Page 24 of Courtroom Drama
“Did I... say something—”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “No.”
I wonder if he can’t manage to separate the good from the bad of our history. Or maybe he’s thinking what I’ve been wrestling with for the last several minutes—that we should abandon this excursion to avoid getting in trouble.
He lifts his hand to his mouth, sucks gently at the pad of his thumb to collect the bit of melted chocolate into his mouth. I look on, transfixed, wondering how I’m meant to start a conversation about all the things between us that were never said.
13.
Discovery (n.)
formal process of exchanging information between parties about witnesses and evidence to be presented at trial
all the things I never knew
“What are you doing here?” I ask as the chocolate and peanut butter disintegrate in my mouth. I collect the waxy wrapper and shove it in my pocket to ensure no evidence of us having been here. We’ll have to solve for the beer cans later, too.
“I told you, I took the key from the maid’s cart.”
“No, what are you doinghere? On this jury.”
He lifts up from the table and shoves his hands in his front pants pockets again, my attention drawn to his joggers once more. There’s something about the fit of them. They’re not tight, not loose, either. Comfortably snug, perhaps. I swallow.
“I got called for jury duty, didn’t think much of it. But shit, who knew it would be so intense.” He takes another sip of his beer.
“You feel it, too,” I say, though it’s more of a statement than a question. I turn and look out the sliding doors, half-heartedly watching a Jamba employee heave three trash bags into the alley dumpster.
The reality is I was wholly naive thinking being a juror on this case would be thrilling. Margot Kitsch is fascinating, yes, but it’s unnerving more than anything being fed the closed-door particulars of her marriage, not to mention the impending details of the abrupt end ofJoe’s life. It was far less real on my couch with Mel—an extension of the show’s storylines, social media creating a layer of anonymity and entertainment to it all. Itwasall so much better when I knew just enough, when my views didn’t have any real bearing on someone’s life.
I take another sip, but it does nothing to lessen the stress of the stakes. I find Damon’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask.
He shakes his head once. “Nothing.”
“You’re a man of few words.”
“I’ve been called a closed book.”
“More like the secret padlocked diary of a twelve-year-old girl.”
His eyes and jaw constrict. “You didn’t have a diary when you were twelve.”
I take a step toward him. “And you didn’t used to be this way,” I say.
“What way?”
“So quiet.” I think about how else to describe him. “Internal.”
He squints. “How did I used to be?”
I cross my arms as I evaluate him. “More... happy,” I say, eventually settling on a word that still doesn’t feel quite right.
His jaw ticks. “Yeah, well, ten years is a long time.”
I continue to watch him, wondering if I prefer this version of him or the old one. “So, this new you is quiet and adventuresome and writes punny roadway signs.”
His blue-green eyes narrow. “You’re making a list?”
“Purely for the sake of the trial. I should know what I’ll be dealing with when deliberations begin.”
