Page 22 of Courtroom Drama
Last night, I fell asleep thinking of the hours Damon and I spent on the couch (mostly his), watching movies—volume high so he could hear the dialogue over my incessant commentary. I made him watchBeastlyandThe Perks of Being a Wallflower. He countered withCon AirandSpeed, calling out all the inconsistencies of ’90s action movies.
I see him so vividly, lying on the chaise end of the couch, left leg straight out in front of him, right ankle crossed over his shin. I see Kara wandering in, perching on the arm of his end for a few moments before inevitably losing interest and heading off to string beads into friendship bracelets or playAngry Birdson Mrs. Bradburn’s iPad. If life is measured in time spent, Damon and I were one during those six years.
I’ve changed into my mauve sweatsuit, washed my face, and thrown my hair into a messy bun, but it’s only seven p.m. Despite a quickly approaching late October, it’s still largely light outside. Without work orAMOMto distract me, I’m restless. I sigh, rustle a dollar bill out of my wallet, and head for the vending machine at the end of the hall.
“Hi, George,” I say as our evening bailiff pokes his head around the corner from the elevators. I hold up the dollar bill. “Just grabbing a late-night snack.”
George smiles and nods, glancing at the window behind him where the last strings of sunlight stream in. He returns to his position around the corner, out of sight, and I head in the opposite direction toward the small galley.
The vending machine choices are abysmal. Half the rows hold identical plastic-wrapped cinnamon-roll-like pastries and the other half are empty. As I’m about to give up, I spot the sole two-pack of peanut butter cups in the far bottom right row. I hastily insert my bill and press F5.
When I turn the corner back to my room, he’s there. Damon, two rooms down from my own, pulling his door closed with silent care. He’s dressed down in a white V-neck tee, gray joggers, and slides. I can see now that his sleeves of tattoos do in fact run up his biceps. The newness but equal familiarity of his body strikes through me. Something about the joggers and the observation of new skin results in a reflexive Kegel. He looks down to the opposite end of the hallway where Bailiff George sits just around the corner, then begins in my direction, halting when he sees me.
Me, in my mauve sweatsuit and aloe-infused fuzzy socks, with messy-bunned hair, holding a two-pack of peanut butter cups.
After a beat, he strides toward me—broad, confident steps but cautiously quiet to avoid detection from George. When he reaches my side, he lowers his mouth to a few inches above my ear and whispers through hot breath, “You coming?”
I want to ask where, to remind him we are under fifteen pages of strict rules, one of which is not to leave our rooms post-curfew. I want to tell him that whatever he is up to could get him kicked off the jury or, worse, cause a mistrial. But I can’t ask those questions or remind him of the rules because he hasn’t stopped moving. He brushes past me and continues making his way down the hall.
The Damon I knew was always seeking adventure. At twelve, I watched him break his arm cliff jumping at Kern River, though he barely let on anything was wrong until he ended up in a cast the next day. When we were fifteen, I got mad at him for exploring the abandoned commercial building on Union Avenue in some middle-of-the-night stunt with his lacrosse teammates. And, of course, there wasmotocross. In an unnerving way, this seems like the most natural thing in the world—Damon sneaking off in the name of exploration.
I have two choices: retreat to my room, eat my peanut butter cups in isolation, and read one of the three remaining books I’ve brought (all non-courtroom, per page five of the rules), or follow Damon. I know I should choose my room. That I must follow the rules to remain part of this case. I tell my feet to start in that direction, but they defy me. They spin instead—toward Damon, who is now several yards ahead. I take a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure the hallway is empty (it is), then trot to catch up to him.
“Does this little escapade of yours have the possibility of ending in injury of any kind?” I whisper when I’ve joined him, looking over my shoulder again.
“Virtually anything could result in injury if not done responsibly.”
“It’s ironic that you would mention responsibility when you’re sneaking around just a few days into the trial.”
“So if it had been a few weeks it would be okay?”
“What? No, you’re missing the point.”
He stops at the end of the hall and pushes open the door to the stairwell. “And besides, who’s sneaking?” he says, holding the door for me.
I hesitate. This trial is, pitifully, the most exciting experience in my recent life. It’s important and interesting and will be remembered. I’d be an idiot to do something to mess that up, to be forced to leave before helping to confirm Margot’s innocence. I picture my life years from now, regaling acquaintances with accounts of this trial. If pressed to play two truths and a lie again, I will say I was part of the Margot Kitsch jury and people will lean in, wanting to know more.
I look into Damon’s blue-green eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment I think,He’s exciting, too. I silently scold myself for the thought and instead tell myself that, once finally alone, we can address what happened all those years ago. I can give him the earful I’ve held in for ten years. I step into the stairwell, wondering how this will end. Because I can’t imagine a scenario where this doesn’t end badly.
He lets the door close slowly behind him, ensuring there is no thud just as he had with his room door, and we are alone in the dim stairwellscented with cigarettes and mildew, the only light—the quickly dwindling sun from the ceiling skylight two floors above us.
“Now what?” I ask, my voice echoing against the concrete stairs and walls.
He looks up, and I follow his gaze to the circle of stairs leading upward. He starts to climb. I do the same, because, well, I’m in it now. Climbing the stairs behind him, I can’t help when my eyes flick to his backside, as it’s in my direct eyeline. I wonder about his undoubtedly robust squat routine as we climb.
He reaches for the second-floor door handle and I expect it to be locked. There should be some obstacle to his plan—whatever that plan is—to indicate that we shouldn’t be out of our rooms. But the door opens easily, the building seemingly welcoming our felonious antics.
We enter the second-floor hallway and it is quiet, vacant. The hotel, we know, is empty except for the jurors, who are all being kept on the first floor. It’s hard to say whether our exclusive stay is because Judge Gillespy mandated it or because this hotel’s undesirable location and lack of general appeal led to it being empty. I imagine it’s a combination.
Damon briefly reads the sign on the wall, then starts toward the end of the hall, a destination in mind.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my question. I’m nearly convinced I should have gone back to my room when I saw him. I probably should now.
We stop at a pair of double doors at the far end of the hall. The presidential suite, as the wall plaque indicates. Damon raises a daring eyebrow at me, then pulls a key card from his back pocket. He places the card against the reader, and the little red light turns green.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask, nodding toward the key card.
