his associates were on the up-and-up and he was helping them all get started.”
“With that theory, you could free up just about anyone for a white-collar crime.”
“The jury has to be convinced,” Juliet told him. “Ultimately, the truth must speak for itself.”
“The truth?” he asked, munching on the chips that she had hardly noticed appear. “Or some twisted bits of fact and fiction that pose as the truth?”
A topic close to her heart. “How do you define fact and fiction?” she asked. “Some people believe in angels. They’d pass a lie detector test claiming that angels exist. That they’ve actually seen an angel. For others, reality is completely devoid of such possibilities. Who’s right?”
“If someone can prove that angels exist, show a picture of ones they’ve seen—” He stopped, smiled. “I’m digging myself in deeper than I care to be at the moment.”
She didn’t know if it was the drink or if there really was something about this man’s presence that affected her, but that strange mixture of anticipation and appeal she’d felt nine years ago was settling over her again.
All these years she’d blamed it on the drinks. She’d had several back then.
Today she’d had three sips. So far.
“Okay, well, think about this,” she said. “You don’t have to buy into it, just try it on long enough to see how it feels.” She helped herself to a chip.
“I’m game.”
“Truth is the means by which human beings try to define reality, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.” His nod was accompanied by a slow smile. “Most of us anyway.”
“So the issue is defining reality.”
“Maybe.” He took another chip, his eyes narrowed.
“But any psychiatrist will tell you that for every single human being there is a different version of reality. Our realities are shaped by the belief systems we were raised with.” She took another sip. “Say, for instance, from the time I’m a little girl, my mother punishes me for saying the word ain’t. So I end up thinking it’s a bad word. Just like damn. Or worse.”
“Okay.” His enjoyment of the conversation was obvious. His eyes lit up, just as his daughter’s did when Juliet debated with her. Much the way they had that long-ago night, when Juliet and Blake had talked until the bar closed and they had to go somewhere else.
Juliet wasn’t sure there’d been another man in her life who’d risen to the challenge without feeling challenged, without feeling a need to assert male superiority or authority, without ego being involved.
“So then I meet a friend whose mother uses the word ain’t regularly. My friend uses the word. I’m absolutely convinced that she swears.”
“A little feeble, but I get where you’re going with that. I still don’t see the application to Eaton James. In his case, reality is clearly defined by irrefutable documents.”
“The documents aren’t on trial. A man’s intentions are on trial. You look at those documents and attach your meaning to them. But just because it’s your version doesn’t mean it’s the real version. How can he be guilty of defrauding people if he didn’t deliberately mislead them?”
“He invoiced mock companies for goods that were never produced. Those invoices were paid.”
“And he was under the understanding that the goods had been shipped.”
“There was no proof of that. No confirmation of sales. No receipts.”
“So he was too trusting. That’s not a crime.”
Blake shook his head. “I didn’t ask you here to debate Eaton James.”
Neither had she accepted for that reason, though she was content to do so if it kept her out of more dangerous territory. “Here’s the thing,” she said, returning to what she’d started to say earlier. “We all have different views of reality—which, as long as we follow society’s rules, is just fine. And when it’s perceived that someone breaks one of those rules, society’s reality is determined by a vote from the majority. That’s justice. In this case, the majority comprises the twelve people sitting in that jury box. Schuster presented the state’s reality, I present James’s, and it’s up to those twelve individuals to determine which version is true.”
“I’ll say this for you,” Blake said, shaking his head. “You sure have a colorful way of looking at it all.”
“As opposed to you, who sees everything in black and white?” She couldn’t stop herself from issuing the challenge, probably because she somehow knew it would be taken in the manner intended—without defensiveness.
“I do like things to be clearly defined.”
“I remember that about you.” She took a chip, dipped it in salsa, brought it slowly to her mouth.
“What?” The corner of Blake’s mouth twisted slightly.
“That morning, after…you know.” What in the hell was she doing? She paused before continuing. “You were quite serious about making sure that we both clearly agreed about what had and hadn’t happened. And about what couldn’t happen again. You wanted it all spelled out. We wouldn’t exchange information because we weren’t going to contact each other.”
“I was leaving the country!”
“And I would’ve shot myself before I’d have become entangled with a man.”
With both hands around his glass on the table in front of him, he looked over at her, a smile in his eyes, but his mouth was serious. “It was damn good for what it was, though.”
She floundered. Wished she’d downed her drink the moment it came. Where was a safe version of the truth when she needed it?
“Yeah.”
“YOU MENTIONED your ex-wife,” Juliet ventured at the beginning of her second drink. They’d ordered a platter of ribs and chicken appetizers with veggies.
Mary Jane’s Brownie troop was going to Sea World that afternoon, and she wouldn’t be dropped off until bedtime. Juliet had no reason to hurry home. And it wasn’t as though she’d ever have cause to see this man again.
“I didn’t realize you were divorced.”
The one time she’d run into him, he’d just returned to the States five years before—with a wife. Mary Jane had been about three at the time. Marcie had been visiting and Juliet had just run out to pick up some wine for the two of them to have with dinner. Blake had been over in her part of town looking at a prospective building site and had stopped for a six-pack of beer.
He loosened his tie. “She didn’t like San Diego.”
“How can anyone not like San Diego?”
He tried to smile, but failed rather miserably,
