Chapter 12.
12.
Juror Misconduct (n., phrase)
when the law of the court is violated by a member of the jury
what happens in the presidential suite...
T hree days into the trial, and I’m drained. Sitting in an unyielding wooden chair all day, doing nothing but listening and taking notes—it’s somehow more exhausting than a day on the go.
Besides the damning testimony from Tenley Storms and Margot’s father, we’ve heard from a handful of witnesses whom the prosecution has paraded to the stand, one after another, all to call Margot’s character into question. A makeup artist who claimed Margot degraded her by getting her exiled from her Authentic Moms clientele after Margot was turned into a meme of a witch because of her heavy black eyeliner at a Sea Save Foundation charity event.
There was a former teacher at her son’s elementary school, to whom Margot had left a lengthy, strongly worded voicemail about her dissatisfaction with Dover not being selected as the lead kindergarten role of Poppy Number One in the school’s Wizard of Oz production. That same teacher also recounted a one-sided argument in the school parking lot about a girl in Dover’s class to whom Dover had gifted one of Margot’s diamond Cartier bracelets only to have the parents deny they had it. She said Margot threatened to have her fired.
And perhaps most damning, D.A. Stern called to the stand a former house manager named Sylvie, who claimed she witnessed Margot and Joe in a physical altercation where Margot slapped Joe’s cheek with an open palm. Turns out, as we learned during Durrant Hammerstead’s redirect, that slap was in response to Margot’s learning of one of the growing list of Joe’s sexual indiscretions. This time, it was the barely of age woman who worked the front desk of his chiropractor’s office.
So far, Margot has been painted as an inept woman who needed a man like Joe to hand her a cushy life, only to grow dissatisfied and scornful, all while constantly displaying impulsive and outsized behavior. We are three days in and still with no direct path to or details of Joe’s death.
After we’ve retreated to our rooms for the evening, I sit at the edge of the bed, staring at the inoperative TV. I’ve barely slept between thoughts of Margot and Damon. I’m definitely not thriving in my goal to get to know the other jurors, either. Damon has managed to sit next to me for every meal. I’ve stopped trying to evade him, though I have managed to keep him at arm’s length.
Last night, I fell asleep thinking of the hours Damon and I spent on the couch (mostly his), watching movies—volume high so he could hear the dialogue over my incessant commentary. I made him watch Beastly and The Perks of Being a Wallflower . He countered with Con Air and Speed , calling out all the inconsistencies of ’90s action movies.
I see him so vividly, lying on the chaise end of the couch, left leg straight out in front of him, right ankle crossed over his shin. I see Kara wandering in, perching on the arm of his end for a few moments before inevitably losing interest and heading off to string beads into friendship bracelets or play Angry Birds on Mrs. Bradburn’s iPad. If life is measured in time spent, Damon and I were one during those six years.
I’ve changed into my mauve sweatsuit, washed my face, and thrown my hair into a messy bun, but it’s only seven p.m. Despite a quickly approaching late October, it’s still largely light outside. Without work or AMOM to distract me, I’m restless. I sigh, rustle a dollar bill out of my wallet, and head for the vending machine at the end of the hall.
“Hi, George,” I say as our evening bailiff pokes his head around the corner from the elevators. I hold up the dollar bill. “Just grabbing a late-night snack.”
George smiles and nods, glancing at the window behind him where the last strings of sunlight stream in. He returns to his position around the corner, out of sight, and I head in the opposite direction toward the small galley.
The vending machine choices are abysmal. Half the rows hold identical plastic-wrapped cinnamon-roll-like pastries and the other half are empty. As I’m about to give up, I spot the sole two-pack of peanut butter cups in the far bottom right row. I hastily insert my bill and press F5.
When I turn the corner back to my room, he’s there. Damon, two rooms down from my own, pulling his door closed with silent care. He’s dressed down in a white V-neck tee, gray joggers, and slides. I can see now that his sleeves of tattoos do in fact run up his biceps. The newness but equal familiarity of his body strikes through me. Something about the joggers and the observation of new skin results in a reflexive Kegel. He looks down to the opposite end of the hallway where Bailiff George sits just around the corner, then begins in my direction, halting when he sees me.
Me, in my mauve sweatsuit and aloe-infused fuzzy socks, with messy-bunned hair, holding a two-pack of peanut butter cups.
After a beat, he strides toward me—broad, confident steps but cautiously quiet to avoid detection from George. When he reaches my side, he lowers his mouth to a few inches above my ear and whispers through hot breath, “You coming?”
I want to ask where, to remind him we are under fifteen pages of strict rules, one of which is not to leave our rooms post-curfew. I want to tell him that whatever he is up to could get him kicked off the jury or, worse, cause a mistrial. But I can’t ask those questions or remind him of the rules because he hasn’t stopped moving. He brushes past me and continues making his way down the hall.
The Damon I knew was always seeking adventure. At twelve, I watched him break his arm cliff jumping at Kern River, though he barely let on anything was wrong until he ended up in a cast the next day. When we were fifteen, I got mad at him for exploring the abandoned commercial building on Union Avenue in some middle-of-the-night stunt with his lacrosse teammates. And, of course, there was motocross. In an unnerving way, this seems like the most natural thing in the world—Damon sneaking off in the name of exploration.
I have two choices: retreat to my room, eat my peanut butter cups in isolation, and read one of the three remaining books I’ve brought (all non-courtroom, per page five of the rules), or follow Damon. I know I should choose my room. That I must follow the rules to remain part of this case. I tell my feet to start in that direction, but they defy me. They spin instead—toward Damon, who is now several yards ahead. I take a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure the hallway is empty (it is), then trot to catch up to him.
“Does this little escapade of yours have the possibility of ending in injury of any kind?” I whisper when I’ve joined him, looking over my shoulder again.
“Virtually anything could result in injury if not done responsibly.”
“It’s ironic that you would mention responsibility when you’re sneaking around just a few days into the trial.”
“So if it had been a few weeks it would be okay?”
“What? No, you’re missing the point.”
He stops at the end of the hall and pushes open the door to the stairwell. “And besides, who’s sneaking?” he says, holding the door for me.
I hesitate. This trial is, pitifully, the most exciting experience in my recent life. It’s important and interesting and will be remembered. I’d be an idiot to do something to mess that up, to be forced to leave before helping to confirm Margot’s innocence. I picture my life years from now, regaling acquaintances with accounts of this trial. If pressed to play two truths and a lie again, I will say I was part of the Margot Kitsch jury and people will lean in, wanting to know more.
I look into Damon’s blue-green eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment I think, He’s exciting, too . I silently scold myself for the thought and instead tell myself that, once finally alone, we can address what happened all those years ago. I can give him the earful I’ve held in for ten years. I step into the stairwell, wondering how this will end. Because I can’t imagine a scenario where this doesn’t end badly.
He lets the door close slowly behind him, ensuring there is no thud just as he had with his room door, and we are alone in the dim stairwell scented with cigarettes and mildew, the only light—the quickly dwindling sun from the ceiling skylight two floors above us.
“Now what?” I ask, my voice echoing against the concrete stairs and walls.
He looks up, and I follow his gaze to the circle of stairs leading upward. He starts to climb. I do the same, because, well, I’m in it now. Climbing the stairs behind him, I can’t help when my eyes flick to his backside, as it’s in my direct eyeline. I wonder about his undoubtedly robust squat routine as we climb.
He reaches for the second-floor door handle and I expect it to be locked. There should be some obstacle to his plan—whatever that plan is—to indicate that we shouldn’t be out of our rooms. But the door opens easily, the building seemingly welcoming our felonious antics.
We enter the second-floor hallway and it is quiet, vacant. The hotel, we know, is empty except for the jurors, who are all being kept on the first floor. It’s hard to say whether our exclusive stay is because Judge Gillespy mandated it or because this hotel’s undesirable location and lack of general appeal led to it being empty. I imagine it’s a combination.
Damon briefly reads the sign on the wall, then starts toward the end of the hall, a destination in mind.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my question. I’m nearly convinced I should have gone back to my room when I saw him. I probably should now.
We stop at a pair of double doors at the far end of the hall. The presidential suite, as the wall plaque indicates. Damon raises a daring eyebrow at me, then pulls a key card from his back pocket. He places the card against the reader, and the little red light turns green.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask, nodding toward the key card.
“I have my ways.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, this mysterious stranger bit? It’s overkill.”
“We’re not strangers,” he says so matter-of-factly I almost forget the last ten years don’t include some version of us.
His eyebrows press into playful frowns that match his mouth. He doesn’t say anything, rather he juts his chin at the room, urging me inside. I cross my arms as I enter the suite, and Damon follows, flipping on the light and slow-closing the door with expertise.
There’s decidedly nothing presidential about the suite. Though it’s larger than the box of a room I have, I can’t imagine any presidents, past or present, opting for the Singer Suites. Straight ahead, there’s a sliding door out to a balcony. Despite the dimming sky, I clearly see it has two burgundy Adirondack chairs that overlook the adjacent strip mall alley, which is mildly exciting considering the windows on the first floor don’t open and we have been largely deprived of fresh air since the start of the trial. To the left is an open door to a bedroom, a king-sized bed inside. But the main space we’ve entered includes a dining table and small kitchenette, a three-seater sofa, a coffee table, and two chairs. The entire space is upholstered in a hunter-green fabric with gold scales of justice symbols—the curtains, the couch and chairs, even the wallpaper. It’s like a White House forest threw up in here, its designer taking the term presidential suite quite literally.
“Wait,” I say breathlessly, grabbing for the remote on the coffee table beside the couch. “There’s a TV.”
I position the remote to face the TV on the wall, assuming this one will have cable. I can’t manage to press the on button, though my thumb hovers over it. Page four of the jury handbook clearly states we are not to access media of any kind, TV mentioned specifically.
“That’s some admirable self-discipline,” Damon says.
I hold out the remote. “But if you clicked it on, technically I won’t have done anything wrong...”
I take note of the vein appearing along the run of his forearm crossed in front of his chest. I used to run my index finger across the same rise when he’d playfully press that arm across me from behind in an over-the-shoulder embrace.
“D’you really think if a bailiff came in here right now and caught us watching TV, they’d be concerned with who actually pressed the on button?” he says.
“Oh, you’re suddenly a rule follower?”
He shrugs. “I know how much it means to you not to get in trouble.” He pushes himself to a complete stand. “Sneaking around the hotel is one thing, but accessing media, possibly seeing something about the case, that’s another. I wouldn’t want to compromise your role here.” He says this last part with sincerity, though there’s a playful mocking quality in his voice, too.
Does he think of me only as a tightly bound rule follower?
My mind wanders to just a few weeks ago when I was arbitrating a case between a pharmaceutical company and its former COO. The CEO and board cited many infractions as the cause of her abrupt termination. She raised her voice in a meeting. She demanded documentation of absences from her team members. She was “callous” in her interactions with peers, only caring about business and not people. She never apologized. I acknowledged silently that these were not necessarily markings of a progressive leader but were absolutely traits of many of the male leaders I had come in contact with in that same conference room over the years.
“I can’t get away with what you can. Neither can Margot Kitsch.” My throat clenches when I say her name. Sneaking out for a bit to avoid going crazy is one thing, but we should not discuss anything related to the case. Not until deliberations begin.
“You think because she’s a woman, she couldn’t possibly do something so unbound as kill her husband?”
I shake my head. “No. I think because she’s a woman, she doesn’t get the benefit of the doubt.” A flash of his mom flares in my mind, and I wonder who she is now, what became of her, and, particularly, what happened to Damon’s relationship with her after .
He seems to ponder my words for a moment, and the slight twitch of his brow indicates to me that he at least partially agrees. When neither of us seems to want to continue this line of discussion, he asks, “Are you gonna share those?” nodding in my direction. It takes a moment to realize he means the peanut butter cups I’m still holding.
“That depends. Are you going to tell me how you got the key for this grand palace of a room?”
He presses his lips together briefly before he speaks. “I swiped it from the maid’s cart.”
I shake my head in dismay.
“They shouldn’t have left it hanging on a hook on the outside of the cart with a label above it that read PRESIDENTIAL SUITE .”
I throw the package in his direction, and he catches it easily.
“There’s a minibar!” I practically squeal, reaching my knees ahead of the glass-front mini-fridge.
“Didn’t take you long to come to the dark side.” He turns to face me, still leaning against the thin wood-slat tabletop, an unpeeled peanut butter cup in his right hand.
I pull the handle of the fridge. “There’s nothing to do here. The case itself is fascinating, but I’m also wired from it all and it’s only seven fifteen.” I pull two Natural Ices out of the fridge. We both grimace slightly at the only alcoholic selection—certainly not the presidential beer of choice. He watches as I untab my beer, set the can down, then take the second of the two peanut butter cups and peel the wrapper. “Cheers,” I say, holding up the peanut butter cup.
He bumps his chocolate against mine, and we eye each other as we take our respective first bites. Then I sip the beer, feel it softening my edges almost immediately.
“The last time we drank together, your parents were in Ojai and I threw up in Kara’s closet. In her laundry basket, specifically,” I say, thinking of the summer before our sophomore year, how he stroked my hair until I fell asleep in his bed.
I expect him to smirk, to relive the lighthearted memory with me. Instead, he seems to wince.
“Did I... say something—”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “No.”
I wonder if he can’t manage to separate the good from the bad of our history. Or maybe he’s thinking what I’ve been wrestling with for the last several minutes—that we should abandon this excursion to avoid getting in trouble.
He lifts his hand to his mouth, sucks gently at the pad of his thumb to collect the bit of melted chocolate into his mouth. I look on, transfixed, wondering how I’m meant to start a conversation about all the things between us that were never said.