Page 23 of Courtroom Drama
“I have my ways.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, this mysterious stranger bit? It’s overkill.”
“We’re not strangers,” he says so matter-of-factly I almost forget the last ten years don’t include some version of us.
His eyebrows press into playful frowns that match his mouth. Hedoesn’t say anything, rather he juts his chin at the room, urging me inside. I cross my arms as I enter the suite, and Damon follows, flipping on the light and slow-closing the door with expertise.
There’s decidedly nothing presidential about the suite. Though it’s larger than the box of a room I have, I can’t imagine any presidents, past or present, opting for the Singer Suites. Straight ahead, there’s a sliding door out to a balcony. Despite the dimming sky, I clearly see it has two burgundy Adirondack chairs that overlook the adjacent strip mall alley, which is mildly exciting considering the windows on the first floor don’t open and we have been largely deprived of fresh air since the start of the trial. To the left is an open door to a bedroom, a king-sized bed inside. But the main space we’ve entered includes a dining table and small kitchenette, a three-seater sofa, a coffee table, and two chairs. The entire space is upholstered in a hunter-green fabric with gold scales of justice symbols—the curtains, the couch and chairs, even the wallpaper. It’s like a White House forest threw up in here, its designer taking the termpresidential suitequite literally.
“Wait,” I say breathlessly, grabbing for the remote on the coffee table beside the couch. “There’s a TV.”
I position the remote to face the TV on the wall, assuming this one will have cable. I can’t manage to press the on button, though my thumb hovers over it. Page four of the jury handbook clearly states we are not to access media of any kind, TV mentioned specifically.
“That’s some admirable self-discipline,” Damon says.
I hold out the remote. “But ifyouclicked it on, technicallyIwon’t have done anything wrong...”
I take note of the vein appearing along the run of his forearm crossed in front of his chest. I used to run my index finger across the same rise when he’d playfully press that arm across me from behind in an over-the-shoulder embrace.
“D’you really think if a bailiff came in here right now and caught us watching TV, they’d be concerned with who actually pressed the on button?” he says.
“Oh, you’re suddenly a rule follower?”
He shrugs. “I know how much it means to you not to get in trouble.”He pushes himself to a complete stand. “Sneaking around the hotel is one thing, but accessing media, possibly seeing something about the case, that’s another. I wouldn’t want to compromise your role here.” He says this last part with sincerity, though there’s a playful mocking quality in his voice, too.
Does he think of me only as a tightly bound rule follower?
My mind wanders to just a few weeks ago when I was arbitrating a case between a pharmaceutical company and its former COO. The CEO and board cited many infractions as the cause of her abrupt termination. She raised her voice in a meeting. She demanded documentation of absences from her team members. She was “callous” in her interactions with peers, only caring about business and not people. She never apologized. I acknowledged silently that these were not necessarily markings of a progressive leader but were absolutely traits of many of the male leaders I had come in contact with in that same conference room over the years.
“I can’t get away with what you can. Neither can Margot Kitsch.” My throat clenches when I say her name. Sneaking out for a bit to avoid going crazy is one thing, but we shouldnotdiscuss anything related to the case. Not until deliberations begin.
“You think because she’s a woman, she couldn’t possibly do something so unbound as kill her husband?”
I shake my head. “No. I think because she’s a woman, she doesn’t get the benefit of the doubt.” A flash of his mom flares in my mind, and I wonder who she is now, what became of her, and, particularly, what happened to Damon’s relationship with herafter.
He seems to ponder my words for a moment, and the slight twitch of his brow indicates to me that he at least partially agrees. When neither of us seems to want to continue this line of discussion, he asks, “Are you gonna share those?” nodding in my direction. It takes a moment to realize he means the peanut butter cups I’m still holding.
“That depends. Are you going to tell me how you got the key for this grand palace of a room?”
He presses his lips together briefly before he speaks. “I swiped it from the maid’s cart.”
I shake my head in dismay.
“They shouldn’t have left it hanging on a hook on the outside of the cart with a label above it that readPRESIDENTIAL SUITE.”
I throw the package in his direction, and he catches it easily.
“There’s a minibar!” I practically squeal, reaching my knees ahead of the glass-front mini-fridge.
“Didn’t take you long to come to the dark side.” He turns to face me, still leaning against the thin wood-slat tabletop, an unpeeled peanut butter cup in his right hand.
I pull the handle of the fridge. “There’s nothing to do here. The case itself is fascinating, but I’m also wired from it all and it’s only seven fifteen.” I pull two Natural Ices out of the fridge. We both grimace slightly at the only alcoholic selection—certainly not the presidential beer of choice. He watches as I untab my beer, set the can down, then take the second of the two peanut butter cups and peel the wrapper. “Cheers,” I say, holding up the peanut butter cup.
He bumps his chocolate against mine, and we eye each other as we take our respective first bites. Then I sip the beer, feel it softening my edges almost immediately.
“The last time we drank together, your parents were in Ojai and I threw up in Kara’s closet. In her laundry basket, specifically,” I say, thinking of the summer before our sophomore year, how he stroked my hair until I fell asleep in his bed.
I expect him to smirk, to relive the lighthearted memory with me. Instead, he seems to wince.
