Page 2 of Courtroom Drama
I can’t help the smile that lifts the corners of my mouth.
Not only do I want this, but I feel like Ineedit. It’s perhaps an odd thing to admit, I realize, that I might view serving on a sequestered jury in a high-profile murder trial as a welcome “break.” But I do. The mounting pressure of monotony has been weighing on me as of late. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am. To be self-sufficient. Independent. I’ve been practically militant in my pursuit of success and autonomy, having spent the last ten years proving to myself that I don’t need to rely on anyone for anything and never will again.
Myoneguilty pleasure is reality TV. And now, I’ll have a direct influence on the most significant thing to ever happen in Margot Kitsch’s life. And, perhaps, my own.
1.
High-Profile Case (phrase)
a case that attracts enough media or public attention that the court should make significant alterations to ordinary court procedures to manage it
the secret lives of celebrities
Ten Days Later
I’m buzzing with anticipation as I pull into the underground garage of the Los Angeles County Superior Court. I check the instructions on my phone again before exiting my car.
If driving, park in the reserved spots on sublevel two past the boom barrier. Take the east elevator to the fourth floor, where a bailiff will meet you.
Your discretion is of the utmost importance.
The dramatics of the instructions only add to my anticipation.
I have to force away a grin as I step onto the cracked concrete, the click of my black suede heels rocketing from corner to corner of the synthetically lit space. I gather my roller bag from the trunk of my car, the chalk-white paint growing brittle at the trunk handle. The flickering light strip overhead hums and crackles ominously, emphasizing my aloneness. The garage is quiet and surprisingly clean, and I wonder for a moment if I have arrived at the right place and at the correct time,though there is no need to check. I’ve committed the instructions to memory. Despite this, I silently replay the five-page list of directives in my head as I enter the garage elevator, roller bag in tow, faux leather tote straps over my blazer-covered shoulder.
Don’t enter or exit the main courtroom doors. Don’t speak to those not directly involved in the case, including small talk.
Be aware of your surroundings.
Be wary of people who approach you.
My grin wins over.
It’s perhaps unlikely that anAuthentic Moms of Malibufan would be chosen for the Margot Kitsch jury. During selection, nearly two weeks ago now, neither Margot norAMOMwas ever explicitly mentioned or asked about. I suppose the attorneys had given up on finding jurors who didn’t know anything about the franchise; comments they made during the selection process made me believe it had been arduous and they’d already weeded through several jury pools. Because of this, there was little need to downplay my knowledge of her or the franchise (of which there are six different city casts—and I watch them all).
And while many people would have too much going on in their real lives to be sequestered for an indeterminate number of days, I only have work. No husband or kids for whom I am the sole caretaker (both reasons I heard during selection that allowed potential jurors to be excused). Work did take some finagling, as I’ve barely missed any days in my four years with my firm. No vacations and copious amounts of overtime have made them come to rely on and heavily benefit from my workaholic tendencies. I told them I tried every excuse I could to get myself out of this. It was a lie, of course.
In the Margot Kitsch case, because of the highly public nature ofboth victim and accused, and the rumors of attempted bribes to influence jury selection, sequestration was deemed not only appropriate but necessary by the presiding judge. This decision served to further captivate the public, as the last jury sequestered in California was seven years ago in the case of the L.A. Rams quarterback who ran over his offensive lineman with his custom-painted rose-gold Bugatti for missing a block. Allegedly.
Despite the public’s immediate and swarming rush to the side of salaciousness and, thus, Margot’s guilt, it’s unfathomable to me that she could have killed Joe. They were married for twenty-four years. They have two young children together. She was utterly devoted, speaking often on the show about how much she not only loved him butlikedhim, which, from my experience, is perhaps the far greater accomplishment of the two.
As fans of the show, Mel and I have faithfully watchedAMOMfor all seven years it has been on air. In fact,Authentic Moms of Malibuis the reason we met. Deep into anAMOMReddit thread during the season four reunion, Mel (username AMOMsupportgrp) took on the many Margot haters and defended her decision to uninvite fellow Authentic Mom Tenley Storms from her birthday trip to Anguilla because she didn’t want to be seen with someone who “wore fur to the Met Gala” and, equally disturbing, donned “so many god-awful statement necklaces.”
There is NO excuse for Tenley wearing real fur,Mel had written.Not to mention, Tenley getting invited to the Met over Margot is a CRIME.Mel and I ended up live chatting during the next season’s episodes. Six months later, when we both had leases expiring with unideal roommates (mine, found on Craigslist, used to lick bowls clean after use, then place them back into the cabinet), we moved in together, and our chats became side-by-side commentary on our Los Feliz couch. Having spent the last ten years of my life without many friends, no close ones at least,AMOMsomehow became a lifeline to a real-life relationship. My most important one at that.
Interestingly, Margot would not be the first Authentic Mom to serve jail time. Harley Barlow from the Scottsdale franchise was pinnedfour years ago on tax fraud, and Nashville Authentic Mom Suzette Mortimer served two weeks for a DUI after careening her Range Rover into a neighbor’s front gate. Needless to say, neither received a fraction of this case’s attention.
In the elevator, I press the button for the fourth floor, per the instructions, though I’m rerouted to the main lobby, which I quickly realize is so I can be put through the security protocol of metal detectors and a bag search.
Here, I get my first tangible taste of the magnitude of the situation. Across the lobby, through the oversized tinted bay windows, is a horde of onlookers. The walkway and its grass-rimmed edges overflow with people, all attempting to glimpse the action. Reporters, paparazzi, fans, gawkers. I even catch sight of a few signs—homemade with markers on glossy white posterboard as if it were a Harry Styles concert.FREE MARGOT!one sign reads.WOMEN WHO WEAR CHANEL DON’T POISON THEIR HUSBANDS,reads another. And yet another, etched in messy bloodred spray paint:HANG THE MALIBU MENACE!
Aggressive.
I turn my attention to the sidewalk, where a guy sporting spiky hair with ’90s-reminiscent frosted blond tips sells Margot Kitsch merch: hats, buttons, tees. One of the T-shirts facing my direction readsSTYLE AND GRACE, BUT I’LL STILL SLAP YOU IN THE FACE—herAuthentic Momstagline.
I take in the red and brown leaves covering the ground in no discernible pattern, trampled by spectators, and the tree limbs that hang bare. I can practically hear the crisp, satisfying crunch of autumn leaves under their boots and sneakers as the shoes owners vie for better viewing placement like they’re waiting for the headliner to take the main stage at a music festival.
Mel woulddieif she saw this,I think as I behold the spectacle, already anticipating the hours-long recap I’ll owe her when this is over.
