My eyes then catch on another of the signs held by an onlooker, causing my heart to knock firmly against my rib cage:JUSTICE FOR JOE. It’s a tragedy that Joe is gone, that Margot lost her husband and theiryoung kids lost their father. He does deserve justice, and that’s why I want to ensure the correct verdict is reached—and Margot, vindicated.
My security check complete, I retreat into the elevator, but I can’t unsee the circus.
My life is willfully small—just work and Mel (and our reality shows) in an unwaning circle. I’m basically Elsa in the first half of “Let It Go” before she, you know, lets it go.
But all of this... this is something else entirely.
Before I can fully contemplate exactly what I’ve gotten myself into, the elevator door opens again on the fourth floor, which is thankfully a much quieter scene than the main lobby. I join six others with luggage, all standing avoidantly in separate sectors of the hallway. Even though we aren’t yet twelve (technically, there will be fifteen of us, including three alternates), it’s evident we, the jury, are a diverse group.
There’s a guy leaning against the far wall with his black sweatshirt’s hood over his sandy-blond hair, which pokes out in all directions, and a black backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks barely old enough to drive, let alone serve on a jury. Closest to him, a black woman in what I believe would be defined as a floral muumuu who looks to be in her early sixties. I recognize her from jury selection. She appears particularly pensive, her black eyes downturned, arms wrapped around herself protectively.
Soon, a new addition steps off the elevator, a handsome black man. His head is bald and so shiny it holds no remnants of once-there hair. With his Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops, and board shorts, it looks like he’s just stepped off the red-eye from Honolulu.
I take them all in, wondering who might believe what about the case and about Margot Kitsch. At minimum, they’ve heard her name. In all likelihood, they have an opinion already formed about her, conscious or otherwise. I’m already eager for deliberations.
Hawaiian Shirt doesn’t hesitate. Before the elevator door has closed, he approaches the woman in the muumuu, holding out his hand. “Xavier,” he says as she slides her hand tentatively into his. Her eyes dart around the hallway, looking for a guard or camera, I presume, as ifHawaiian Shirt Xavier is some sort of plant, here to administer a first-day test of the rules. “Tamra,” she returns, though barely audible.
“Tamra, nice to meet you,” Xavier says. He then approaches the one I’m sure is a tween.
“Hey, man, Xavier.” They exchange names, though from the opposite end of the hall I don’t catch the younger one’s.
Xavier circles back in my direction, reaching the man standing opposite Tamra. He’s wearing a gray suit and has gray hair to match, with a perfectly round bald spot at his crown. With his large, almost obscene gold watch and intensely shiny shoes, he gives off a particularly rich scent. Xavier holds out his hand in greeting. Gray Man looks down at Xavier’s hand, then at the wall. A clear rejection.
“No worries,” Xavier says merrily, moving on to the next juror without hesitation.
I take note that Xavier would appear to be my early competition for the role of foreperson.
Busy observing Xavier’s cordiality and debating whether I should jump in with my own impactful introductions, I don’t immediately notice the next person stepping off the elevator. That is, until I feel his gaze. I see it in my peripheral, the exact moment it happens. He takes a few steps, then, when his eyes land on me, halts as if he’s run into an invisible wall—a firm one with jagged edges and maybe some spikes. One glance in his direction is all it takes for recognition to strike, though my body might argue it knew before my eyes could verify.
Damon.
My insides flare and entangle, a muscle memory of a specific pain that onlythis manhas ever been able to cause me. Our eyes catch, and for the briefest moment, his face explores a cascade of emotion. I see his recognition, surprise, discomfort—all of which surely match my own expression.
I tighten my grip on my roller bag, attempting to circumvent the free fall happening in my stomach, as though an elevator cord has been cut and we are careening to the bottom of the shaft.
He steps beside me.
“Sydney?” he says, continuing to stare, and it comes out as both a statement and a question. At my lack of immediate response, he runs his palm against the back of his neck. The act causes a needle prick of irritation in my chest. It’s what he does when he’s uncomfortable.
I observe with macabre amusement which memories resurface at the sight of him.
The gentle wrap of his arm from behind me, forearm curling against my neck in a gesture of warmth.
The antique shop on Chester Avenue back in Bakersfield where I held a peacock feather up to the side of his face to find his eyes a satisfying shade match to the outer green rim but also, somehow, equally paired to the bluer inner sphere.
Summer rain. Blades of grass stuck to the sides of our bare feet. His hair mopping his forehead in an adorable cling.
The memory of the last time I saw him stampedes through my brain last, as if waiting to ensure its impact be felt most. Us at sixteen. His hair falling over his right eyebrow, shading his eye. Those blue-green eyes, more oval than almond. His jaw tight, muscle bulging across his right jawline, just as it is now. His entire body rigid, as if he had to clench every inch of himself to avoid collapsing in a pile onto his parents’ driveway before me. “I don’t know what to say,” he had offered. “I wish I could do something to fix this.”
There was nothing to do. We both knew it.
So he left.
And as a result, I buried him in my internal graveyard, where the stone readsTHINGS I REFUSE TO LET DEFINE ME.
Now, on the first day of jury duty for the Margot Kitsch trial, which I must be sequestered with the other jurors for, by my side in the courthouse hallway isDamon fucking Bradburn. The boy—man, now—who I once thought of as my everything.
2.
