Page 5 of Courtroom Drama
He leans beside me against the wall, and we evaluate the other jurors, though our eyes continue to land on each other, both of us still in apparent shock over each other’s presence here. My instinct is to create some distance, to grab my bag and head to the other end of the hallway or duck into the restroom.
But I can’t.
Indifference.
Hawaiian Shirt Xavier continues making his rounds, and now everyone in the hallway is unified in our observance of him, including the two new additions from the next elevator load.
“Looks like someone’s vying for foreperson,” Damon says as Xavier offers a handshake and smile that is nothing short of dazzling to one of the other hallway dwellers.
I study Xavier.Iwant to be foreperson so I can ensure Margot gets a fair trial. And my job as a mediator would surely qualify me as an ideal candidate.
“He’s so... chipper,” Damon says, cocking his head in evaluation.
I nod in agreement, looking on as Xavier bursts into an over-the-top guffaw at something one of the other jurors has said. Judging him is a welcome distraction. Damon seems to agree. “I bet he claps after good movies and plane landings,” I affirm.
Damon huffs through a barely there hint of a smirk, and the blue green of his eyes sucks me in a bit. We used to do this, before. As friends who saw those around us coupling up, we’d point out the things people did when in love that seemed unreasonable otherwise. Clapping at the end of movies. Same-side-of-the-booth sitters. Absurd pet names like Muffin or Butternut (Damon’s old lacrosse teammate used this one often on his then-girlfriend). It’s unnerving that, somehow, I’ve referenced an inside joke within minutes of seeing him after all this time, as if the reflex of it never grew rusty.
Damon holds my gaze, and I cannot seem to reconcile that, on the precipice of one of the most significant trials in pop culture history, Damon Bradburn is standing beside me. And I can’t help but notice he’s staring at me with a distinct focus that tells me he also has a lot of feelings aboutmebeing here, too.
3.
Voir Dire (n.)
an oath administered to a proposed witness or juror by which they are sworn to speak the truth in an examination to ascertain their competence to serve
my first untruth
Abailiff holding a basket steps out of the far hallway door, and everyone stands at attention. Everyone except Gray Man, because he’s still staring at the wall, refusing to make eye contact with anyone and ensuring we are all aware of how dismayed he is to be here.
“Okay, phones, tablets, computers, smartwatches,” the bailiff announces.
“Smartwatches, too?” the baby-faced juror whines from his corner.
“All of it,” the bailiff responds, standing impatiently beside him as he removes his watch.
Tamra, the older woman whose name I’d caught during Xavier’s introduction, looks as though she may cry as she slowly gathers her items.
Gray Man grunts—a deep blast of stale air and anger.
Most of the other jurors frantically send last texts or scroll social media for their final bits of connection to the outside world before it all goes away indefinitely. I glance at Damon, whose thumbs fly around his screen. I look down at the phone in my hand. I could text my mom but decide against it, picturing her bouncing baby Genevieve around her dolphin-themed nursery, eyes to the ceiling, praying desperately forher colicky baby girl to calm. I could text my dad, though I don’t even know which city he’s in. And now that Damon is here, there’s a pit of disappointment in my stomach thinking about them both.
I feel like I should tell someone in my life that Damon—myDamon—is also a juror, but there’s no one to tell. My parents certainly remember him, but I couldn’t possibly bring him up to them without dredging up a decade of forced-down grief. I’d love to tell Mel about him, but she came into my life after Damon, and ours is not a story I can relay in a rushed text. There’s no time to contemplate why I’ve kept this big part of my history a secret from my closest friend. I shoot her a quick message:
Phone getting taken now. Shit’s gettin’ real!
She responds immediately.
WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING!
I press the screen to black and await the bailiff’s approach.
“Who was your last text to?” Damon asks. He speaks slowly, carefully, as if there’s aPROCEED WITH CAUTIONsign glued to my forehead. He’s not wrong.
“Best friend,” I say, wondering if it causes him to consider the fact thatheused to be my best friend.
“Mom,” he says in response, flashing his phone at me, though I didn’t ask. I attempt to swallow the mound in my throat, then bite at my lip anxiously. I think of his mom, Mrs. Bradburn. Mallory. Her daily yoga pants and bra tanks. I wonder what she’s doing now. After.
We watch as the bailiff grows closer.
