Chapter 18
The courthouse bathroom is the loneliest place on earth.
I’m in my best suit, which has always felt like a costume, structured and stiff, the fabric sharp at the shoulders and cinched at the waist.
The bathroom door swings open with a rush of air and a heel-click so severe it makes my teeth ache. Two unfamiliar women in identical navy skirt-suits and sensible haircuts stride in, commanding the space with a confidence I can only aspire to.
I do not know who they are, but they sweep past me, discussing jury selection and case dispositions like it’s small talk.
Jury selection. That’s all I’m doing today. Selecting the jury that will decide the outcome of my first trial. No big deal.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
When I step into the hallway, James is there.
He’s wearing a charcoal suit, standing with his hands in his pockets, one foot propped against the wall in an attitude of lazy confidence.
But as soon as he sees me, his smile flickers on.
It’s quick, private, only for me to see.
It’s the smile that says he knows I’m terrified and despite that, I’m still upright and not face-down on the marble floor.
“Ready?” he murmurs softly.
“Not even a little,” I say, but my voice is more steady than I expect.
James’s eyes steady me, or at least pin me in place.
“Yes, you are,” he says, and the words are so certain that for a moment I let myself believe him.
I try to calm my breathing as we walk to the courtroom, the gloom of the hallway broken only by the flicker of fluorescent lights. I wish I could say I feel powerful, but mostly I just want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
My eyes scan the gallery, already half-full, and land on Nash sitting in the front row behind the plaintiff’s table. The look on his face is serious in a way that looks foreign on him. He sees me, and his mouth tips up at the corner, a smile that tries for reassurance.
I take a seat at the table next to my clients, greeting them quietly and answering their last-minute questions.
On the other side of the aisle, the defense attorney, an older woman in a pale suit the same color as the bland walls, gives me a thin smile. I return it, teeth clenched so tightly that it starts to hurt.
James sits next to Nash behind me in the front row. All I can feel are two sets of eyes on me, but I can’t think about that right now.
Jury selection is about to begin.
The bailiff leads in a herd of prospective jurors, and the judge reads through the script of welcome and admonition. The defense attorney and I are invited to introduce ourselves.
I stand, my throat dry, and recite my name, my role, the names of my clients.
I keep my voice steady, but my hands go numb.
My first question is a throwaway, something about the patience and ability to sit through a potentially multiple-day trial.
I can feel my pulse in my ears, but I remember James’s advice: keep it conversational, keep it light, keep your eyes on the ones who look disagreeable or like they’re falling asleep.
I do all the things I have practiced.
I introduce vague facts of the case with a soft hand, ask about people’s feelings on doctors, on lawsuits, on money and grief.
When all questions have been answered, we have our twelve-person jury.
It’s not a perfectly ideal jury, but it will have to work.
The judge excuses us for the day with instructions to return tomorrow morning for trial at 9:00 a.m.
After the courtroom empties, I gather my things and shuffle to the hallway, feeling relieved not to have any eyes on me. All except one pair of eyes.
“Hey.” Nash is standing by the water fountain, hands shoved in his pockets, tie already loosened. “You were great in there.”
“All I did today was ask some questions and not faint,” I say. My tongue is so dry that the words stick to it.
He shrugs. “Well, I think it was great. And you looked really hot. That other lady looks like she bites.”
He glances around, as if the defense attorney might appear behind a column and confirm it.
I laugh, but my jaw stays tight. “She does. I checked her case history. Five straight defense verdicts.”
“C’mon,” Nash says, nudging my sleeve with his knuckle. “Get home and get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
***
The rest of the week unfolds in a slow-motion collision of testimony and mid-morning sugar crashes.
On Tuesday, I sit upright for six straight hours, every muscle tense. The defense puts on its witnesses: men in suits who talk in acronyms, women who say “the standard of care” until the phrase flattens into pure nonsense.
I scribble feverishly in the margins of my legal pad, underlining “contradicts earlier statement” and “breathe, just breathe,” my pen nearly puncturing through.
James is a stone in the gallery, his expression never wavering, his gaze fixed on the front of the courtroom with an intensity that feels brutal. Nash alternates between anxious doodling and watching me.
Wednesday is packed full of expert testimony and by the time it’s over, I have the worst migraine. I gather my trial binder and my laptop, my hands trembling with something worse than exhaustion.
I’m halfway to the doors when James falls in step with me.
Outside, the sky is low, and the parking lot is nearly empty. Just a few cars, dusted in a thin layer of pollen.
We walk in silence to my car until I can’t hold it in anymore.
“It’s not going well, is it?” I ask, but I don’t give him an opportunity to answer. “I knew I was gonna fuck this up. I knew it! I can tell I’ve already lost most of the jury at this poi—”
The words are barely out of my mouth when James closes the distance between us and takes my chin in his hand. The movement is so swift and so gentle I don’t have time to react. His thumb presses softly at the hinge of my jaw, steadying me, and then his mouth is on mine.
I want to fight back. To finish what I was saying.
But I give in to the kiss, practically melting into him. All the words I had lined up die in my throat.
For a heartbeat, I forget where I am. I forget I’m standing in a courthouse parking lot with a migraine and a certainty that I’m about to fail in front of everyone.
He pulls away slowly, his thumb brushing my lip.
“You haven’t fucked up. Don’t count yourself out before it’s over, Anders.”
He says it so quietly.
I want to argue, but the words don’t come. Instead, I just nod and that’s enough for James.
“Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds.
“See you tomorrow.”
***
By Thursday, all testimony has concluded, and it’s time for closing arguments. My mind goes back to James during the break before we all returned to the courtroom.
“Don’t try to be perfect. Just make them feel it.” And then, softer, “You have everything you need.”
The courtroom is colder than I remember.
The bailiff calls the session to order, and the judge gives a brief nod that feels like a dare.
I run the closing in my head again, the lines and the emphatic pauses, the final plea for justice. I have memorized every sentence, shaved every word to its emotional core, just like James and I practiced in the conference room night after night.
I’m not sure if the words I have prepared are enough. I’m not sure if I am enough. But I walk to the podium, steady as I can, and start to speak.
I do not remember half of what I say. I remember only the tremor of my voice at the beginning, the way it smooths into something more certain as I see, out of the corner of my eye, James’s look of approval.
I remember the faces of the jurors, suspicious, and then softening just slightly towards the end.
I remember my clients next to me, their nerves painted on their knotted faces.
I return to my seat.
The defense’s closing is a measured exercise in boredom, the attorney’s words trailing off like smoke, and when it ends, I can’t tell if I’ve won or lost, only that I have survived. The judge gives the jury instructions, and then they are gone.
Twelve strangers, each carrying some fraction of my future in their hands, march into a side room to render judgment on my clients and, by extension, on me.
There is nothing to do but wait. James and Nash hover behind me, not saying a word. There’s nothing to say. We all know that the next hour (or ten) will stretch out every nerve beyond its limit.
After two hours, the judge returns and excuses us.
This jury deliberation is taking a long time, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
We return the next morning for the jury deliberations, and while my anxiety is still running high, I at least have the reprieve of not having to do anything but continue waiting.
The jury returns at 11:26 a.m.
They carry their verdict in a sealed envelope. The foreman, clutching it with both hands, as if it could detonate if held wrong. I watch the foreman’s throat work as he stands, as he reads the verdict form. For an instant, the world narrows to the space between his lips and the air itself.
He reads: “We, the jury, find in favor of the defendant.”
The rest is a blur.
Mrs. Wilkinson releases a soft, wounded noise like a balloon losing air. Her son’s jaw flexes, and for a moment I am sure he will cry, but he balls his hands into fists so tight his knuckles turn white.
The judge thanks the jury for their service.
The defense attorney crosses the aisle and shakes my hand. Her palm is cold and dry, and her smile is a single, sharp line.
“You did well,” she says, and I want to spit, or run, or scream.
That’s it. Four days of testimony, three years of agony for a grieving family, and just seconds to erase it.
The rest of the words are just noise.
“Not proven by a preponderance of the evidence.”
“No damages awarded.”
“Jurors are excused with thanks.”
I leave the courthouse, unable to look or speak to James or Nash, knowing I won’t be able to do either without crying, and I go home.