Chapter 1.
1.
High-Profile Case (phrase)
a case that attracts enough media or public attention that the court should make significant alterations to ordinary court procedures to manage it
the secret lives of celebrities
Ten Days Later
I ’m buzzing with anticipation as I pull into the underground garage of the Los Angeles County Superior Court. I check the instructions on my phone again before exiting my car.
If driving, park in the reserved spots on sublevel two past the boom barrier. Take the east elevator to the fourth floor, where a bailiff will meet you.
Your discretion is of the utmost importance.
The dramatics of the instructions only add to my anticipation.
I have to force away a grin as I step onto the cracked concrete, the click of my black suede heels rocketing from corner to corner of the synthetically lit space. I gather my roller bag from the trunk of my car, the chalk-white paint growing brittle at the trunk handle. The flickering light strip overhead hums and crackles ominously, emphasizing my aloneness. The garage is quiet and surprisingly clean, and I wonder for a moment if I have arrived at the right place and at the correct time, though there is no need to check. I’ve committed the instructions to memory. Despite this, I silently replay the five-page list of directives in my head as I enter the garage elevator, roller bag in tow, faux leather tote straps over my blazer-covered shoulder.
Don’t enter or exit the main courtroom doors. Don’t speak to those not directly involved in the case, including small talk.
Be aware of your surroundings.
Be wary of people who approach you.
My grin wins over.
It’s perhaps unlikely that an Authentic Moms of Malibu fan would be chosen for the Margot Kitsch jury. During selection, nearly two weeks ago now, neither Margot nor AMOM was ever explicitly mentioned or asked about. I suppose the attorneys had given up on finding jurors who didn’t know anything about the franchise; comments they made during the selection process made me believe it had been arduous and they’d already weeded through several jury pools. Because of this, there was little need to downplay my knowledge of her or the franchise (of which there are six different city casts—and I watch them all).
And while many people would have too much going on in their real lives to be sequestered for an indeterminate number of days, I only have work. No husband or kids for whom I am the sole caretaker (both reasons I heard during selection that allowed potential jurors to be excused). Work did take some finagling, as I’ve barely missed any days in my four years with my firm. No vacations and copious amounts of overtime have made them come to rely on and heavily benefit from my workaholic tendencies. I told them I tried every excuse I could to get myself out of this. It was a lie, of course.
In the Margot Kitsch case, because of the highly public nature of both victim and accused, and the rumors of attempted bribes to influence jury selection, sequestration was deemed not only appropriate but necessary by the presiding judge. This decision served to further captivate the public, as the last jury sequestered in California was seven years ago in the case of the L.A. Rams quarterback who ran over his offensive lineman with his custom-painted rose-gold Bugatti for missing a block. Allegedly.
Despite the public’s immediate and swarming rush to the side of salaciousness and, thus, Margot’s guilt, it’s unfathomable to me that she could have killed Joe. They were married for twenty-four years. They have two young children together. She was utterly devoted, speaking often on the show about how much she not only loved him but liked him, which, from my experience, is perhaps the far greater accomplishment of the two.
As fans of the show, Mel and I have faithfully watched AMOM for all seven years it has been on air. In fact, Authentic Moms of Malibu is the reason we met. Deep into an AMOM Reddit thread during the season four reunion, Mel (username AMOMsupportgrp) took on the many Margot haters and defended her decision to uninvite fellow Authentic Mom Tenley Storms from her birthday trip to Anguilla because she didn’t want to be seen with someone who “wore fur to the Met Gala” and, equally disturbing, donned “so many god-awful statement necklaces.”
There is NO excuse for Tenley wearing real fur, Mel had written. Not to mention, Tenley getting invited to the Met over Margot is a CRIME. Mel and I ended up live chatting during the next season’s episodes. Six months later, when we both had leases expiring with unideal roommates (mine, found on Craigslist, used to lick bowls clean after use, then place them back into the cabinet), we moved in together, and our chats became side-by-side commentary on our Los Feliz couch. Having spent the last ten years of my life without many friends, no close ones at least, AMOM somehow became a lifeline to a real-life relationship. My most important one at that.
Interestingly, Margot would not be the first Authentic Mom to serve jail time. Harley Barlow from the Scottsdale franchise was pinned four years ago on tax fraud, and Nashville Authentic Mom Suzette Mortimer served two weeks for a DUI after careening her Range Rover into a neighbor’s front gate. Needless to say, neither received a fraction of this case’s attention.
In the elevator, I press the button for the fourth floor, per the instructions, though I’m rerouted to the main lobby, which I quickly realize is so I can be put through the security protocol of metal detectors and a bag search.
Here, I get my first tangible taste of the magnitude of the situation. Across the lobby, through the oversized tinted bay windows, is a horde of onlookers. The walkway and its grass-rimmed edges overflow with people, all attempting to glimpse the action. Reporters, paparazzi, fans, gawkers. I even catch sight of a few signs—homemade with markers on glossy white posterboard as if it were a Harry Styles concert. FREE MARGOT! one sign reads. WOMEN WHO WEAR CHANEL DON’T POISON THEIR HUSBANDS, reads another. And yet another, etched in messy bloodred spray paint: HANG THE MALIBU MENACE!
Aggressive.
I turn my attention to the sidewalk, where a guy sporting spiky hair with ’90s-reminiscent frosted blond tips sells Margot Kitsch merch: hats, buttons, tees. One of the T-shirts facing my direction reads STYLE AND GRACE, BUT I’LL STILL SLAP YOU IN THE FACE —her Authentic Moms tagline.
I take in the red and brown leaves covering the ground in no discernible pattern, trampled by spectators, and the tree limbs that hang bare. I can practically hear the crisp, satisfying crunch of autumn leaves under their boots and sneakers as the shoes owners vie for better viewing placement like they’re waiting for the headliner to take the main stage at a music festival.
Mel would die if she saw this, I think as I behold the spectacle, already anticipating the hours-long recap I’ll owe her when this is over.
My eyes then catch on another of the signs held by an onlooker, causing my heart to knock firmly against my rib cage: JUSTICE FOR JOE . It’s a tragedy that Joe is gone, that Margot lost her husband and their young kids lost their father. He does deserve justice, and that’s why I want to ensure the correct verdict is reached—and Margot, vindicated.
My security check complete, I retreat into the elevator, but I can’t unsee the circus.
My life is willfully small—just work and Mel (and our reality shows) in an unwaning circle. I’m basically Elsa in the first half of “Let It Go” before she, you know, lets it go.
But all of this... this is something else entirely.
Before I can fully contemplate exactly what I’ve gotten myself into, the elevator door opens again on the fourth floor, which is thankfully a much quieter scene than the main lobby. I join six others with luggage, all standing avoidantly in separate sectors of the hallway. Even though we aren’t yet twelve (technically, there will be fifteen of us, including three alternates), it’s evident we, the jury, are a diverse group.
There’s a guy leaning against the far wall with his black sweatshirt’s hood over his sandy-blond hair, which pokes out in all directions, and a black backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks barely old enough to drive, let alone serve on a jury. Closest to him, a black woman in what I believe would be defined as a floral muumuu who looks to be in her early sixties. I recognize her from jury selection. She appears particularly pensive, her black eyes downturned, arms wrapped around herself protectively.
Soon, a new addition steps off the elevator, a handsome black man. His head is bald and so shiny it holds no remnants of once-there hair. With his Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops, and board shorts, it looks like he’s just stepped off the red-eye from Honolulu.
I take them all in, wondering who might believe what about the case and about Margot Kitsch. At minimum, they’ve heard her name. In all likelihood, they have an opinion already formed about her, conscious or otherwise. I’m already eager for deliberations.
Hawaiian Shirt doesn’t hesitate. Before the elevator door has closed, he approaches the woman in the muumuu, holding out his hand. “Xavier,” he says as she slides her hand tentatively into his. Her eyes dart around the hallway, looking for a guard or camera, I presume, as if Hawaiian Shirt Xavier is some sort of plant, here to administer a first-day test of the rules. “Tamra,” she returns, though barely audible.
“Tamra, nice to meet you,” Xavier says. He then approaches the one I’m sure is a tween.
“Hey, man, Xavier.” They exchange names, though from the opposite end of the hall I don’t catch the younger one’s.
Xavier circles back in my direction, reaching the man standing opposite Tamra. He’s wearing a gray suit and has gray hair to match, with a perfectly round bald spot at his crown. With his large, almost obscene gold watch and intensely shiny shoes, he gives off a particularly rich scent. Xavier holds out his hand in greeting. Gray Man looks down at Xavier’s hand, then at the wall. A clear rejection.
“No worries,” Xavier says merrily, moving on to the next juror without hesitation.
I take note that Xavier would appear to be my early competition for the role of foreperson.
Busy observing Xavier’s cordiality and debating whether I should jump in with my own impactful introductions, I don’t immediately notice the next person stepping off the elevator. That is, until I feel his gaze. I see it in my peripheral, the exact moment it happens. He takes a few steps, then, when his eyes land on me, halts as if he’s run into an invisible wall—a firm one with jagged edges and maybe some spikes. One glance in his direction is all it takes for recognition to strike, though my body might argue it knew before my eyes could verify.
Damon.
My insides flare and entangle, a muscle memory of a specific pain that only this man has ever been able to cause me. Our eyes catch, and for the briefest moment, his face explores a cascade of emotion. I see his recognition, surprise, discomfort—all of which surely match my own expression.
I tighten my grip on my roller bag, attempting to circumvent the free fall happening in my stomach, as though an elevator cord has been cut and we are careening to the bottom of the shaft.
He steps beside me.
“Sydney?” he says, continuing to stare, and it comes out as both a statement and a question. At my lack of immediate response, he runs his palm against the back of his neck. The act causes a needle prick of irritation in my chest. It’s what he does when he’s uncomfortable.
I observe with macabre amusement which memories resurface at the sight of him.
The gentle wrap of his arm from behind me, forearm curling against my neck in a gesture of warmth.
The antique shop on Chester Avenue back in Bakersfield where I held a peacock feather up to the side of his face to find his eyes a satisfying shade match to the outer green rim but also, somehow, equally paired to the bluer inner sphere.
Summer rain. Blades of grass stuck to the sides of our bare feet. His hair mopping his forehead in an adorable cling.
The memory of the last time I saw him stampedes through my brain last, as if waiting to ensure its impact be felt most. Us at sixteen. His hair falling over his right eyebrow, shading his eye. Those blue-green eyes, more oval than almond. His jaw tight, muscle bulging across his right jawline, just as it is now. His entire body rigid, as if he had to clench every inch of himself to avoid collapsing in a pile onto his parents’ driveway before me. “I don’t know what to say,” he had offered. “I wish I could do something to fix this.”
There was nothing to do. We both knew it.
So he left.
And as a result, I buried him in my internal graveyard, where the stone reads THINGS I REFUSE TO LET DEFINE ME .
Now, on the first day of jury duty for the Margot Kitsch trial, which I must be sequestered with the other jurors for, by my side in the courthouse hallway is Damon fucking Bradburn . The boy—man, now—who I once thought of as my everything.