Page 96 of Courtroom Drama
Public Opinion (n., phrase)
the collective judgment, attitudes, and perceptions of the general public regarding a particular issue, event, individual, or organization
the real jury
There’s a collective hum of enthusiasm as we pile into the vans and head back to the Singer Suites. They are excited it’s over. Anxious to get back to their real lives. But as I ride in silence beside Damon, I can’t help the sinking feeling in my gut that my time with him is ending. When he looks over and offers a small smile—big for him—it feels conciliatory. By the end of this quickly disappearing day, our... whatever it is... will be over. I almost wish we were perpetual jurors, full-time courtroom decision-makers, so I could wake up every day and sit beside him in that jury box forevermore.
Thirty minutes later, George taps at my open hotel room door. “For you,” he says, holding up a freezer-sized plastic bag. “Thank you,” I say, retrieving the bag, immediately pulling my phone from it and holding down the power button.
“You’re the most subdued one so far. That number ten next door practically tackled me when he saw his stuff,” George muses.
“It was kinda nice actually, being cut off.”
George smiles, the wispy hairs of his mustache jutting out over hisupper lip. “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he says, before giving me a nod and heading out.
After a quick review of my text messages to determine there’s nothing urgent, I open Google and type in Margot’s name, where I am assaulted with pictures and stories. There are myriad articles and posts, most of which, unsurprisingly, view Margot, and now the jury, negatively. They’re saying she bought her way out of it. They’re saying jury members fed into the hype.
The link I click first is a video of Margot standing outside the courtroom, addressing reporters. It must have happened right after the verdict and our subsequent bathroom run-in as we were headed to the hotel.
Margot stands, razor-straight, flanked by Durrant Hammerstead and his team. People shout and clamor to take pictures. She is poised, seemingly basking in her moment. She speaks into the row of microphones, instantly silencing the crowd.
She thanks the court, talks about looking ahead to the new normal with her children, asks for privacy. Before she has finished, reporters and paparazzi are hurling more questions. “If you didn’t do it, who did? Was it Gloria Pembrooke?” “Are you dating anyone?” “What will the Malibu Menace do next?” “Will you return for season eight ofAuthentic Moms?” “Who are you dating?” “Do you believe Joe died of natural causes?” “Will you comment on the affairs?” “Who do you want to date?”The barrage of questions keeps coming, even as she is ushered down the courthouse steps and whisked away in a black town car.
As I place a folded sweater into my suitcase, there’s a knock at my open door. Damon leans against it, left foot crossed over his right ankle. His fingers curl over the top of the doorframe, and it’s an all-too-similar stance to the one he struck the night we spent together. He’s wearing a royal-blue L.A. Rams sweatshirt that makes him look both incredibly sexy and familiarly boyish at once. Just seeing him leaning in my doorway makes me wish there could be one more day—or night, specifically—in this bubble. But it’s more than just the sex, of course. It’shim. All of him.
“Hey,” he says, remaining stationed against the door. He twirls an origami animal, this one a bear, I think, then sets it on the dresser.
“Hey,” I say back. My first inclination is to whisper, to usher him in hurriedly and close the door behind him. But we don’t have to sneak around anymore. And now that we don’t have to, there’s nothing we have to sneak around for. The irony of it leaves me wounded.
“Need any help?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I think I’ve got it.” He watches as I struggle to close my suitcase and then comes over to help. He zips it easily and lifts it with one hand to the ground. There’s no packing left to distract us.
“Right, well...” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls a folded paper from it, and holds it out in front of him. “For you.”
I take the paper from his hand. When I look up at him in question, he breaks our eye contact.
“Don’t read it now,” he says, pressing his fingers into his front jeans pockets. “Later. It’s just a final jury duty note. Seemed like an appropriate send-off, to write one more.”
I attempt to swallow the mass that has accumulated in my throat. “Thanks,” I say, tucking the note and origami bear into the side pocket of my tote on the dresser. We stand at the foot of the bed, inches apart, silently staring at each other. There’s so much to say, but also, nothing to say.
I want to tell him the other night was the best one of my life.
I want to tell him he’s velvet as a person—textured but smooth, soft against my skin and heart—
But I don’t know how to do this in the real world.
I know he doesn’t, either.
I’m about to open my mouth to speak, but our past and present stop me. I know we wouldn’t work anywhere but here. Not with all our baggage.We can’t seem to stop hurting each other.His words from the presidential suite just last night shadow my desires. I don’t ever want him to hurt again.
“Can I get your number?” he asks as if he’s never had it before, as if we didn’t exchange hundreds of thousands of texts and GIFs throughout our once friendship.
I sigh. “You don’t have to do this,” I say.
He squares up across me. “Do what?”
“Pretend like this is something. I get it.”
