a postmortem examination to discover the cause of death or the extent of disease
a heart ripped out
Igrab a paper-wrapped sandwich from the center of the large round table in the room adjacent the courtroom and sit between Tamra and Gray Man. Damon takes an open spot across the table. I’ve managed to largely avoid him since we snuck down from the roof and back to our rooms last night. I purposely made my way to the hotel lobby at the last minute this morning and chose the van he wasn’t in line for. He did toss me a box of Corn Pops, for which I gave a short but appreciative smile.
I eat quickly and linger in the corner of the room, waiting for the guards to open the doors and let us out, feeling like a caged animal. More and more, it’s clear we are all prisoners of this case. Of Margot’s. And more and more, it’s equally clear I am not doing nearly enough to prove my leadership to the other jurors. Hell, I wouldn’t even vote for me for foreperson at this point, given my antics. I wonder if my goal is still salvageable and, if so, how.
Damon crumples the paper from his sandwich and, still chewing, makes his way over. He tosses the paper ball into the waste bin and leans against the wall beside me.
“Pastrami or turkey today?” he asks after he’s swallowed, flipping his chin toward the dwindled pile of sandwiches.
“I went crazy and chose ham,” I say, my disappointed stomach gurgling on cue.
“So you went ham?”
“You’ve never struck me as a dad joke kind of guy,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Punny road signs, remember?” He rubs at the back of his neck, his mood shifting to something more indeterminate. “So, last night was fun,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, looking up to the ceiling to avoid his gaze. The fluorescent lights make my eyes water.
“And you accuse me of being short on words.” He flashes me a look that’s almost invasive in its warmth.
I take him in and am met with his flexing jaw muscle and twisting chin dimple. I cross my arms and mimic his side lean against the wall. “Shouldn’t we just shove it under the rug and never talk about it again like normal humans?”
He crosses his arms, now mimicking me. “My therapist says that isn’t healthy.” He purses his lips in a gesture I’ve rarely seen from him.
“Do you? Go to therapy?”
He nods. “I do.”
I uncross my arms and straighten. “Oh. That’s great,” I say, reminded there are still so many new things to uncover about him.
His eyes crinkle slightly. He takes a step closer so we are practically touching, a bold move in a room full of other jurors and guards. He leans in so his lips are inches from my ear. “I get that you don’t want to do anything to mess up this case,” he whispers into my hair, “and that we have a lot of complicated history. So, I’m probably a bad idea. So, I’ll back off.” He lets his hand bump mine. “But just know I don’t want to. And that if you change your mind...”
When he doesn’t finish the thought, I look up and immediately lose my breath. His face is inches from mine, his peacock-feather-colored eyes narrowed, jaw rigid, lips pressed tightly shut. He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. His face says it all—all the things I wish it wouldn’t—his expression wayward and sexy as hell.
I need to keep my distance, I remind myself, for the sake of thecaseandmy heart. I cannot put it past him to break me again. And it’s not lost on me that we haven’t actually resolved anything from our past, other than a brief apology from him that I barely acknowledged. With the revelation about Kara and the feelings I’ve fostered since the start of the trial, I’ve let the ten years of resentment slip away. I know, though, it’s not entirely gone.
I break our gaze to dull the pulse in my core. Glancing at the table instead, I make eye contact with Xavier, who observes us closely, prompting me to step back.
We return to the courtroom after lunch, and I’m immediately on edge. It’s the part of the trial I’ve been dreading—the details of Joe’s death. The prosecution is winding down its case and we’ve yet to hear the particulars of the day he passed. Regardless of what has come out about Joe in this trial, he was a person, and whatever his shortcomings, he deserves a fair trial.
The idea that this man whose life I know so much about is now gone, and that his life is, in many ways, on trial as much as Margot’s, has left a consistent knot in my stomach that seems to grow with each testimony. Even Margot, dressed in her subdued black fitted dress, came outfitted for some semblance of a funeral today. My stomach roils, and I wish this testimony came in the morning rather than right after the shitty lunch ham.
Just after we’ve taken our seats, D.A. Stern calls Medical Examiner Teresa Jessel to the stand. I evaluate her as she’s sworn in. She’s noticeably thin, lanky in a bone-heavy way that reminds me of D.A. Stern. She wears round spectacles that magnify her eyes and strike me as ironic. I take in her long, talon-like nails, painted with some intricate purple-and-black snakeskin pattern, and I’m intrigued with how those nails don’t interfere with her line of work.
D.A. Stern wastes little time, prompting Dr. Jessel to explain the process of Joe’s autopsy and subsequent toxicology testing. “In an autopsy, we look primarily for four things: cause, mode and manner ofdeath, the state of health of the person before they died, and whether any medical diagnosis and treatment before death were appropriate.” Teresa Jessel has a unique accent, a mix between Indian and a Southern drawl, an interesting combination that draws me in.
“Dr. Jessel,” D.A. Stern says in a voice that seems deeper, more authoritative than usual, “as a result of the autopsy, why did you deem Mr. Kitsch’s cause of death as undetermined?”
“Well, Mr. Kitsch was otherwise healthy but suffered a massive cardiac event. And I was unable to find an underlying issue or specific trauma to point to cause.”
D.A. Stern appraises the jury as Dr. Jessel speaks. When he doesn’t immediately ask a follow-up, Dr. Jessel continues. “ ‘Undetermined’ simply means there could have been other factors at play that we couldn’t glean from the standard state toxicology reporting and coroner findings.”
D.A. Stern presses his lips together so they prune like the pit of a peach. “Were there any underlying health issues uncovered during the autopsy that could have accounted for his death? An illness or deterioration of some kind that could have gone unnoticed?” he finally asks.
“Nothing like that was found.”
