Chapter 23.
23.
Trial Enthusiast (n., phrase)
a person who takes great interest in trial processes and outcomes
a complete buzzkill
A s we near two hours in the back room of Outback Steakhouse, the bailiffs don’t seem in any rush to shuttle us back to the Singer Suites. We show our gratitude with the room’s collective happy energy, with thank-yous and offers of glasses of wine and pints of beer, though they decline. Still, they are far more upbeat and chatty than ever before.
We learn George, our usual first-shift overnight guard, lives in East L.A. with his wife of nearly thirty years, alongside two of their four adult children and two grandchildren. These details endear him to Tamra, and soon they are exchanging particulars of grandbabies, swiftly agreeing how much better it is to be a grandparent than a parent.
When I order my third glass of wine, I expect George or one of the two other guards to stop me. But they allow it. And suddenly, the room feels like a reunion of old friends catching up, a corporate party after the bosses have headed home and the DJ starts playing ’90s hip-hop.
Perhaps most entertaining is watching the other jurors ostensibly, happily unravel. After a glass and a half of red wine, Tamra’s blinks extend, and she laughs at most everything anyone says. Cam finds her particularly amusing, working to say anything remotely funny to get her to break into a table-slapping cackle. It warms me to look over and see my courtroom seatmate Luis (juror number five) smiling through a discussion with Kate (juror number twelve), the mom of four. Even Xavier at the table beside us seems to have temporarily yielded his mission toward wide likability to lean back in his chair and enjoy some drink with smoke steaming off the top. The atmosphere is so carefree that I’ve almost forgotten we are the jury on the Margot Kitsch case.
And then there’s Damon. His jaw loosens. He even chuckles at points, mostly in reaction to Tamra’s laughter. These things come out of him with little effort, and I’m both intrigued and pleased by how much more leisure there is in him tonight.
When I stand from the table, Damon looks up at me. “Where you goin’?”
“Just to the bathroom,” I tell him.
He nods, and then hangs his head and shakes it, as if feeling silly for asking.
Alone in front of the sink mirror in the generically tiled bathroom, I expect to think about Margot, about the case. But I find myself thinking of Damon instead. Of the swirling dimple at the center of his chin. Of his immense size. Of his sealed inner parts, lid slightly ajar. I shake my head, attempting to pack away my attraction. It’s just familiarity, I try to tell myself. It can’t be more. Not now, because of the trial and certainly not after given the complication between our families.
After washing my hands, I throw the paper towel into the bin and push the heavy swinging door open with my shoulder and elbow, eager to return to the table. I halt in the narrow hallway when I nearly run into someone standing just outside the ladies’ room entrance.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, rocking back on my heels to avoid contact with the man’s midsection. Damon was right, I do seem to fall a lot. I expect the man to step back and make room for me to go by, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at me.
We make eye contact, and he doesn’t break it, his hollow brown eyes both drowsy and, somehow, also boring into me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. His chin is rather pointy, oddly shaped, and his skin has a sallow quality that reminds me of oatmeal. When he continues staring, I attempt to maneuver around him, but he steps across what little of the hallway he isn’t taking up to block me.
“Where you going?” he asks. His breath is an abhorrently pungent mix of beer and Bloomin’ Onion.
I have no idea who this man is. He’s not a member of the jury or a guard. He seems to just be an ill-behaved, overserved restaurant-goer. “Excuse me,” I say, throwing on my most authoritative tone.
“Why you guys with those officers?” he asks, an amused grin on his crimson lips, ignoring my request. When I don’t respond, he says, “I bet I know why.” His speech is slow, slurred, and more than slightly adversarial. “You guys are a jury, huh? The jury... for that bitch. That Malibu Maneater. Why else would cops be taking a big group out to eat?”
He doesn’t even get Margot’s media-dubbed nickname right, which somehow, even in this situation, manages to annoy me. “I’m going back to my table,” I say, attempting to step around him again. But once again, he takes a sidelong stride, blocking my path. He isn’t particularly tall or bulky, but still, he’s sizable in comparison to me. Enough to use our size difference as a tool for intimidation.
He steps forward where there wasn’t space to be had, and I am immediately pressed against the wall. I wonder nervously if he might attempt to shove me into the empty women’s room and lock the door. He is drunk and obstinate and has that feral gleam in his eyes that women have good reason to be afraid of. I mentally prepare for a fight, just in case.
The bustle of the restaurant continues on just around the corner. The murmurs of conversation. The occasional booming voice or burst of laughter. The clang of plates and pans, muffled, from the nearby kitchen. There are many people close by, yet I am trapped and far away.
I contemplate a list of possible next moves. Make a scene. Retreat to the ladies’ room and attempt to lock the door before he can follow me in. Give him a sharp elbow to the throat or finger jabs to the eyeballs.
“Excuse me,” I say, as forcefully as I can muster. There’s not even a flicker of movement from him.
“I saw y’all walk in, and I knew right away who you were,” he says, so close his words practically singe my ear. “My uncle golfed with Joe Kitsch once. That bitch definitely did it.”
I continue to vacillate between annoyance and fear. Of course his uncle sharing a golf outing once makes him an expert on all things Joe Kitsch. And I wonder how many women he’s referred to as “that bitch” in his lifetime. My best guess is many .
“Get out of my way,” I say, ramming my forearm into his side in an effort to create enough space to escape.
At this, he raises his hand, and it looks as though he might grab me.
Fuck this guy. I will absolutely knee him in the groin.
“Syd?”
The man and I both turn to find Damon behind us, his large build creating even less space in the narrow bathroom hallway. I have never been so relieved to see a familiar face.
The man is noticeably smaller than Damon—most everyone is. Despite this, he doesn’t flinch, and he remains stationed between me and the exit where Damon stands.
Damon and I make eye contact, and he must see my concern because he doesn’t hesitate. He presses his shoulder into the man and steps between us, and I’m immediately staring at the broadness of his back. “Is there a problem?” he asks, taking on his Secret Service–esque stance—legs spread wide, arms wrapping behind him. I look down at his hands, clenched into fists.
“No problem,” the man says, as flat and even as before, seemingly unfazed.
Damon reaches his right arm behind him, placing his open palm against my elbow, ensuring he knows my exact location.
“Great,” Damon responds to the man in the hallway, encircling his fingers around my arm, squeezing slightly.
It’s an uncomfortably familiar scene to us at fourteen, Damon stepping in when my father turned his frustration on me after an ar gument with my mom. I don’t remember the particulars of that fight—about one of his affairs, I assume.
I do recall, however, Damon and me in my room, door closed, his eyes filled with compassion I didn’t know what to do with as my parents’ voices speared into the room. He knew this happened, had heard it play out from outside or through my recounts. But this was one of his first times serving as a close-quarters witness. When my father called for me, anger seething from his lips, Damon was to his feet in a heartbeat. When my father burst into my room, Damon said nothing, just stood between us.
My father never hurt me physically, though I cannot say I wasn’t fearful of it happening. I stood in my bedroom, staring at Damon’s back—thinner then—thankful for him but equally mortified. My father glowered at him, part daring, part viciously angry, part amused. But Damon didn’t budge. My father eventually huffed and stormed out, though not before flicking his hand toward Damon in a show of dismissal. And not before Damon reached out for me, his hand stretching backward and cupping my forearm, as it does now.
I press my other hand against Damon’s lower back, leaning to look around him. Finally, the man says, “Right. Good night then.” He eyes me for a long while until Damon steps to block his view. When he finally exits the hallway, Damon immediately follows, stopping in the archway that leads into the main dining area. I watch his eyes move to the far right and stay there—the direction of the restaurant’s entrance. I observe the tight muscle straining along the side of his neck, his fisted hands at his side. The angry red that extends from the tips of his ears down through the lobes.
After what feels like several minutes, satisfied, he turns and takes two long steps to me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, fine,” I say, forcing a smile.
“What was that?” he presses. “What did he do?”
“He just... he was drunk. He put two and two together that we are the Margot Kitsch jury.” I hadn’t intended to tell him this last part, but I trust Damon. I didn’t know I did, hadn’t even thought about whether I needed to until now, but it’s a decision already made.
His eyes narrow and then release once he processes the words. He looks over his shoulder at the archway and back at me. “We should tell the bailiffs.”
I shake my head. “No, it was just some random guy.”
His concerned eyes search my face, disbelieving.
“It was nothing,” I say, shrugging a shoulder, attempting to sound far more flippant than I feel.
His eyes narrow in question, and if he hesitates to believe my levity he doesn’t show it. “We should tell George. Just in case.”
My hand is cuffing his forearm before I can stop it. “No,” I say.
He looks down at my hand, then back to my eyes. I stare at him and see the boy who used to be my best friend, and sharp, glass-like flecks scrape through me. Up until this point, he has been, in many ways, a man I just met. Someone with hints of a boy I used to know—same bright eyes and dimpled chin, same affinity for written words over spoken ones. It’s taken until now to see them as the same, to reconcile the two. But looking into his eyes, feeling his concern and protection, he’s every bit my old best friend.
I release his arm. “It was nothing,” I repeat. “Just some jerk who took his opportunity to voice his opinion about the case. Everyone has an opinion.” I hope I’m putting on a convincing act. The thought of what might have happened had Damon not shown up—it leaves me far more than flustered, wanting to seek Damon and his safety more than ever. But if we let the guards know, who knows what could happen to the case. I’m not sure if this incident would be enough for Judge Gillespy to call a mistrial, but I don’t want to risk it.
He’s momentarily thoughtful, then says, “Yeah, but the guards should know. Let them decide whether it’s important or not. That guy threatened you, Syd.”
“Look,” I say, then release my breath. “It was nothing. I promise you. Let’s not get everyone riled up for no reason. This whole thing is stressful enough.”
Again, he assesses me silently before responding. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur, feeling him come around. “Now let’s get back to the group before Tamra steals my wine.”
The tightness in his face relaxes, just slightly, and his left eye twitches dangerously close to a wink. “I’m sure she’s dancing on tables by now,” he says, stepping back so I can exit the hallway first, but not before I catch the unwaning glimmer of concern in his eyes. It’s a look I know was once reserved only for Kara and me, the two people he felt the fierce need to look after.