Randall’s a stellar attorney-in-training. He’s sharp witted, quick on his feet, and can deliver a rousing argument. We need him. But we need Heather, too, because despite her inexperience, her tryout was the best we’ve seen since...well, our freshman year. Once Randall’s blood stops roaring in his ears, he’ll remember why we chose Heather in the first place.
I made out an extensive risk assessment spreadsheet—even factoring in that Heather was inexperienced—and Randall had agreed with every item on the list. I guess I weighted her father’s influence too heavily, though.
“Pack it up,” I tell the rest of the crew, who gratefully shove their materials into their backpacks and scoot out of the borrowed classroom.
“Thanks,” Emily murmurs as she passes by the desks Randall and I pushed together to form our attorney table. “I was dying up there.”
“No problem. You did well. You looked vulnerable and victimized. The judges will love you.”
Our mock trial matches are judged by a panel of three individuals, usually attorneys in the community where the competition takes place. They score us on everything from correct courtroom procedure to witness demeanor and believability. After two straight years of losing in Regionals to Central, Randall and I were determined to field a winning team.
We recruited students from the theatre department to play our witnesses, and we were going to ask Riley Hart, a Poli-Sci pre-law major to be our third attorney, but then Heather tried out and the closing argument she delivered in the tryouts nearly moved Coach Jensen to tears.
After Heather explained she had a lot of experience with the law and that her father was the famous Paul Bell, there was no question who was going to fill the third attorney spot.
Bell’s a criminal defense lawyer hired by athletes, politicians, and actors whenever they get accused of doing something wrong. He actually got an athlete out of a robbery charge by claiming the football team had coerced him and he was under undue duress. I may have been a little star struck when Heather was talking to me. Yeah, I definitely put too much weight on the whole “daughter of Paul Bell” thing.
I pause while putting my things away. Is it possible my risk assessment toward Matty—I mean Matt, because we are not on nickname terms—also includes incorrectly weighted items? Not all football players are horndogs. Ahmed, one of Ace’s closest friends on the team, is seriously devoted to his girlfriend. And didn’t one of the Warriors actually get married last month? That’s serious grown-up stuff.
“You forget something?” Randall asks as he wrestles one of the desks back into position.
I look up in mild surprise. I’d forgotten where I was for a moment. “Nope. Let me help you with that.” I have to get Matt Iverson out of my head.
We finish tidying up the room, putting all the desks and chairs back into their uniform rows while Heather inspects her nails by the door. I try not to let that irritate me. Randall, on the other hand? He huffs and puffs and sighs the entire time, which is annoying in its own way.
Once we’re done and I’ve worked up an unfortunate sweat under my button-down, Heather saunters over to run a finger along a desk.
“I think this isn’t quite straight.” She shoves it lightly with her hip.
Randall releases a growl from the back of his throat while I bite back a snarky retort. Taking a deep breath, I try again to play peacemaker.
“Did you need something, Heather?” I’m not sure why she’s hanging around.
She shrugs, a delicate movement. Heather is very pretty. In fact, if she wasn’t so intent on being an attorney, she’d have done a great job as our jaywalking victim who got struck by a car. “Not particularly. I was wondering, though, how it was decided that you’d be in charge, Lucinda?”
I school my features into an impassive expression, not wanting her to know that I hate being called by my full name. I’ve told her at least twice that I prefer to be called Lucy, but since she continues to call me Lucinda, my guess is she’s trying to get every last dig in wherever she can. “I’m not in charge. Coach Jensen is.” Coach Jensen is a local trial attorney who volunteers her time to train us.
“But you put the team together. You were the contact person on the sign-up sheet for this elective.” She rubs her finger along the side of the desk, looking sweet and innocent, but I’ve spent two weeks with this girl and it’s been long enough to realize that sweet and innocent is an act Heather adopts when she wants something.
“Randall lost his cellphone so it made sense for me to put mine on there while he was getting it replaced,” I explain.
“That’s convenient for you, isn’t it?”
I glance over at Randall because I have no idea where she’s going with this. Randall’s expression is one of confusion, too.
“I don’t know if I’d say it was convenient. I had to field a hundred calls and about a quarter of them were crank ones that asked me if the try out was for my ass.”
Heather smirks. “You’re still in charge. The others in the group listen to you.”
“None of us is in charge. We’re all working together toward the same goal. You told me last fall when you tried out that you wanted to join to help us defeat Central and hopefully go on and win Nationals,” I remind her.
“See, that’s why I’m worried.”
“About what?” I shoulder my backpack, wishing I had escaped with the rest of the team, but that would mean leaving Randall and Heather alone, and I was afraid if that happened, only one would be alive for our next practice.