Shortly after noon on a bright fall Wednesday, Abigail Barnes was taken into custody. She was escorted down the center aisle of the crowded courtroom by a somber-faced sheriff's guard. Whether it was apprehension or excitement that threatened her steadiness she wasn't sure. But she was oddly grateful for the firmness of the hand at her elbow, guiding her through the large black leather-sheathed doors to the stairway that wound to the ground floor of the Windsor County Courthouse.

"The van is waiting out front," the burly guard clipped as they started down the creaking steps.

Abby simply nodded, too concerned with matching his pace on the narrow stairs to say a word. Reaching the door, she was whisked through, then momentarily exposed to the noontime sun as the guard hurried her down the short granite path before inserting her into the dark blue van standing at the curb. She was barely seated when the door slid shut with a jarring bang. Her gaze flew questioningly to the uniformed driver as the guard returned to the courthouse.

"Where...?" she began, looking wide-eyed and helpless enough to evoke sympathy.

"He's gone to get the others. Then we'll be on our way."

"The others?" she asked softly. "So there were others?" It had been impossible to tell the fate of those taken from the holding room before she herself had been called.

"Two others," the guard informed her smugly. "We're getting there." Satisfied, he turned his attention to the gaggle of curious bystanders scattered on the lawn, the sidewalk, the street. Following his gaze, Abby seemed to notice the crowd for the first time.

"What are they staring at?" she whispered self-consciously, the question simply an expression of dismay to which she didn't expect an answer. She received one nonetheless.

"You." The guard tossed the single word back over his shoulder, then said no more.

Abby shivered in anticipation of what was to come. Lowering her head and settling more deeply into her seat in a futile effort to escape the eyes beyond, she yielded to amazement as she reviewed the events of the morning.

Propped straight in identically unyielding chairs, these men and women represented a cross section of the Vermont she'd come to know well.

No one could deny the subtle tension in the air. Each person in the room had heard the judge at the start of the morning's session and knew that, should he be chosen as a juror for this trial, his freedom would be sharply curtailed for the next three weeks.

Three weeks. To Abby, the thought was not as odious as it might have been a year earlier. Then there had been no Sean Hennessy in her life, pressuring her for a commitment she simply couldn't make. The chase hadn't even begun then. Now it tired her. Three weeks of captivity might offer an odd but welcome freedom.

Her lips toyed with a mischievous smile as she took a breath and sat back. She recalled the moment earlier that morning when the judge had addressed the gathered group, explaining the mechanics of a locked-up jury, asking to see those who, for one reason or another, couldn't possibly serve. A good half of those present had stepped forward, each taking a private turn before the judge, offering his best excuse and a plea for sympathy. In the majority of cases it was forthcoming. Judge Theodore Hammond knew the importance of weighing civic responsibility against emotional hardship. His jurors would have to be in top shape to absorb the barrage of testimony presented to them. The Bradley case promised to be a headliner. It wasn't every day that the grown son of one of the state's most prominent citizens stood trial on a charge of kidnapping.

The soft hum of conversation brought Abby's attention back to her fellows, several of whom carried on discussions among themselves. Others had buried themselves in books or magazines. Still others stared distractedly out the windows at the sparkling fall morning, much as she might have been tempted to do had her attention not been caught by a pair of warm gray eyes.

Slowly, she turned her head toward her viewer. He was every bit the man with a rakishly rich head of tawny brown hair, a face full of character, and a build that spoke of virility combined with grace. Abby was intrigued by the contrast he presented to the average man in the room. He was younger, probably not yet in his forties, charmingly casual in tan corduroy slacks and a matching blazer patched at the elbows, and he wore a certain air of worldliness she found captivating.

As he lounged against the sill of one of the four ceiling-to-hip windows, he seemed much more relaxed than the others. She wondered whether he too might have a secret reason for appreciating a three-week hiatus from routine. But she averted her eyes, feeling strangely shy when the stranger's brow furrowed in puzzlement. Perhaps he too wondered...

Abby's gaze was one of many that shot toward the door as it opened to allow for the court officer's appearance.

"James Szar-Szarcylla...?" He read from his list, faltering slightly, relieved when a middle-aged man in a worn brown suit recognized the pronunciation and rose to be led upstairs to the courtroom.

The tremor of a collective sigh whispered its relief through those remaining. Venturing another glance at the man by the window, Abby was pleased to find that he too had detected the murmur and found similar amusement in it.

For it was an odd waiting game they played. This was the third full day of jury selection. Of fourteen jurors needed -- the usual twelve plus two alternates -- nine had already been chosen. And there was no way of knowing how many had been added to the roster from those interviewed this morning. It wasn't unrealistic to assume that at any time now the judge would declare a successful impanelment of the jury and announce the prompt dismissal of those not chosen to serve. That was the obvious prayer of most in the room.

Not so Abby. Granted, the thought of being sealed off from the world for a period of three weeks had disadvantages for her, too. There were numerous commitments, both professional and personal, that she'd very much miss. Yet she somehow felt it to be a worthwhile trade.

With a sigh, she drew back the soft cuff of her blouse to reveal the oval face of her slim gold watch. Eleven-thirty. A busy time at the office. Janet would be covering for her. But then would come lunch and the good Dr. Hennessy wouldn't settle for Janet. He'd be after Abby. Always after Abby. If only she returned his love... but she didn't. And, nuisance that he was notwithstanding, she simply couldn't tell him to buzz off. For one thing, he was her boss. For another, she was too kind a soul to hurt him. After all, they'd been dating for months, and she did care for him deeply. There had to be another solution.

"Abigail Barnes...?"

Her head shot up as her name echoed loudly from the door. Returning from distraction with a startled blink, she realized that this one moment of truth, at least, was at hand. Composing herself, she tucked the journal into her bag, rose from the chair, and walked forward. She was aware of every eye in the room following her, but hesitated before the court officer only long enough to spare a sidelong glance at the man by the window. Answering his wink for good luck with a shy smile of her own, she crossed the threshold and followed her leader toward the stairs.

It was the last smile to cross her lips for a while. One simply didn't smile while seated on the witness stand facing three sober judges, opposing teams of stern-faced lawyers, a packed gathering of spectators and media representatives, and an intent-eyed defendant. One simply filled in one's name, address, and occupation when asked to, elaborated wherever it was requested, and answered as honestly as possible any other questions posed.

At only one point had Abby been concerned that her forthrightness might remove her from consideration. It had been when the judge had rocked back in his oversized chair and narrowed his gaze on her.

"Now, Miss Barnes, we come to the sticky matter of pretrial publicity. As you know, the purpose of a sequestered jury is to protect the jurors from any force that might possibly influence them during the course of the trial. We have no control, however, over what you may have picked up in newspapers or on television during the past weeks and months. Please answer me as honestly as you can." He had levered himself forward then, stressing the gravity of his plea. "Have you either heard or read anything about this trial prior to your coming here today?"

Frowning, Abby had wondered how any thinking person in the state could have arrived here in total ignorance. The very fact that there had been a change of venue from the northern county where the crime was purported to have taken place was evidence of the wealth of publicity that had surrounded the case. The press had been concerned with little else for days.

"Yes," she admitted with soft trepidation. "I've followed the story." She held her breath, waiting, but he seemed neither surprised nor discouraged.

"Could you tell me what you remember hearing or reading?"

Feeling awkward for the first time, all too aware of the defendant sitting not five yards away, she kept her eyes on the judge. "I've read that Derek Bradley, the defendant, was arrested and charged with the kidnapping of his former lover, who claims that he took her to an isolated cabin and kept her there for several weeks. Actually, most of what I've read has dealt with the publicity that will surround the trial once it begins."

The judge nodded. "I understand. Now I want you to consider whether you feel you've formed an opinion based on what you've read. In other words, do you already have an assumption as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant?"

Lowering her head, Abby had pondered the question. Then she looked back at the judge. "No, I don't believe so. It's the role of the court, not the media, to determine the guilt or innocence of a person."

"Then you feel you'd be able to hear the evidence with an open mind?"

"Yes," she responded with a confidence she felt.

Still sober, the judge looked toward the lawyers. "The court finds this juror indifferent. Mr. Weitz?"

Indifferent, it appeared, was a good thing to be if one wanted to serve on a jury. Within minutes, she had been duly sworn in and committed to the state for the next few weeks of her life.

Copyright © 1983 by Barbara Delinsky