Yes, definitely wish Xavier hadn’t gone first. Why did he have to throw in a fun fact? The only one I can think of is that I spend most of my time watching reality TV, but that’s highly inappropriate to share here.
The other jurors nod, smile, and share quiet hellos to acknowledge Xavier’s introduction. Most of the eyes in the room land on juror number two, as he is the person to the right of Xavier. The short, bald man—who I know to be named Amir from our brief breakfast discussion last week—clears his throat and stands, and I press my eyes shut in defeat. Had I gone second, I could have gotten away with staying seated, but now juror number two has set the tone that this is a thing. I miss his introduction entirely, and now it’s Damon’s turn.
“Hi, everyone, Damon. I’m twenty-six. I live in Glendale. I’m a transportation engineer, worked as a construction foreman before that, though please don’t vote for me for that here because I don’t think it translates.” He gets a few chuckles from the room. “I love motocross and hairless cats,” he adds before returning to his seat.
Right, it’s my turn. I stand and clear my throat. “Hi.” I wave and immediately regret the wave. How am I so bad at this (the talking about me part) when I am so confident and solid in a mediation room? “I’m Sydney. I’m also twenty-six. I live in Los Feliz. I work as a corporate mediator, so I’m basically a lawyer without the pay.” Tamra grins, but there are no chuckles like there were for Damon. And because this is feeling too much like some subverted speed dating event, I do go ahead and throw in a fun fact. “And a fun fact about me, I have a newborn sister. Genevieve. Gen, we call her Gen.” Normally I wouldn’t share baby Gen as apoint of pride. In fact, though she’s technically my sister, before the trial I thought of her more as my mother’s baby than in terms of her relationship to me. But the longer I’m here, the more I long to hold her again.
Tamraaahs from across the table, and I sit back down. Damon looks at me with a twist of confusion across every feature of his face. “You didn’t tell me you have a little sister,” he whispers, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say his tone sounds accusatory.
I try to listen to the rest of the introductions. I am genuinely fascinated with the people who will determine Margot’s fate alongside me. But I’m distracted by Damon. Every time he shifts in his seat, there’s a waft of that saddle scent and it draws me back in. Why didn’t I share Gen with him? In all our notes, all our conversations, I never told him. I can’t help but think it’s because I knew it would make me feel sick, like I do now. That sharing the sister I feel little connection to, knowing he lost his, would fill me with shame.
I shake my head, sit up straight, and demand my brain recenter on what is happening in the room. I’ve missed a couple of introductions. Tamra, juror number seven, stands. “Hello, everyone, I’m Tamra. I’m in my sixties, a mother of four—three boys and a girl—and I have six beautiful grandbabies. I’m a retired schoolteacher. I taught seventh grade math, but now I mostly help my kids with the babies. Lovely to have gotten to know you all over these last few weeks,” she offers, smiling warmly.
Gray Man is juror number eight. He stands swiftly, his fingertips pressed against the top of the table as he leans forward, knees bent, and it’s an oddly aggressive stance. “Stanley,” he says, then sits back down. I’ve never heard anyone say their own name with such venom.
Pauley, a Hispanic man in his late thirties, is next, and then it is juror number ten’s turn. Cam. I immediately blush, thinking of Damon knocking quietly on his door last night. I didn’t hear their conversation, but I imagine it went something like,Cam, buddy, can you spare one more?
Dude, I could hear her begging for it through the wall. Nice work,followed by a bro hug. I want to crawl under the table, through the concrete slab of this building, and out the sewer system.
Cam stands. He somehow has his sweatshirt back on, hood up, despite the rest of us still dressed in our courtroom attire. “I’m Cam. I go to UCLA. Majoring in social sciences. Uh, fun facts, I have forty-six tattoos, and I once shattered my pelvis falling off a cliff at the Grand Canyon while trying to get the perfect selfie.” He repeats nearly verbatim what he told Tamra, Damon, and me at that first dinner.
Juror number eleven, the blond man, informs us he is thirty-six and an overnight cashier at an ampm. Juror number twelve is Kate, the young housewife from Torrance with four kids. I’ve overheard her chitchatting enough over the last two weeks to know she has listened to one too many sensationalized true crime podcasts and believes that, here, she’s part of the cast ofOnly Murders in the Building.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the jury of Margot Kitsch’s peers.
“Great,” Xavier says, clapping his hands together once we’ve all gone. “Now that intros are out of the way, is there anyone who would like to be foreperson?” Before anyone can speak, he adds, “I am happy to take the role, if nobody else is interested.”
“I would,” I say, darting up from my seat. All eyes shoot to me, and I can’t miss the spattering of annoyed looks. They want to deliberate and move on with their lives, and I’m delaying it.
“Oh, well then,” Xavier says, standing to join me. When no one else expresses interest, he says, “Shall we vote on it?”
I nod, though wondering if I should insist on some kind of speech to provide my reasoning for why I want the job.
Before I can speak up, Xavier has taken charge. “Raise your hand if you would like Sydney to serve as foreperson,” he says.
Well, this is as in-your-face a popularity contest as I’ve ever been a part of. I try not to sulk as Damon’s, Cam’s, and Tamra’s hands are the only three to raise.
Xavier records the result on the legal pad before him, though there’s really no need. “And how many votes for yours truly?” he says, fingertips pressed to his chest. The remainder of the hands in the room shoot up with the exception of Stanley’s, who, to no one’s surprise, abstains.
Xavier becomes our foreperson, and rightfully so. He’s done the work I haven’t, of course. While I’ve been engrossed by Damon, he’s been getting to know the individuals who make up the jury. I never had a shot.
I plop back into my seat, adding this to my long list of recent failures.
“Now that that’s settled, the next suggestion on the instructions is to set some ground rules for discussing the case. I do have one, if you’re willing to hear me out. My daughter does cheer, and they have this thing called a spirit stick. A room full of young girls trying to agree on outfits and choreography and such, well, it can get loud. So, they have this spirit stick they use. You have to hold the spirit stick to talk. They pass it around to whoever has something to say. That way, they don’t all talk over each other and everyone has a chance to be heard. What d’you all think of implementing something like that here?”
I wonder how many of them now wish they had voted differently for foreperson.
My mom was a cheerleader in high school. There’s a picture of her in a purple-and-white uniform, sequined to the point of being, I assume, difficult to touch without getting scraped. Her cheeks and lips are a vivid, obtrusive red, and her hair is pulled back so tight her eyebrows are straight lines. She got pregnant with me shortly thereafter. That framed photo sat on the end table of my childhood home and now sits on the mantel above the fireplace in her home with Caleb and Gen. That picture has lived with her far longer than my father or I ever did. In it, she looks happy. I think of that picture now, realizing how much of her life she missed because of my father. Because of me.
I think to tell Xavier that, based on my mother’s descriptions of her team’s spirit stick, what he is describing is not at all the appropriate use. Ultimately, I let Xavier have his moment.
Tamra leans toward the fruit basket at the center of the table and pulls a banana from the pile. “We could use this?” she offers, and my annoyance wanes at Tamra’s good nature.
Xavier reaches around Stanley and takes the banana. “As good as anything else!” he says, clearly more pleased that nobody is objectingto his idea than he is about the choice of spirit stick. “Okay, so, from this point forward, if you want to express an opinion or thought on the case, please hold the banana.”
“That was a strange sentence,” Cam muses.
Forty-five minutes into deliberations, and all we’ve done is make introductions and anoint a spirit stick.
