Page 48 of Courtroom Drama
“One drink and she’s Maya Angelou,” Cam muses, then pats her on the back, seemingly more entertained by half-glass-of-wine Tamra than touched by her toast. “To new friends,” he says merrily, lifting his beer and clanging it against Tamra’s glass. Somehow, Xavier has madehis way to our table, wanting in on our little lovefest. He taps his soda glass against Tamra’s.
We all join in, Damon and me toasting last.
“To new friends,” Damon says, tilting the top of his pint to meet the lip of my wineglass.
“To new friends,” I echo, surprised by my sudden breathlessness.
Damon’s stare lingers. I don’t move away when his knee once again gently bumps mine.
23.
Trial Enthusiast (n., phrase)
a person who takes great interest in trial processes and outcomes
a complete buzzkill
As we near two hours in the back room of Outback Steakhouse, the bailiffs don’t seem in any rush to shuttle us back to the Singer Suites. We show our gratitude with the room’s collective happy energy, with thank-yous and offers of glasses of wine and pints of beer, though they decline. Still, they are far more upbeat and chatty than ever before.
We learn George, our usual first-shift overnight guard, lives in East L.A. with his wife of nearly thirty years, alongside two of their four adult children and two grandchildren. These details endear him to Tamra, and soon they are exchanging particulars of grandbabies, swiftly agreeing how much better it is to be a grandparent than a parent.
When I order my third glass of wine, I expect George or one of the two other guards to stop me. But they allow it. And suddenly, the room feels like a reunion of old friends catching up, a corporate party after the bosses have headed home and the DJ starts playing ’90s hip-hop.
Perhaps most entertaining is watching the other jurors ostensibly, happily unravel. After a glass and a half of red wine, Tamra’s blinks extend, and she laughs at most everything anyone says. Cam finds her particularly amusing, working to say anything remotely funny to get her to break into a table-slapping cackle. It warms me to look over andsee my courtroom seatmate Luis (juror number five) smiling through a discussion with Kate (juror number twelve), the mom of four. Even Xavier at the table beside us seems to have temporarily yielded his mission toward wide likability to lean back in his chair and enjoy some drink with smoke steaming off the top. The atmosphere is so carefree that I’ve almost forgotten we are the jury on the Margot Kitsch case.
And then there’s Damon. His jaw loosens. He even chuckles at points, mostly in reaction to Tamra’s laughter. These things come out of him with little effort, and I’m both intrigued and pleased by how much more leisure there is in him tonight.
When I stand from the table, Damon looks up at me. “Where you goin’?”
“Just to the bathroom,” I tell him.
He nods, and then hangs his head and shakes it, as if feeling silly for asking.
Alone in front of the sink mirror in the generically tiled bathroom, I expect to think about Margot, about the case. But I find myself thinking of Damon instead. Of the swirling dimple at the center of his chin. Of his immense size. Of his sealed inner parts, lid slightly ajar. I shake my head, attempting to pack away my attraction. It’s just familiarity, I try to tell myself. It can’t be more. Not now, because of the trial and certainly not after given the complication between our families.
After washing my hands, I throw the paper towel into the bin and push the heavy swinging door open with my shoulder and elbow, eager to return to the table. I halt in the narrow hallway when I nearly run into someone standing just outside the ladies’ room entrance.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, rocking back on my heels to avoid contact with the man’s midsection. Damon was right, I do seem to fall a lot. I expect the man to step back and make room for me to go by, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at me.
We make eye contact, and he doesn’t break it, his hollow brown eyes both drowsy and, somehow, also boring into me with an intensitythat makes me uncomfortable. His chin is rather pointy, oddly shaped, and his skin has a sallow quality that reminds me of oatmeal. When he continues staring, I attempt to maneuver around him, but he steps across what little of the hallway he isn’t taking up to block me.
“Where you going?” he asks. His breath is an abhorrently pungent mix of beer and Bloomin’ Onion.
I have no idea who this man is. He’s not a member of the jury or a guard. He seems to just be an ill-behaved, overserved restaurant-goer. “Excuse me,” I say, throwing on my most authoritative tone.
“Why you guys with those officers?” he asks, an amused grin on his crimson lips, ignoring my request. When I don’t respond, he says, “I bet I know why.” His speech is slow, slurred, and more than slightly adversarial. “You guys are a jury, huh?Thejury... for that bitch. That Malibu Maneater. Why else would cops be taking a big group out to eat?”
He doesn’t even get Margot’s media-dubbed nickname right, which somehow, even in this situation, manages to annoy me. “I’m going back to my table,” I say, attempting to step around him again. But once again, he takes a sidelong stride, blocking my path. He isn’t particularly tall or bulky, but still, he’s sizable in comparison to me. Enough to use our size difference as a tool for intimidation.
He steps forward where there wasn’t space to be had, and I am immediately pressed against the wall. I wonder nervously if he might attempt to shove me into the empty women’s room and lock the door. He is drunk and obstinate and has that feral gleam in his eyes that women have good reason to be afraid of. I mentally prepare for a fight, just in case.
The bustle of the restaurant continues on just around the corner. The murmurs of conversation. The occasional booming voice or burst of laughter. The clang of plates and pans, muffled, from the nearby kitchen. There are many people close by, yet I am trapped and far away.
I contemplate a list of possible next moves. Make a scene. Retreat to the ladies’ room and attempt to lock the door before he can follow me in. Give him a sharp elbow to the throat or finger jabs to the eyeballs.
“Excuse me,” I say, as forcefully as I can muster. There’s not even a flicker of movement from him.
“I saw y’all walk in, and I knew right away who you were,” he says, so close his words practically singe my ear. “My uncle golfed with Joe Kitsch once. That bitch definitely did it.”
