath. She took the Bible, climbed the steps into the jury box and took her seat.

Crap.

Why hadn’t she been challenged? All the other young women—anyone who looked remotely like they might sympathise for the defendant—had been. Her head ached and she