Page 37 of Courtroom Drama
“What do you mean, exactly, by ‘weird shit’?” D.A. Stern asks. I can sense Cam fighting a chuckle behind me.
Bess Waterford leans in conspiratorially. “Once, I walked into her office, and she was binge eating vanilla wafers. Like, she had a family-sized package open, half missing, mouth full with, like, seven of them. Crumbs everywhere. And she’s supposedly gluten-free. They werenotgluten-free wafers. Another time, I opened the hall closet in our office to grab a trash bag, and she was standing there, in the dark, just staring at the wall. Weird. Shit.”
Juror number five, to my right—the lovely older gentleman named Luis who has no immediate family except his two bright white Westies, Lance and Chucky, I’ve recently learned—writes slowly on his pad, his hand holding a slight tremor. When I look closer, I see it’s not trial notes he’s taking down, rather, he is playing tic-tac-toe. With himself. I make a mental note to spend some time determining how this particular juror might behave during deliberations.
Right on cue, Durrant Hammerstead objects, citing relevance. I never realized how many objections there could be in one case. In one day of one case, even. The antics are never-ending. I take in the eleven lines between Judge Gillespy’s eyebrows and imagine they’ve grown deeper in this very courtroom from her constant need to reprimand skilled attorneys like arduous toddlers.
I feel for Margot in this moment, too. Whohasn’tstress-eaten a box of wafers or stood in a dark closet so they can lose their shit in private? If anything, these examples of “questionable behavior” humanize her.
Iget it. I just hope the rest of the jury does, too.
Before the testimony continues, Damon leans over, his arm covertly stretching across my lap to strike a tally mark with his pen alongside the others. Apparently, he’s noticed my little game of tracking objections. His arm, warm and bristled, grazes mine as he retracts it, and a zap shoots through my core. When I look up at him, his attention is focused on the D.A., who has resumed his questioning.
“Tell us, Ms. Waterford. When and how did your business relationship with Mrs. Kitsch end?”
“About a week after we landed the Nordstrom deal, whichIdid all the legwork on. Margot called me into her office. She directed me to sit. And then she told me I was ‘not a good representation of the brand.’ ” She uses air quotes again.
“What did that mean exactly? ‘Not a good representation of the brand’?”
Bess looks down at her chest, and her chin rubs against the white of her turtleneck, leaving a small peach-colored makeup stain the size of a penny.Of course,I think, forcing myself not to glance over at Damon’sown makeup-stained shirt. Bess Waterford unknowingly mocks me from the stand.
“I had gotten implants the month prior. Apparently fake tits don’t fit the GotMar brand.”
Cam, behind me, snickers. Damon shoots him a look.
“So, she fired you for making a personal decision about altering your body?”
“Yes.” Bess crosses her arms. “Margot’s a Scorpio. Once she thinks you’ve done something wrong, she doesn’t forgive or forget. She just gets even.”
There’s another objection, the sixth of the day so far. I draw a tally.
D.A. Stern transitions despite the overruling. “Ms. Waterford, from your vantage point, what did you make of Joe and Margot’s relationship?”
“It was like any other relationship in our circle. Transactional.”
“Can you explain?”
“He was with her for her looks. She was with him for his money and power. Tale as old as time. Cliché and passé, if you ask me, but whatever floats your boat.” She flips her chestnut hair with an aggressive toss. “But Margot, she didn’t play by the rules.”
“The rules?”
“Yeah, she decided she wasn’t willing to play her role anymore. She got on the show, got some modicum of fame. Started GotMar, got rich. Moneysheearned. She threw off the balance of power, the unwritten agreement of their relationship. She rocked that boat till it capsized.”
The defense objects yet again, and I vaguely hear Judge Gillespy agree that Bess’s response is indeed speculation.
Beside me, Damon rubs absentmindedly at the back of his neck. I wish he’d stop.
Finally, it’s the defense’s turn at Bess Waterford.
Durrant Hammerstead remains lax in his seat and lets his counterpart redirect. Irena Medley doesn’t smile often, but when she does, I am struck by her bright white teeth that remind me a bit of Damon’s. It’s a shame he doesn’t show his off more.
“You don’t know what it’s like, working for someone like that,” Bess goes on, unbidden, before Irena Medley can even get a question out. “She’s got this larger-than-life presence. She’s... perfect. On the outside, at least. Having to exist next to someone like that, it’s awful.” She saysawfulas if describing a puss-laden sore.
“Ms. Waterford,” Irena Medley says with authority, attempting to rein Bess in. “Isn’t it true that just before Margot purchased your shares of the business two years ago, there was a concern raised to you, by Margot, about shipments of product coming in from the Mexico plant?”
Bess shifts in her seat. “A concern, yes, but nothing was ever proven.”
“What was the concern Margot raised to you?”
