Page 95 of Courtroom Drama
Verdict (n.)
the decision given by the jury or judge at the end of a trial
the grand finale
Xavier stands, relishing the courtroom’s full attention. For the first time, the eyes of the gallery release Margot and instead grip Xavier, then Judge Gillespy, then follow the sheet of paper the bailiff delivers back to Xavier.
“I will warn the court,” Judge Gillespy states, gavel in hand, “when the decision is read, I expect the same level of order I’ve demanded for the entirety of the trial.” Her eyes rake along each bench. When satisfied with the compliant hush, she addresses Xavier. “Please read the verdict.”
Xavier takes his moment of greatness. He looks around the courtroom as if memorizing each face, finally landing on Margot standing at the defense table. He holds the paper delicately in his hands, as if it may combust if pressed against too firmly. He clears his throat, looks down, stares at the words silently for a moment as if it’s the first time he’s reading them.
Xavier speaks the verdict and the courtroom bursts. It’s not an exclamation of cheer nor a swell of disgust. It’s a burst of finality, of anticipation popping, the long-hanging question finally answered. Judge Gillespy pounds her gavel and asks for quiet.
In my peripheral vision, I see D.A. Stern throw his beloved ballpoint pen at the table and it bounces to the ground. I take in the motion,but it’s inconsequential. Because I’m really only watching her. Margot opens her fists and smooths the skirt of her dress twice, a palm at each side. There’s a look of approval, as though her expectation all along has been met. She doesn’t smile, though. Why would she? She’s still down a husband. But she is free. And I helped do it. We are—Margot and me—momentarily connected. We make brief eye contact before she turns to embrace Durrant Hammerstead.
I assess the other members of the jury as they take in the scene. I have to believe some or all of them changed their votes just to be done, aligning with Tamra and me solely because they viewed us as the most passionate and least likely to bend. But as my eyes catch Cam’s and he gives me a nod, lips pressed together in what looks like satisfaction, part of me believes they felt implored to follow the court’s call to the letter of the law.
Judge Gillespy enters the verdict and thanks us for serving our civic duty. We are ushered out of the courtroom through the same back door we’ve used throughout the trial, just as the gallery exits through the main doors. I almost feel as thoughI’vebeen declared not guilty, going from lockdown to suddenly free.
Now that the long-standing question about what will happen to Margot has been answered, a new one takes its place. With the trial over, will Damon and I cease to exist, too?
I head to the restroom—the one just off the judge’s chambers away from the public entrances—to catch my breath before we the no-longer-jury pile into the passenger vans that will return us to the Singer Suites for the last time to pack our things.
Alone at the sink washing my hands, I stare at this new version of myself, thinking about what comes next. Part of me wants to tell Damon I don’t care if he’s bad at relationships. That I know he is hesitant about us because of our history and everything he has been through. That he is terrified of hurting me. That we can figure it all out if we really want to. I don’t know how we’d spend holidays or tell our parents without taking them back to those memories they’d all rather forget. I want to believe we could. But there’s another, larger part of me that knows relationships end. And if Damon and I are bound to end again, I’d rather it be with longing than animosity.
I run my hands through my hair, halting when I see Margot exit the farthest stall and make her way to the sink beside me. Her heels click against the linoleum, each step hitting like a vicious stab. She doesn’t make eye contact, rather goes about her business as if I am not here. I openly stare.
“Hi,” I manage.
She smells like citrus and jasmine and maybe some spicy vanilla mixed in. We make eye contact through the mirror as she dabs her hands with a paper towel. I look on awkwardly as she presses that same paper towel delicately at the corner of her mouth, then at her right temple. It’s silent for an uncomfortably long stretch, and I contemplate leaving before I lose all dignity gawking at her. Before I can, she says, “You were the one,” and it takes me a moment to register her words. Even as I do, they don’t make sense. When I continue to silently stare, she goes on. “I knew when I saw you that first day that you’d be the one who’d come through for me.” She goes back to evaluating herself in the mirror. “It only takes one. That’s what Hammerstead kept saying.” She shrugs and huffs a sharp exhale. “I guess he was right.”
Her comments should fill me with pride that our connection wasn’t one-sided, that she relied on me the way I had come to once rely on her. But her words have a different effect. They make me feel used.
I continue to watch as she tosses her paper towel into the waste bin beside the sink and then turns toward the door.
“Can I ask you something?” I voice into the echoey space, the words rushing out of me like water from a faulty faucet.
She turns to face me, and though she says nothing, I take her acknowledgment as acceptance.
There are so many questions I want to ask her.What has this trial been like for you? What will you do now? Are you happy?DidJoe die of natural causes? How are your kids? Did you do it?But I take this opportunity to ask the question that has pestered me since the start of the trial, the one I’ve assigned some bit of personal affect to. I turn to face her, pressing my backside into the sink. “Where did you go when you went missing in St. Cloud when you were sixteen?” I want to know she’s far beyond this thing that happened in her formative years.
Margot observes herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that, taking herself in at different angles. Then she stops and makes eye contact with herself square on. Despite having answered on the stand, she humors me. “I was on a coke binge with my secret older boyfriend in Minneapolis, living on canned pinto beans and Fruit Roll-Ups. When the coke ran out, I went home and told my parents I couldn’t remember what had happened.” She starts toward the door again, heels spearing the floor. I note her recount here as a similar but more pernicious version of what she said on the stand.
I stare at her, unblinking. “Did you take that from Joe’s movie?” I finally muster.
She looks back at me at the restroom door, eyebrow arched as she evaluates me, perhaps seeing me for the first time. Her face tells me she realizes she underestimated me. And perhaps I imagine it, but she looks a bit impressed.
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug, her lips pulled into an almost haunting smirk.
I’ve thought about how I will explain Margot to others. To Mel, when she asks me about the trial. I anticipate it will be the first, most pressing inquiry, over and over again:What is she like?Throughout the trial, I haven’t been able to quite figure out what I might say in response to that question. But now, here, I realize she will likely always be a layered mystery. The human equivalent of a turducken.
Regardless, I don’t need to know the real answer. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened to her, whether it defined the rest of her life, it doesn’t change my reality. It doesn’t change that what happened to me at that age did define me in many ways.
Many, but not all.
With that, Margot Kitsch saunters out of the restroom in a perfectly straight line.
46.
