Chapter 3.
3.
Voir Dire (n.)
an oath administered to a proposed witness or juror by which they are sworn to speak the truth in an examination to ascertain their competence to serve
my first untruth
A bailiff holding a basket steps out of the far hallway door, and everyone stands at attention. Everyone except Gray Man, because he’s still staring at the wall, refusing to make eye contact with anyone and ensuring we are all aware of how dismayed he is to be here.
“Okay, phones, tablets, computers, smartwatches,” the bailiff announces.
“Smartwatches, too?” the baby-faced juror whines from his corner.
“All of it,” the bailiff responds, standing impatiently beside him as he removes his watch.
Tamra, the older woman whose name I’d caught during Xavier’s introduction, looks as though she may cry as she slowly gathers her items.
Gray Man grunts—a deep blast of stale air and anger.
Most of the other jurors frantically send last texts or scroll social media for their final bits of connection to the outside world before it all goes away indefinitely. I glance at Damon, whose thumbs fly around his screen. I look down at the phone in my hand. I could text my mom but decide against it, picturing her bouncing baby Genevieve around her dolphin-themed nursery, eyes to the ceiling, praying desperately for her colicky baby girl to calm. I could text my dad, though I don’t even know which city he’s in. And now that Damon is here, there’s a pit of disappointment in my stomach thinking about them both.
I feel like I should tell someone in my life that Damon— my Damon—is also a juror, but there’s no one to tell. My parents certainly remember him, but I couldn’t possibly bring him up to them without dredging up a decade of forced-down grief. I’d love to tell Mel about him, but she came into my life after Damon, and ours is not a story I can relay in a rushed text. There’s no time to contemplate why I’ve kept this big part of my history a secret from my closest friend. I shoot her a quick message:
Phone getting taken now. Shit’s gettin’ real!
She responds immediately.
WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING!
I press the screen to black and await the bailiff’s approach.
“Who was your last text to?” Damon asks. He speaks slowly, carefully, as if there’s a PROCEED WITH CAUTION sign glued to my forehead. He’s not wrong.
“Best friend,” I say, wondering if it causes him to consider the fact that he used to be my best friend.
“Mom,” he says in response, flashing his phone at me, though I didn’t ask. I attempt to swallow the mound in my throat, then bite at my lip anxiously. I think of his mom, Mrs. Bradburn. Mallory. Her daily yoga pants and bra tanks. I wonder what she’s doing now. After.
We watch as the bailiff grows closer.
“So, no love of your life to send a final ‘I love you’ text to?” he asks.
“No,” I say, attempting to determine if I should be offended that he’s asking me about my love life so immediately after crashing into each other again. He looks at me, eyes narrowed in observance, and it’s like a wave in the ocean, the blue green rolling wide, then shallow, then wide again.
“Hey there! I’m Xavier.” Our potential foreperson has made his way over to us, hand extended to Damon.
“Damon.”
Xavier repeats his name, and I wonder if this is some method he uses to remember, repeating names each time he hears one to ensure a mental stickiness. Xavier lingers for a beat, then turns his attention to me.
“Hi, Xavier,” he says as we shake. His hand is clammy and his handshake so firm it hurts.
I smile. “Hi, I’m Sydney.”
“Sydney,” he echoes.
The bailiff, who’s now collecting Tamra’s electronics, clears his throat and offers a strict look in our direction.
“Why are we already not allowed to talk? The trial hasn’t even officially started yet,” Xavier whispers, having taken up on my free side. “And we’re allowed to chitchat, right? Just not about the trial specifically.”
“Practice, I guess?” I whisper back as the bailiff tags Tamra’s Kindle. “And maybe they only want us conversing after officially reviewing all the rules.”
Damon chimes in. “Maybe if we keep it up, we can get replaced by alternates.”
“I can’t get kicked off this jury,” I counter reflexively.
Xavier shrugs and moves on, accosting a new juror stepping off the elevator with friendliness. When he’s gone, Damon turns to face me and uncrosses his arms. “Why would you want to serve jury duty? Unless...” His face remains unmoved, except for the barely there flicker of something playful in his eyes. “Are you an Authentic Moms superfan?”
“Be quiet,” I warn, suddenly hot at the notion this could be the thing that leads to my demise before the case even starts.
“You are .” He presses his eyebrows together, and his mouth falls open slightly as he awaits my response. This, his eyes say, is a new development .
“No,” I hiss, though it’s clear I doth protest too much. He presses his bottom lip into his top one, and I react without thought with an elbow into his side, perhaps a little harder than necessary. He doesn’t flinch, and I hope he doesn’t interpret the move as overtly playful.
The bailiff approaches. I hand over my laptop and phone. Damon lays a phone, iPad, and laptop into the basket. It’s silly, really. We all knew we couldn’t keep these things, but we brought them anyway, out of attachment or perhaps hoping they’d somehow be allowed.
Once there are fifteen of us in the hallway and all our electronics have been confiscated, the bailiff escorts us to the courtroom on the main floor. We are asked to assemble into a line, and Damon slides in right in front of me. Then we shuffle into the room, and I am stuck beside Damon.
It’s a standard courtroom, the same setup I’ve repeatedly seen in movies and on TV (and through jury selection), though far less grand. Witness stand and jury box to the right of the judge’s bench. Cherrywood pews and tables. Conference-room-style carpet, dark and patterned to disguise dinge. Air-conditioning on full blast despite the October chill.
We reacquaint with Judge Gillespy, an older woman with a sharp face and upturned cheekbones. She wears the same shade of deep red lipstick as she did during jury selection, and I find some comfort in her now familiar face. We sit for the first time in our respective juror seats, and I’m in the front row of the jury box, to the right of Damon, and we are hastily assigned as jurors three and four.
I press my eyes shut in dismay. Just like that, I’m going to be seated next to him for the rest of this trial.
Judge Gillespy welcomes us from her bench. She speaks in a projecting tone, one of authority that makes everyone take note. Everything up until this point has felt like a test run—the motions of jury selection, the call verifying me as a chosen juror, the bold jury ordinances. The past week was a frenzy of packing, letting my parents know while emphasizing the confidential nature of the situation, coordinating the leave with work, squealing with Mel—all the while, anticipation growing with each day that drew me closer to Margot and the role I could play in her fate.
But today, now, it’s all become real.
And now that we are here and officially know the case we will be sitting for, Judge Gillespy explains that the attorneys have to verify there are no remaining potential pitfalls in the jury that has been assembled. I’m taken aback; I thought getting called in meant I had made it on to the case, but I could still be chucked from the trial.
Judge Gillespy asks two questions as part of voir dire that unnerve me.
“Do any of you have a personal relationship with the accused and/or the deceased that would prohibit you from serving on this jury in an unbiased manor?”
I don’t speak up. I don’t know Margot, technically. While I’ve watched the show, that is no different from the others on the jury who, unless they’ve been living under a rock the last seven years, know about Margot Kitsch.
The second question is the one that makes me suck in a breath.
“Do you know any of the other jurors?”
Damon’s eyes shift sideways to me briefly, though he remains facing the bench.
If I admit to knowing Damon, I could be replaced by an alternate right here and now. Part of me would be relieved to have an opportunity to run away from Damon and all the feelings seeing him again has unleashed in me. But a much larger part of me is too invested in this trial and its outcome to not be a part of it.
I release my breath, a string of silent curse words accompanying it. “I do,” I say. Damon presses his eyes shut, and I wonder why he hasn’t spoken up himself.
All eyes lock on me, and I immediately regret the move, chastise my gnawing morals and penchant for rules. Judge Gillespy raises her eyebrows, and I answer her silent question. “I mean, I did, a long time ago. Juror number three.” I point limply to Damon beside me. “He was my neighbor when we were kids.” It’s a slight, to call us neighbors when we were so much more. But I firmly believe those details are not relevant right now.
“Juror number three, is this true?” Judge Gillespy asks, her attention shifting to Damon.
“Yes,” he says, though he doesn’t offer more.
“I see.” Judge Gillespy sighs, clearly unhappy with this news and the possibility of already having to shuffle the jury. “When is the last time you saw each other or otherwise interacted?”
“It’s been ten years,” I assert quickly.
Judge Gillespy confirms this with Damon. She pauses for a long while, and I hold my breath as I await her consideration, feeling my part in this case slipping out of reach.
She looks to the lead attorneys, both of whom are afforded the opportunity to weigh in. Beside me, Damon bounces his knee aggressively. Is he nervous? With his aloof exterior, I have difficulty believing he could be. I rip my attention away from him, unwilling to give him any more power. If he is once again the cause of me losing something I value, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold back my disdain.
Eventually, they agree to let us stay given the amount of time that’s passed since we’ve seen each other, citing it of no concern. I’m glad they can move on from it so effortlessly. But one thing is clear—by outing Damon and me as having had a previous relationship, whatever that relationship may have been, we now have an added layer of attention that I don’t like.
With Damon’s and my fate decided, Judge Gillespy reviews a number of rules with us, some of which were outlined in the preparatory email we received and some not—no talking about the case, no fraternization, and a demand for strict adherence to the no media and curfew rules. It’s the no-fraternization rule that strikes me hardest. We are allowed to talk to one another, she clarifies, but we cannot discuss the case until deliberations. This point she makes clear, along with the need to follow curfew and other “location requirements,” as she calls them—that is, no sneaking off and no after-hours visits, conjugal or otherwise. The emphasis she places on this last point makes me believe she’s had to deal with a horny juror or two in her day.
“This is one of the highest profile cases this court has ever tried,” she says. “There will be a lot of eyes on what happens in this room over the next several days. While these rules may seem...” She searches for the appropriate word. “...excessive, they are in the best interest of the case.”
“As you may have noticed, it’s a circus out there,” she says after walking us through the intended flow of the proceedings, flipping a long, lean finger toward the front of the courthouse. “You have my assurance, I’ll keep that nonsense out of this room.” She doesn’t smile, but her face softens a bit, and I feel a touch more comfort with her at the helm. “But,” she says, her voice sterner than a second before, “know that not following the rules I have set forth could have severe consequences. Not only could failure to comply cause your dismissal from the jury, but it could result in a mistrial. It could even result in jail time.”
Chairs squeak around me as jurors shift in their seats.
Well, shit. Despite my excitement for being a part of this, it suddenly feels as though I am at my own sentencing.
I would have been perfectly fine with these rules had Damon not shown up and thrown a wrench into things. With so much unspoken and unfinished between us—like the confrontation I’ve fantasized about having with him over the years—there’s a layer of concern about this no-fraternization rule I can’t shake. As much as I want to be here, I also know I need to eventually talk to him about our past, no matter how intently I may want to ignore it. And him.
Judge Gillespy ends with our solemn oath, and the formality of our pledge to the court and trial tightens the fast-growing knot in my chest.
After our time with Judge Gillespy, the fifteen of us are packed into two passenger vans and shuttled to a hotel, which will serve as our accommodations for the length of the trial. Damon and I exchange a glance as he is shuffled into the opposite van, and I quickly look away, unwilling to give him too much of my attention.
It’s a longer drive than I anticipate, given we will be making this trek to and from the courthouse each day. The downtown cram gives way to the fall foliage, and soon we’re motoring along a lonely road off the I-5 that would be easy to miss. I catch the others looking out the windows, some intrigued, some disappointed, some seemingly confused. Tamra keeps looking behind us as if to ensure we aren’t being followed. Perhaps the obscure location is for our anonymity, though, ensuring we are far enough off the beaten path that no one would think to find us here.
We pull closer, our destination becoming clear.
Off the beaten path we most certainly are.