Again, he assesses me silently before responding. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur, feeling him come around. “Now let’s get back to the group before Tamra steals my wine.”
The tightness in his face relaxes, just slightly, and his left eye twitches dangerously close to a wink. “I’m sure she’s dancing on tables by now,” he says, stepping back so I can exit the hallway first, but not before I catch the unwaning glimmer of concern in his eyes. It’s a look I know was once reserved only for Kara and me, the two people he felt the fierce need to look after.
24.
Security Directive (n., phrase)
specific instructions or directives to safeguard jurors and ensure their well-being during trial proceedings if a judge perceives a threat to the safety or security of the jurors
handcuffs tightening
First thing Monday morning, Judge Gillespy calls the jury into the courtroom. When we enter, we are met with an empty room, the only exception being the judge and two bailiffs.
“What’s this about?” Cam whispers to no one in particular.
The courtroom is eerily vacant, the usual energetic rush I feel walking into a full gallery replaced with striking silence. I can’t help but eye Margot’s empty chair at the defense table. We take our seats and stare at Judge Gillespy. She sighs and takes a long blink, and those actions alone cause me to sit at attention.
“I don’t want to alarm anyone,” she begins, resulting in immediate alarm. The frequency of the room changes, as if controlled by a knob someone has just clicked a few notches higher. A few jurors shift in their seats. Luis, to my right, abandons his current tic-tac-toe game to lean forward. “But an incident from over the weekend was brought to my attention.”
Damon beside me acts completely unfazed, his ankle over his thigh, right knee pointed toward me.
“It seems a member of the public approached some of you while out on Saturday.”
There’s a murmur among the other jurors. I force myself to remain focused on Judge Gillespy, refusing to look at Damon. This explains why yesterday, despite it being Sunday and having no court, we were largely confined to our rooms.
Judge Gillespy continues, “While it appears there is no direct concern, out of excess caution, there will be no additional outings for the remainder of the case.”
Cam behind me groans. I feel Damon’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him. I asked him not to say anything, and he went behind my back. My ears burn with frustration. Why couldn’t he just trust my judgment?
Judge Gillespy reminds us of her many rules, including the “no boning” rule, as Cam has come to call her no-fraternization decree, and she’s sure to hammer home once more the potential punishments, which, of course, includejail time.
“Syd,” Damon calls after me in the hallway when Judge Gillespy gives us a five-minute break before we return for the day’s proceedings. I spin to face him, unable to stop my arms from aggressively crossing against my chest.
“I asked you not to say anything,” I whisper-yell at him. He knows this case is important to me, but he’s overlooked me and what I might need or want once again.
His eyes contract, and I’m immediately confident he knows my anger is about more than just this one thing. He stares at me, and I find him as obnoxiously unreadable as ever.
“Are you gonna speak?” I ask eventually, hoping he hears the irritation in my tone.
My ability to recall the anger I’ve held toward him for so many years is too easy, bubbling just below this new surface of calm. It screams to me that no matter how much I tell myself I’ve forgiven him, how much I might like him now, I can’t just rid myself of ten years of resentment in a mere few days. It was foolish to ever think I could.
He rubs at the back of his neck before dropping his arm and calling my eyes to his. “I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, his voice a cavernous chamber.
My heart’s rhythm halts a moment before regulating. Like me, his feelings are about so much more than this situation. I see it all in the etch of his features, a brief vulnerability seeping through the pores of his otherwise rigid face. He lost Kara. I am, in some small way, a chance at a do-over.
Despite my internal protest, I feel some of my irritation melt away. It’s so hard to stay mad at him when he’s so protective. Even more so when I think of why.
He steps dangerously close. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s more grumble than words. He lifts his hand slightly and then retracts it as though he wants to touch me but then thought better of it. Our presidential suite kiss flashes through me, and I have to remind myself where we are.
At the most inopportune moment, Xavier exits the men’s room and starts toward us. Damon takes a step back as Xavier passes. He eyes us briefly, then lines up at the courtroom door several yards down, sending another curious look our way again once there.
I refocus on Damon. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but his face tells me a distinct story. He’s not sorry for saying something. He’d do it again, no matter my feelings about it. He’s only sorry I’m upset. It’s enough, though, my frustration dissipating further. “Sweet dreams are made of cheese,” I mutter under my breath, hoping for a serotonin boost.
“Watermelon sugar pie,” he says back, practically an automatic reflex.
Once again, Wrong Lyrics Only does what it’s meant to do. This is, of course, another thing we share. Another remnant of him. A silly but sticky fragment of us in another life.
