Chapter 17.
17.
Restitution (n.)
the act of restoring or making amends for something that was lost, damaged, or borrowed
can be applied to snacks
W e eat lunch in one of the courthouse rooms, a spread of sandwiches, chips, cookies, and room-temperature sodas piled in the middle of the large, round table.
“Is there anything ever on the lunch menu besides sandwiches?” gripes Gray Man, directing his words to the turkey on rye in his hand. True to the first day, he has worn very little besides differing shades of gray suits. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak except to ask our van driver to blast the air-conditioning harder on virtually every ride, freezing the rest of us out. He is the only juror I haven’t gathered any fun facts about.
“There’s never anything organic, either,” says juror number twelve, the usually perky mom of four, Kate. To no one’s surprise, Gray Man ignores her. Juror number eleven (the blond man I’ve come to know as the perpetual courtroom sneezer) grabs the last package from the turkey tray, and juror number two (a short, bald man who waves to Judge Gillespy each time we enter the courtroom) scoffs in dismay.
I sit down next to Tamra at the round table, then Damon takes the seat next to me. Cam quickly takes the seat beside Damon. We’ve become an unexpected little foursome.
“Four days in and we haven’t even heard from the defense yet,” Tamra says. We all look at one another, then the others, dejected. I’m not quite at the level of despondence they seem to be, but I do feel the fatigue of it all.
“It’s wild that woman wrote a book about killing her husband and then killed her husband,” Cam’s voice projects, garnering a few looks from around the table. He speaks as if he’s mid-conversation about the morning’s developments, though he’s just sat down. I notice juror numbers five and six nodding in agreement.
“An article,” I correct, just as one of the bailiffs—Carolyn, I know her name to be—clears her throat toward Cam and me.
I wonder whether the revelation about the book Margot was reading will damage her case. Whether it should be damaging. I’ve read books about murder. It most certainly didn’t make me a murderer or more likely to murder.
“No case talk,” Xavier, our self-appointed jury leader, scolds jovially from a few seats down, then bites into the club in his hands. He seems to love sandwiches.
“Sorry,” Cam says to no one in particular, pulling his chip package open before leaning across the table to the center and grabbing two more bags. Tamra stares sadly at her bag of Lay’s. They didn’t even offer a variety of flavors today, it’s just a pile of yellow bags of Classics.
Damon leans in and speaks so softly only I can hear. “How are you holding up? Still a superfan after all you’ve learned?” His chin dimple twitches.
I smile politely at Damon, though do not otherwise reply, shoving my pastrami on wheat to my lips and sinking into a bite too large to speak through.
We eat primarily in silence for the remainder of the meal, and as our lunch break wears down, I duck into the restroom for a moment to myself. I stare at my reflection, see the barely there markings of a flush. There’s more color in my cheeks, and not the artificial kind. My eyes seem dewier, my eyebrows more arched. Despite the stress of the case and several nights of poor sleep, I look like I’ve just returned from a relaxing Caribbean vacation. A twinge of guilt singes the back of my neck as I think about Kara. About Joe Kitsch. I’ve had some semblance of enjoyment here, Joe’s death the catalyst for the new life in my cheeks.
Exiting the bathroom to head back to the makeshift lunchroom, I face-plant directly into Damon. Specifically, the right side of my face lands squarely between his pecs. I instinctively know it’s him, his smell and build immediately recognizable, even as my body collides with his. He is a wall, no softness or give.
He clasps my arms, just above the elbows, to straighten me as I step back.
“You fall a lot,” he says when we’ve separated.
“No, I don’t,” I respond automatically, though I instantly recall the almost-passing-out situation from last night, realizing how much the damsel in distress I’ve managed to be with him and how much I hate it. Like an unlikable rom-com heroine.
As I pull away, I realize I’ve left a foundation stain smack dab between his pecs on his sky-blue button-down. His eyes flick to the front of his shirt and then do this sort of flutter thing that tells me he doesn’t care.
We stand staring at each other in the hallway in front of the women’s restroom entrance and it feels dangerous, being alone with him, despite the many people just yards away behind various courtroom doors.
Still passed out in a closet, I think. I feel as though I am. A big part of me wishes we were back in that closet, everything else shut out.
He pulls a package from his back pocket, hands it to me. “A replacement.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the peanut butter cups. I open it and hand him one, keeping the other for myself.
“Cheers,” I say, holding it up.
He bumps his cup to mine. The chocolate has softened, likely from the placement in his back pocket. Peanut butter cups have quickly become my favorite treat.
Despite telling myself to walk away, I linger. “You really still ride motocross?” I ask through the bite. No matter how much I want to stay mad at him, I just can’t seem to make it stick today. It’s unnerving, more than anything, how little time it has taken for me to see him again.
“What made you think of that?”
I shrug. “It’s one of the only things I know about you now.” Other than the taste of your mouth.
He leans against the wall just beyond the ladies’ room door, crosses his arms as his right foot moves in front of his left. “It’s where I do my best thinking.”
The answer surprises me. “While flying through the air and avoiding collisions over earsplitting motors?”
He huffs and his mouth parts. “Yeah.”
“What do you think about? On your bike?”
“I don’t know.” He straightens. “Life. Roadway signs. Hairless cats.”
“How does a man of so few words write such punny roadway signs? This feels like one of life’s great mysteries.”
“Better on paper,” he says, as if it’s an obvious answer.
“Like the pages of a twelve-year-old girl’s padlocked diary,” I confirm.
He releases his jaw, and perhaps I imagine it, but the corners of his mouth curl up farther than I thought possible.
“Wait, is that a smile?” I muse.
His mouth falls. “I can smile,” he says, though his face makes no movement in the direction of said smile.
“Right,” I say, crumpling the peanut butter cup package in my hand and walking past him toward the courtroom. I feel him watching as I do, and I can’t help the extra sway in my hips this notion causes.
After lunch, D.A. Stern and the prosecution continue their parade of Margot slander, this time in the form of her self-built business. Bess Waterford is called to the stand.
Margot’s former business partner plods to the front of the courtroom, her black patent leather Gucci loafers squeaking as she walks. The irony of those shoes is not lost on me. They were a gift from Margot two years ago for her birthday, the handover of the expensive pair aired during the finale of season six.
Bess looks like the “after” picture of a former plain Jane who’s undergone an expensive makeover, with her heavy but well-blended makeup, highlighted cheekbones, and svelte frame. There’s an ongoing debate online over whether she is actually pretty or simply meticulously crafted. People on the internet have very strong opinions about her face.
Once Bess has taken the stand, at D.A. Stern’s urging, she explains, “I was Margot’s business partner for GotMar when it launched and for the first year.”
“And for those who are not familiar, what is GotMar?” D.A. Stern asks.
“It’s a line of push-up bras, which Margot launched in season three of the show.”
And sells exceptionally well, I know. I’ve seen the GotMar display at Nordstrom, right beside a table of Skims. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, realizing I’m wearing one of her products under my A-line dress right now. I instinctively tug at the neckline of said dress to ensure no evidence of this coincidence is visible. I will note mine is from the everyday line and, though adequately supportive, not push-up.
Having Bess Waterford on the stand talking about bras makes me think of the shopping trip to Walmart at age eleven with my mom for my first bra. I needed one several months before, having taken to layering and sweatshirts to hide the growth below, but this was the first time my mom attended to the need. She kept calling it a “training bra,” which I deemed archaic. What was I training, exactly? My breasts how to stay put? They were hardly ample enough to go anywhere.
I don’t particularly remember what that first bra looked like or if we argued about which one to get. What I do recall is that my mom was nice. Doting, even. I don’t know what made her especially attentive that day, but I took in every bit of it. I went home with two “training bras,” a sugar high from a Rocky Road cone, and a hardcover copy of Cinder . I hadn’t thought of that day in a long time. I still savor the rare glimpses I remember of an attentive mother. It’s all I ever wanted from my parents when I was young.
My baby sister Gen’s cherubic face flashes across my mind, and I wonder what her first bra-shopping experience will be, if I’ll be there for it.
Next to me, Damon clears his throat, and I look at him. We make eye contact, and just that link causes a jolt along my spine. His eyes are always filled with so much, but I never quite know what. I shift in my seat uncomfortably, fighting the urge to take Damon’s hand in mine, right here in this courtroom, and squeeze it.