Page 93 of Courtroom Drama
“We can’t seem to stop hurting each other,” he says. It’s not a statement or a plea. It’s a realization that I can see him mentally calculating—a supporting argument for why we can’t be together.
I desperately want to argue the point, but the lingering thought that we are on opposing sides of this jury, it nags at me like a persistent itch I can’t quite reach. He’s right. We do keep hurting each other. And after ten years, there’s no room left on my body for the scar tissue of him.
Even if we can’t be together, in this moment I care only about his heart and our now connected hands atop the arm of his burgundy Adirondack chair.
“All the lonely Starbucks lovers,” I say quietly, and he huffs in some semblance of a quiet laugh. I squeeze his hand.
We sit in silence, watching the day fade, our fingers firmly intertwined. I came to find him today, largely to ask about the trial, to try to understand how he could believe Margot is guilty.
But now, I can’t seem to make any of it matter.
44.
Burden of Proof (n., phrase)
the responsibility of a party to present sufficient evidence to support their claims or assertions beyond a reasonable doubt
my best friend
Day two of deliberations kick off unexpectedly. Gray Man—Stanley—stands as soon as we have settled into the deliberation room, proclaiming he has something to say. We all look on, awaiting an insightful monologue.
Xavier holds out today’s banana, still green at its base, and when Gray Man ignores him, he leans across the table and pointedly tosses it in front of him.
Stanley’s fingertips press against the table, palms raised, forming his hands into cones as he leans. The front sides of his suit jacket flop loosely in front of him. His face holds the same grimace it has since the first time I saw him.
“This case has dragged on for two damn weeks,” he gripes. “Reach a decision. Do it soon. I’ve got elsewhere to be.” He drums his fingertips against the table, then sits back down with an actual Scrooge-likehumph, looking between Xavier and the banana. After contemplating a moment, he shifts and reaches forward. Then, in an act of pure defiance, he picks up the banana, peels it, and takes a long bite, staring down Xavier as he does.
Not exactly what I was expecting.
“What if it was you?” Tamra says, her voice hard but kind.
“Excuse me?” Stanley says, turning to face her, still chewing.
“What if it was you,” she repeats, holding his eye contact. “On trial for murder. Your life on the line.”
Stanley rolls his eyes.
Tamra continues in the face of his flippancy. “Those two kids, they lost their father. And, depending on whatwedecide, they could lose their mother, too. If we are going to possibly orphan those children, you can be inconvenienced enough to take it seriously.”
A spike of pride invades my chest. Tamra’s motherly demeanor is somehow firm but nonthreatening, an uncommon mix that makes the jurors pay attention, whether out of outright respect, or fear of looking like an ass if they don’t, unclear.
It takes fifteen minutes but, undeterred, Xavier finds a new banana. Despite it, we volley between respectfully taking turns speaking and talking over one another heatedly, the unsure quiet of day one deliberations expeditiously replaced by heated anarchy. We’ve all felt it—the trapped pressure that needs release. I am momentarily grateful for the blown top two nights ago, then immediately try to shove all remnants of my night with Damon from my brain.
Midday, we take a new vote, and I’m surprised to find two previously undecided jurors are now voting not guilty. I imagine Tamra’s verbal lashing of Stanley has something to do with it. We are now five guilty, six not, and one undecided.
Today, I once again remain quiet, though my discomfort grows at the direction of deliberations as day two wears on.
“Margot one thousand percent got that house manager, Gloria, to do it,” Cam says defiantly as we circle the drain again. Somehow, the conversation always leads back to this point. “That woman would do anything for Margot. Did you see the way she looked at her?”
Damon, for his part, is also largely quiet today. I wonder if it’s because of some unspoken truce we’ve come to about not wanting to argue about this case or if he’s simply no longer interested in advocating his point.
After three more hours of back and forth over the same points and two additional votes, I feel a bit hopeful as Gray Man shifts his vote to not guilty. It may just be that he’s voting with the new majority, but I’ll take it. Now, Xavier, Cam, Kate, and Damon remain the last guilty strongholds.
The room grows quiet, weariness setting in within the group. We have sat on the cusp of the end for so long now but have ceased any forward motion just shy of the finish line. And with evening fast approaching, the notion of having to spend another night sequestered hovers ominously.
Tamra, to my delight, is not only vocal, but both her demeanor and points are compelling. “Is the most salacious thing true?” she asks, her voice sharp. “Or is it that we want the most salacious thing to be true because it’s more interesting? And we’ve grown accustomed to the entertainment of it all. We are not writing the most interesting plot for the future Lifetime movie about Margot and Joe Kitsch. We are determining the future of this woman’s life. As the saying goes, the simplest thing is usually true. So, what is the simplest thing here? Is it that Margot somehow convinced an employee of hers tomurder her husbandfor her, planned this whole thing out, and went about the morning with such carefree abandon that even herbest friendcouldn’t detect a change in her? Or is it that Joe died of natural causes? A simple, unfortunate death.”
I nod appreciatively.
