I dress quickly, opting for a cream crewneck sweater paired with black slacks and shiny black mules. I blow-dry my dark hair straight, parted slightly off-center to work with my cowlick. I swipe on a bright magenta lipstick that I threw into my toiletries bag at the last minute. Knowing I’ll be in the same room as Margot Kitsch today, it seems the appropriate accessory.
I make my way to the hotel lobby a few minutes later, where the other jurors have already begun to assemble. In the far right corner is a breakfast “buffet,” which consists of individually portioned cereal boxes and a row of plain bagels, though I don’t spot any accompanying cream cheese.
One of the other jurors—number twelve, I believe—accidentally bumps my shoulder as she returns from the breakfast spread and offers me a bubbly apology. She’s a stay-at-home mom from Torrance, I recall. I overheard her describing each of her four kids in the van last night to juror number five, the quiet, polite older man whom I sit next to in the jury box. I have a habit of remembering details about people, as it often helps to do so in my job. Moreover, I am genuinely curious about them.
“Hi, I don’t think we’ve officially met. Sydney Parks,” I say to her, offering my hand. She returns the introduction, and I work to charm her quickly with my cheek-paining smile and agreeable nods. We’ll all need to function cohesively to reach a verdict.
When I part with juror number twelve (Kate), I notice the baby-faced guy from the courtroom hallway at the tiered cereal shelf. He grabs one of each cereal (six in all) and throws them into his backpack.When he leaves, I take his place and grab a box of Frosted Flakes, realizing it’s been more years than I can count since I’ve eaten Frosted Flakes—or cereal at all, for that matter. My standard breakfast ritual primarily consists of just fluids—coffee, OJ, milk. I own a lot of cups.
“Morning,” I hear over my shoulder. I spin on my heel and look up, that saddle-leather scent storming my space. The way this new scent mixes with his natural musk again reminds me of Sagawa Horse Camp—a layered nostalgia I’m not prepared for, especially so early in the day.
“Damon,” I say in neither a greeting nor an outright snarl.
“Not a lot here,” he says, evaluating the cereal boxes, then bagels.
“Yeah.” I shake my Frosted Flakes box between us.
“Interesting choice.” He flicks his pointer finger up lazily. I take note of his rolled sleeves, eyeing again the pair of angel wings inked across the inside of his right forearm. He picks up a cereal box and points the bottom corner of it in my direction. “I’ve always taken you for more of a Corn Pops kinda girl,” he says.
I’m instantly offended. “I’ve never had Corn Pops,” I assert, fairly certain it’s a true statement.
He grins, barely, and it’s odd and distracting how it doesn’t hit his eyes. Like, at all.
“Cheerios are just as boring as Corn Pops,” I say, referencing his choice.
He flexes his jaw, though the way his chin dimple bends into a swirl and his eyebrows raise at their arches makes him seem unbothered. “They’re honey nut,” he says, equally playful and defensive. “And I never said Corn Pops were boring.”
If this were anyone else, I’d say we were just exchanging mundane breakfast banter. But this... this isDamon. Damon in adult male form like IWeird Science’d him from his sixteen-year-old self to be the most annoyingly attractive version of him I could imagine.
The two bailiffs accompanying us at the hotel announce it’s time to go. I set the box of Frosted Flakes back on the shelf, too jittery to eat, knowing what awaits us at the courthouse.
We line up single file and climb into the two passenger vans. Damon takes the seat beside me. It’s as if he’stryingto be around me,which would certainly be a shift. I watch as he shakes a small handful of Corn Pops into his hand, presses them into his mouth, then positions the box in front of me.
“What happened to the Cheerios?” I ask.
He shakes his head once. “Too in your face, honey nut.”
I begrudgingly accept, already regretting my choice to leave the Frosted Flakes behind, and the small box of Corn Pops is gone in three turns. Damon reaches into his worn leather satchel and pulls out another box for us to share, and I note we could have just eaten from separate boxes.
When we arrive at the courthouse, the jury is ushered to the side door of the courtroom. I’d assumed we’d have a few moments to regroup as the gallery settled. Instead, the fifteen of us are lined up according to juror numbers, me behind Damon. Xavier leads the line as juror number one. Behind me, juror number five—the elderly man whom I haven’t heard speak. We exchange polite smiles and nods. I turn to face forward again, and my eyeline hits precisely at Damon’s wide-set shoulder blades as we enter the courtroom. I shake my head, attempting to dislodge my attention from him. His broad back, specifically.
My senses are taxed as we enter, single file. Now that the gallery is full, the room feels far smaller than it did yesterday with an electric energy I feel like I may get zapped by. It doesn’t smell bad necessarily, but there are too many bodies crammed in for it to smell particularly good. The air is stiff with anticipation and intrigue, and, finally, I find my people among the courtroom benches: those who are equally engrossed with this trial and Margot Kitsch’s fate. I try to sneak a peek at her, but Damon is practically herculean and there’s no way to look around him inconspicuously.
The case will not be televised, per Judge Gillespy’s mandate, so there are only reporters scattered among the crowd, no cameras. Per courtroom rules, they don’t snap photos of us as we enter, but they do gawk. Evaluating. Judging. Anticipating who might believe what about Margot and this case based on how we look. I can’t help but glance down at my attire, wondering which side of the decision they might prematurely place me on. I wonder if they’ll assume correctly that I’m here to ensure Margot isn’t made a sacrificial lamb being led to slaughter.
I don’t readily recognize any members of either Joe’s or Margot’s family, and I wonder if it’s because they are possible witnesses or because they intend to avoid the hoopla. Anyone could be called to the stand at any time, and the thought is a bit intoxicating.
The eyes of the room continue to evaluate us as we evaluate them, and I feel again the pressure of expectation along my shoulders, atop my chest. All these people staring at us, each with their own desired outcome for this case. And they likely don’t all agree. No matter what happens, people will be disappointed. Angry, even. And we the jury have the responsibility of those stakes.
I’m clammy.
Damon ahead of me shifts sideways in front of his seat, opening up my view of the courtroom, and I get my first look at Margot Kitsch.
6.
Opening Statement (n.)
an initial speech made by each side in a trial, summarizing the main points of the case they will make for the jury
