Page 91 of Courtroom Drama
“Cam, banana?” Xavier tries.
Damon clears his throat. “We know from the toxicology report,” he begins, “that Joe Kitsch was otherwise healthy. People don’t just die suddenly like that without previous health issues or some kind of forewarning. He got regular checkups. Was in pristine health.”
“Here, banana!” Xavier says, exasperated, tossing the banana in front of Damon.
I stare across the table, attempting to keep the judgment from reaching my face. He’s allowed. Damon is entitled to his opinion. I should not think differently of him because his views differ from mine. Admittedly, my own views have fluctuated throughout the case. But the ramifications of his views, they could cost Margot her life.
It’s a reminder that, despite the tender moments we’ve shared—how Damon makes me feel and how he looks at me as though I’m hisonly weakness—we hardly know each other in these new versions of us. After all, are we really, at sixteen, who we will be? And if it weren’t for the forced proximity of this trial, we likely never would have crossed paths again. This notion makes my chest ache.
His eyes lock on the side of my head, willing me to look at him. I can’t. My own eyes might give me away.
“Joe Kitsch died of cardiac arrest. That much is clear. If we are playing the odds, this is far more likely a result of natural causes than foul play,” I say.
A few heads around the table nod, reminding me that Damon and I are not alone.
“But don’t forget,” Cam interjects, grounding me again as one of twelve in this room. “Her mom was violent. Threw things!” He flings his hand in the air in the motion of a throw. “So, Margot could have inherited some of that rage.”
“No,” I say firmly. “That is completely unreasonable and unfair. We are more than the sum of our parents’ worst offenses.”
Damon’s head whips to face me, and it is just him and me again in the room, in the whole damn world.
I don’t speak again for the remainder of the day’s deliberations.
43.
Perspective (n.)
the viewpoint from which judgment of a communication is administered
worth gaining
We break for the day, having not achieved much beyond appointing Xavier as foreperson, taking a preliminary vote to determine we disagree, and choosing a banana as our spirit/talking stick.
I plan to avoid Damon at dinner. It’s not that I’m mad at him. How could I be? That would be childish and unreasonable. I’m just trying to wrap my mind around all of this. And I need space, to ensure nothing clouds my judgment about the case. That is, until he doesn’t show up. Then I can do nothing but question his whereabouts and the reason for his absence. I glance at the empty chair beside me when I sit at “our” table with Tamra and Cam, pondering how quickly something can become habit, and how quickly we can grow to miss something we’ve just barely had.
I eat quickly and head to my room, his absence tugging at the hairs on the back of my neck. I lie in my bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. Do Damon’s views on the case change how I feel about him? I know they shouldn’t, but that doesn’t mean they don’t. Being on opposite sides of something again, something so massive—it triggers all the remnants of disappointment I’ve carried all these years.
It’s not yet curfew, so technically I can roam. And I can’t help butthink, despite our scolding from Judge Gillespy, that the fraternization rules are not as imperative now that we have reached deliberations. I let out a weary breath and push myself up out of bed. I throw on a cream zip-up hoodie and painstakingly open my hotel room door. I peek my head out, looking right, then left. It’s empty. Most of the jury is still at dinner, and I’m not even sure there’s a bailiff at the post around the corner by the elevators yet.
I plod carefully to Damon’s door and put my ear to it. Silence. I knock gently, then instinctively look to the right to see if George peeks his head around the corner. Nope. I tap my knuckles against it again, slightly stronger. Still nothing. Dejected, I turn and lean against his door.
Eventually, I give up. But I can’t seem to go back to my room. I stare at my door, envisioning another night of rolling around restlessly, of staring at the inoperative TV. Instead, I take a chance and head to the stairwell.
On the second floor, the door to the presidential suite is slightly ajar. I step inside, closing the door behind me. The lights are off, though there is still a bit of daylight insisting its way in through the sheer curtains. My eyes catch on the patio door, also open. Shit. What if the maid is on her break again? My hand instinctively curls around the door handle, ready to make a stealthy escape. But then I realize there is no maid cart to be found and there is no smoke billowing across the glass. I take a cautious step forward, then another, then another, until I’m squeezing through the opening of the sliding door and onto the terrace. There sits Damon, staring out at the strip mall below. He looks incredibly sexy and invitingly cozy in his black sweatshirt and dark jeans.
He looks up at me, as if my eventual appearance were inevitable. “Hey,” he says.
We silently stare at each other, neither inviting nor retreating.
“Sit,” he says, finally. It’s not a demand, rather a calm invitation.
I sink into the Adirondack chair beside him, attempt to find a comfortable position in the too-low seat, the cold of the splintered wood further jolting my adrenaline. We both watch as two employeesexit the back of the Verizon store, laughing over something on one of their phones.
The silence lingers, and I recognize that just last night, less than twenty-four hours ago, we were one. The thought sends my heart racing in an emotion I can’t quite decipher.
“You didn’t eat,” I say finally.
He shrugs. “Wasn’t hungry.”
