Page 66 of Courtroom Drama
The bailiff clears his throat as he eyes Damon and me from the doors. His presence indicates it’s time to go back inside. I don’t want to go back inside. I want to go to the roof, the presidential suite, Damon’s room... anywhere that means I can be with him in private.
We reenter the courtroom after what I can only imagine was a significant reprimand of D.A. Stern by Judge Gillespy. The gallery already returned prior to our arrival, and they look on in anticipation, likely wondering if D.A. Stern will overstep again.
Once we are all seated, D.A. Stern eagerly continues with his witness as if there had been no frenzied pause. “Approximately how long had Mr. Kitsch been deceased when you arrived at the scene?” he asks.
“That’s not my call,” Officer Chavez affirms.
D.A. Stern nods. “And what was Ms. Pembrooke’s statement of what she was doing that morning during the time Joe passed?”
“She was home. It was just her and Mr. Kitsch. Stated she was upstairs straightening the kids’ rooms and folding laundry for at least an hour. She came downstairs to refill her water bottle, found Mr. Kitsch, then immediately called the police, according to her statement.”
I make a note to review Ms. Pembrooke’s police statement in detail during deliberations.
I think of the elaborate camera and security system of the Kitsch family home, highlighted on the show. According to Durrant Hammerstead’s opening statement, nobody was seen coming or going between Margot leaving with the kids and Officers Chavez and Ellison arriving. This detail works solidly in Margot’s favor.
But the same thought that’s been nagging at me creeps in once again. Just because she wasn’t physically there doesn’t mean she wasn’t responsible. I silently chastise myself for the small betrayal of thought.
D.A. Stern’s continuation forces my attention. “Your report indicated Ms. Pembrooke prepared a smoothie for Mr. Kitsch earlier that morning. Were there any remnants in the kitchen or house of that or anything else he had eaten or otherwise ingested that day, prior to his death?”
“No. Ms. Pembrooke had already cleaned up. The blender and cup he drank out of had been hand-washed, all ingredients put back into the refrigerator and pantry.”
“So very on top of it, Ms. Pembrooke was,” D.A. Stern says with hints of a cunning grin.
“D.A. Stern,” Judge Gillespy warns, gavel in hand.
He nods subserviently. “No further questions,” he says.
The defense, to my surprise, does not cross-examine.
D.A. Stern looks down thoughtfully at the prosecution table as the officer exits the courtroom. When Judge Gillespy nudges, D.A. Stern declares in an almost daring tone, “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
At the onset of Officer Chavez’s testimony, I wondered why D.A. Stern called the coroner before the officer. That perhaps it was an out-of-sequence mistake or oversight. But now I realize it was indeed intentional. D.A. Stern wanted the vision of poor Joe Kitsch, slumped over, eyes open but lifeless at his kitchen table where he sat every morning, to be the image we the jury are left with from his case.
I stare at Durrant Hammerstead behind the defense table as he shuffles the papers before him, wondering if, come tomorrow, he will be able to remove the meddlesome doubts I, and likely others on the jury, now carry about Margot.
32.
Jury Stress (n., phrase)
when the nature of the evidence or details of a case have a significant emotional impact on jurors, affecting their well-being and ability to make impartial decisions
we cannot be held responsible for our actions
At dinner, we all eat in heavy silence.
I sit at our usual table with Tamra, Cam, and Damon. I know I should avoid Damon, but I need him nearby in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.
Tamra runs her fork absentmindedly over her Caesar salad, which is mostly croutons.
“How are you doing, Tamra?” I ask. Damon has offered me continual escape and support throughout this trial, whereas Tamra has been going through it largely alone.
“I’m okay,” she says, giving me a thin smile, one I find more brave than friendly.
“I need a brownie,” Cam says, sliding his chair back and heading toward the buffet.
I stare at my plate, raking my fork over my crouton salad and dry chicken breast. God, I miss flavor.
“How areyoudoing?” Damon asks.
