Page 7 of Courtroom Drama
Damon’s eyes shift sideways to me briefly, though he remains facing the bench.
If I admit to knowing Damon, I could be replaced by an alternate right here and now. Part of me would be relieved to have an opportunity to run away from Damon and all the feelings seeing him again has unleashed in me. But a much larger part of me is too invested in this trial and its outcome to not be a part of it.
I release my breath, a string of silent curse words accompanying it. “I do,” I say. Damon presses his eyes shut, and I wonder why he hasn’t spoken up himself.
All eyes lock on me, and I immediately regret the move, chastise my gnawing morals and penchant for rules. Judge Gillespy raises her eyebrows, and I answer her silent question. “I mean, I did, a long time ago. Juror number three.” I point limply to Damon beside me. “He was my neighbor when we were kids.” It’s a slight, to call us neighbors when we were so much more. But I firmly believe those details are not relevant right now.
“Juror number three, is this true?” Judge Gillespy asks, her attention shifting to Damon.
“Yes,” he says, though he doesn’t offer more.
“I see.” Judge Gillespy sighs, clearly unhappy with this news and the possibility of already having to shuffle the jury. “When is the last time you saw each other or otherwise interacted?”
“It’s been ten years,” I assert quickly.
Judge Gillespy confirms this with Damon. She pauses for a long while, and I hold my breath as I await her consideration, feeling my part in this case slipping out of reach.
She looks to the lead attorneys, both of whom are afforded the opportunity to weigh in. Beside me, Damon bounces his knee aggressively. Is he nervous? With his aloof exterior, I have difficulty believing he could be. I rip my attention away from him, unwilling to give him any more power. If he is once again the cause of me losing something I value, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold back my disdain.
Eventually, they agree to let us stay given the amount of time that’s passed since we’ve seen each other, citing it of no concern. I’m gladtheycan move on from it so effortlessly. But one thing is clear—by outing Damon and me as having had a previous relationship, whatever that relationship may have been, we now have an added layer of attention that I don’t like.
With Damon’s and my fate decided, Judge Gillespy reviews a number of rules with us, some of which were outlined in the preparatory email we received and some not—no talking about the case, no fraternization, and a demand for strict adherence to the no media and curfew rules. It’s the no-fraternization rule that strikes me hardest. We are allowed to talk to one another, she clarifies, but we cannot discuss the case until deliberations. This point she makes clear, along with the need to follow curfew and other “location requirements,” as she calls them—that is, no sneaking off and no after-hours visits, conjugal or otherwise. The emphasis she places on this last point makes me believe she’s had to deal with a horny juror or two in her day.
“This is one of the highest profile cases this court has ever tried,”she says. “There will be a lot of eyes on what happens in this room over the next several days. While these rules may seem...” She searches for the appropriate word. “...excessive, they are in the best interest of the case.”
“As you may have noticed, it’s a circus out there,” she says after walking us through the intended flow of the proceedings, flipping a long, lean finger toward the front of the courthouse. “You have my assurance, I’ll keep that nonsense out of this room.” She doesn’t smile, but her face softens a bit, and I feel a touch more comfort with her at the helm. “But,” she says, her voice sterner than a second before, “know that not following the rules I have set forth could have severe consequences. Not only could failure to comply cause your dismissal from the jury, but it could result in a mistrial. It could even result in jail time.”
Chairs squeak around me as jurors shift in their seats.
Well, shit.Despite my excitement for being a part of this, it suddenly feels as though I am at my own sentencing.
I would have been perfectly fine with these rules had Damon not shown up and thrown a wrench into things. With so much unspoken and unfinished between us—like the confrontation I’ve fantasized about having with him over the years—there’s a layer of concern about this no-fraternization rule I can’t shake. As much as I want to be here, I also know I need to eventually talk to him about our past, no matter how intently I may want to ignore it. And him.
Judge Gillespy ends with our solemn oath, and the formality of our pledge to the court and trial tightens the fast-growing knot in my chest.
After our time with Judge Gillespy, the fifteen of us are packed into two passenger vans and shuttled to a hotel, which will serve as our accommodations for the length of the trial. Damon and I exchange a glance as he is shuffled into the opposite van, and I quickly look away, unwilling to give him too much of my attention.
It’s a longer drive than I anticipate, given we will be making this trek to and from the courthouse each day. The downtown cram gives way to the fall foliage, and soon we’re motoring along a lonely road off the I-5 that would be easy to miss. I catch the others looking out thewindows, some intrigued, some disappointed, some seemingly confused. Tamra keeps looking behind us as if to ensure we aren’t being followed. Perhaps the obscure location is for our anonymity, though, ensuring we are far enough off the beaten path that no one would think to find us here.
We pull closer, our destination becoming clear.
Off the beaten path we most certainly are.
4.
Sequestration (n.)
the isolation of a jury to avoid accidental or deliberate tainting of the jury by exposing them to outside influence or information that is not admissible in court
juror jail
Though I had no expectations of a high-end resort for our stay, what stands before us is... surprising. At first glance, the Singer Suites appears potentially deserted, with its dusty landscape and almond-colored stucco crumbling at the corners. Along its southern edge sits a row of overflowing dumpsters where a scraggly dog noses through a trash bag left on the ground beside them. There’s a haggard strip mall to the right, though who its shops service out here is unclear.
As I stare out the tinted shuttle window at my new home, I think for a moment of Margot Kitsch’s sprawling Malibu mansion, and the contrast between the two venues is hard to unsee. The one comfort is that the room doors of the Singer Suites are not external. At least it’s not a motel.
There were two vacations we took as a family—my father, my mother, and me—both to Las Vegas. I was eight and nine. We stayed at the Highland Inn off the 160 Highway, the noise of semis whizzing by, our nighttime sound machine. When we first arrived, I stood at the unopened door of the ground-floor room as my mom and dad argued about staying at a motel, bags at our feet.
“An external door isn’t safe,” my mom had said.
