Page 6 of Courtroom Drama
“So, no love of your life to send a final ‘I love you’ text to?” he asks.
“No,” I say, attempting to determine if I should be offended that he’s asking me about my love life so immediately after crashing into each other again. He looks at me, eyes narrowed in observance, and it’s like a wave in the ocean, the blue green rolling wide, then shallow, then wide again.
“Hey there! I’m Xavier.” Our potential foreperson has made his way over to us, hand extended to Damon.
“Damon.”
Xavier repeats his name, and I wonder if this is some method he uses to remember, repeating names each time he hears one to ensure a mental stickiness. Xavier lingers for a beat, then turns his attention to me.
“Hi, Xavier,” he says as we shake. His hand is clammy and his handshake so firm it hurts.
I smile. “Hi, I’m Sydney.”
“Sydney,” he echoes.
The bailiff, who’s now collecting Tamra’s electronics, clears his throat and offers a strict look in our direction.
“Why are we already not allowed to talk? The trial hasn’t even officially started yet,” Xavier whispers, having taken up on my free side. “And we’re allowed to chitchat, right? Just not about the trial specifically.”
“Practice, I guess?” I whisper back as the bailiff tags Tamra’s Kindle. “And maybe they only want us conversing after officially reviewing all the rules.”
Damon chimes in. “Maybe if we keep it up, we can get replaced by alternates.”
“I can’t get kicked off this jury,” I counter reflexively.
Xavier shrugs and moves on, accosting a new juror stepping off the elevator with friendliness. When he’s gone, Damon turns to face me and uncrosses his arms. “Why would youwantto serve jury duty? Unless...” His face remains unmoved, except for the barely there flicker of something playful in his eyes. “Are you anAuthentic Momssuperfan?”
“Be quiet,” I warn, suddenly hot at the notion this could be the thing that leads to my demise before the case even starts.
“Youare.” He presses his eyebrows together, and his mouth falls open slightly as he awaits my response.This,his eyes say,is a new development.
“No,” I hiss, though it’s clear I doth protest too much. He presses his bottom lip into his top one, and I react without thought with anelbow into his side, perhaps a little harder than necessary. He doesn’t flinch, and I hope he doesn’t interpret the move as overtly playful.
The bailiff approaches. I hand over my laptop and phone. Damon lays a phone, iPad, and laptop into the basket. It’s silly, really. We all knew we couldn’t keep these things, but we brought them anyway, out of attachment or perhaps hoping they’d somehow be allowed.
Once there are fifteen of us in the hallway and all our electronics have been confiscated, the bailiff escorts us to the courtroom on the main floor. We are asked to assemble into a line, and Damon slides in right in front of me. Then we shuffle into the room, and I am stuck beside Damon.
It’s a standard courtroom, the same setup I’ve repeatedly seen in movies and on TV (and through jury selection), though far less grand. Witness stand and jury box to the right of the judge’s bench. Cherrywood pews and tables. Conference-room-style carpet, dark and patterned to disguise dinge. Air-conditioning on full blast despite the October chill.
We reacquaint with Judge Gillespy, an older woman with a sharp face and upturned cheekbones. She wears the same shade of deep red lipstick as she did during jury selection, and I find some comfort in her now familiar face. We sit for the first time in our respective juror seats, and I’m in the front row of the jury box, to the right of Damon, and we are hastily assigned as jurors three and four.
I press my eyes shut in dismay. Just like that, I’m going to be seated next to him for the rest of this trial.
Judge Gillespy welcomes us from her bench. She speaks in a projecting tone, one of authority that makes everyone take note. Everything up until this point has felt like a test run—the motions of jury selection, the call verifying me as a chosen juror, the bold jury ordinances. The past week was a frenzy of packing, letting my parents know while emphasizing the confidential nature of the situation, coordinating the leave with work, squealing with Mel—all the while, anticipation growing with each day that drew me closer to Margot and the role I could play in her fate.
But today, now, it’s all become real.
And now that we are here and officially know the case we will be sitting for, Judge Gillespy explains that the attorneys have to verify there are no remaining potential pitfalls in the jury that has been assembled. I’m taken aback; I thought getting called in meant I had made it on to the case, but I could still be chucked from the trial.
Judge Gillespy asks two questions as part of voir dire that unnerve me.
“Do any of you have a personal relationship with the accused and/or the deceased that would prohibit you from serving on this jury in an unbiased manor?”
I don’t speak up. I don’t know Margot, technically. While I’ve watched the show, that is no different from the others on the jury who, unless they’ve been living under a rock the last seven years, knowaboutMargot Kitsch.
The second question is the one that makes me suck in a breath.
“Do you know any of the other jurors?”
