Chapter 32.
32.
Jury Stress (n., phrase)
when the nature of the evidence or details of a case have a significant emotional impact on jurors, affecting their well-being and ability to make impartial decisions
we cannot be held responsible for our actions
A t dinner, we all eat in heavy silence.
I sit at our usual table with Tamra, Cam, and Damon. I know I should avoid Damon, but I need him nearby in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.
Tamra runs her fork absentmindedly over her Caesar salad, which is mostly croutons.
“How are you doing, Tamra?” I ask. Damon has offered me continual escape and support throughout this trial, whereas Tamra has been going through it largely alone.
“I’m okay,” she says, giving me a thin smile, one I find more brave than friendly.
“I need a brownie,” Cam says, sliding his chair back and heading toward the buffet.
I stare at my plate, raking my fork over my crouton salad and dry chicken breast. God, I miss flavor.
“How are you doing?” Damon asks.
I look up at him, unsure how to answer. It’s as though I’ve just binge-watched horror movies for eight straight days, and I’m both exhausted and wired. I say nothing, and he seems to accept this as an answer. We’ve somehow pitched our chairs so close they are touching, and I don’t slide away. Halfway through our meal, he slides his hand to mine under the table and positions it atop my thigh, holding it tightly there until most everyone else has retired to their rooms.
When we eventually part, I head to my room while Damon lingers to avoid it looking like we are leaving together, per my request. He doesn’t argue. When I enter my room, there’s a small item on the floor that I nearly step on. He must have slid it under my door before dinner. A small, misshapen origami elephant, complete with large ears and a delicate upturned trunk, constructed from one of the buffet napkins. I pick it up and gingerly place it next to his owl and crane atop the dresser.
I head to my nightstand and tear a new sheet of paper from my notebook. I start to fold, unsure exactly what I’m attempting to make. I’ve never done origami. I fold this way and that until the paper is too thick to continue. It’s a lopsided rectangle. I draw a bear on it and write, I tried ,on the back, then slide it under his door.
It comes as no surprise when I awake unrested. In reality, it’s less that I woke up and more that I gave up and climbed, wired, out of bed when it was time.
Damon sits next to me on the shuttle. We share two boxes of Corn Pops on the way to the courthouse, though one box each would have worked just fine.
We passed notes until two a.m. when I fell asleep awaiting his next note. My dreams were like time travel, returning me to my early teen years in Bakersfield. Summer rain. The smell of jasmine, unbridled vines along the concrete bricked wall of his backyard. Damp blades of grass stuck to my bare feet. Kara’s laugh. Him and me. The best of who we used to be.
He wrote about Kara. Some things I knew, others I didn’t. About how she’d find something she liked and deep dive into it (like origami). How he took particular pleasure in introducing her to his favor ite movies from when we were her age— The Princess Bride and Spy Kids . How he used to read the Percy Jackson books followed by the Heroes of Olympus series aloud to her until her devastation when Leo was presumed dead in The Blood of Olympus . Kara is a passageway into Damon’s deepest parts, and, last night, pen to paper, he allowed me in.
So many of his memories of her include me. As it turns out, I was present for almost all her life. I was even able to share things he didn’t know about her. How Kara came to me in the first grade, devastated that she had become the subject of a game at recess called Kara Killas where half the class chased her around the soccer field, the winner being the one who finally caught her and knocked her to the ground. I told her to throw a punch the second she felt hands on her. How I borrowed his baseball glove and had her practice those punches into my palm.
I told him how, that summer right before they left, she told me over a plate of shared apple slices in my kitchen how she was going to marry Austin Davies, the blond curly-haired boy from her second grade class—that they would live on a farm and have six kids. That he would take care of the animals while she worked as a veterinarian. She had her whole life planned out. Sure, it would undoubtedly change, and this particular version would become some funny story that would get shared at the dinner table with her eventual family, should she choose to have one. But still, it was the future she saw for herself at the time.
I feel like I read Damon’s autobiography last night, as if each beat of his heart were the punch of a key on a typewriter, filling in all the parts I missed. He told me about his girlfriend in college, Bryn. He told me about his parents and his relationship with them, before and after. He told me a little more about why he doesn’t date, afraid he won’t be able to give enough of himself to someone.
As I read his notes, I tried to picture Damon as the boy he was before he became a calloused man, but more and more, there’s only one of him. One that holds both the endearing boy I knew and the incredibly solid man I’ve gotten to know, woven brilliantly together like the images on Mel’s watercolor canvases.
I told him things, too. I told him more meals I can’t wait to eat when we get out of here. I wrote that, completely opposite to him being up by 4:30 every morning to go to the gym and be at work by six, I set three alarms to be up by seven. I told him about my parents, our lack of relationship. The distance and insecurity I’ve always felt in my own family. How I longed for a family like his, the way they were in the before. How life has been a lonely walk, and I’ve always assumed that was the card I was dealt, that my fate was sealed.
Something happened in the early-morning hours. We shared deeply in what felt like a lack of sleep hangover mixed with a fever dream. Our private thoughts, our scars, our worst moments. It was unguarded. I’ve never been so vulnerable. With anyone. Ever. Maybe with him when we were young, but that was a soft, uncomplicated vulnerability that came with pure trust before it had the chance to be broken.
Summer rain.
The smell of jasmine.
Kara’s laugh.
Him and me.
I’m anxious as we enter the courtroom. We haven’t heard from the defense team since the opening statements over a week ago, except for what I consider light cross-examinations of the prosecution’s witnesses.
Durrant Hammerstead came ready to shine today. He’s dressed in a deep blue suit with a white silk tie and matching white shirt that reminds me of something Ryan Gosling might wear on a red carpet, and I’m certain he’s applied some form of under-eye concealer, the whites of his eyes extra bright.
Margot also seems lighter, more hopeful today, dressed in a pale pink dress with a playful ruffled hem. It’s a bit of a departure from her strict suits and understated dresses thus far.
Durrant Hammerstead’s first witness is Gloria Pembrooke, the Kitsches’ house manager. The woman who was home alone with Joe when he died.
She is younger than Margot, likely in her mid-thirties, with thick fake eyelashes and reddish-brown hair that flows halfway down her back. Today she’s wearing a gorgeous brown pantsuit—a departure from the jeans and sneakers she usually dons. Margot gives the flash of a smile as Ms. Pembrooke takes the stand, and it’s the most affectionate exchange in the trial thus far.
Oh, the secrets this woman must know.
“Ms. Pembrooke, how long have you worked for the Kitsch family as their house manager?” Durrant Hammerstead asks after she’s sworn in.
“Almost six years. I was hired right before Emblem was born.” She and Margot exchange a nostalgic smile, and I continue to be struck by the warmth between them.
“Tell us a little about your job responsibilities,” Durrant Hammerstead says.
“I do a lot of things. I cook meals, run errands. Take the kids to school when Margot isn’t available to do so. I manage the other helpers to ensure things get done, like the gardening team, the babysitters.”
“What do you recall most about your time with the family before Joe’s passing?”
“It was nice. They are a loving family.” She smirks to herself, staring into a memory. “Margot always says to the kids when they don’t care for some healthy meal, ‘You are what you eat!’ ” Ms. Pembrooke smiles longingly at Margot. “Joe would nudge Dover’s shoulder and whisper, ‘I’d rather be a Big Mac,’ and they’d laugh and laugh while Margot flipped a towel playfully at Joe. It just sort of stuck. Every time someone ate something they didn’t particularly care for, they’d say, ‘I’d rather be a Big Mac.’ ” She stares at the patterned brown carpet. “It’s funny, the things you think of when someone dies. One of the first things I wondered about after Joe passed was whether or not the kids would keep saying ‘I’d rather be a Big Mac’ without Joe.” She huffs. “Sorry, perhaps that’s not what you were asking.”
“No, that’s lovely, Ms. Pembrooke. Thank you for sharing. Tell me, what has your relationship been like with Margot specifically over these past six years?”
“She’s fair. Kind. Very kind. And I love the kids very much. I love working for her.”
Margot gives an affirming nod.
“Can you give us an example of some of Margot’s kindness?”
“Well, just a few months before Joe died, my father passed unexpectedly. I found out when I was at the Kitsches’. It was just Margot and me there at the time. She was in the middle of getting ready for a charity event. It was her own event that she was hosting for Sea Save, I think. She had her full glam team there at the house.” Ms. Pembrooke pauses and makes eye contact with Margot again. I examine the exchange closely. Despite their lack of physical indications, it’s evident there’s a well of connection between these two women. Ms. Pembrooke continues. “Margot dropped everything. She sent everyone home. She missed her event. She made cardamom tea and held me while I cried.”
Durrant Hammerstead pulls a tissue from his pants pocket and hands it to Ms. Pembrooke. She dabs at the corners of her eyes, then crumples the tissue into a ball and lowers it to her lap.
“What was your relationship like with Mr. Kitsch?”
Ms. Pembrooke dulls a bit, like a moody manager just walked into the room or someone bumped her in a cashier’s line. “It was fine. Pleasant. He wasn’t around often, so I didn’t spend much time with him.” She looks down at her lap, reflecting. “He always said thank you if I did something for him, if I ran down the hill when he was craving his favorite Mediterranean wrap or if he saw me walking in with his dry cleaning. But other than that, we didn’t speak much.”
“Tell us, Ms. Pembrooke, what were those last days of Joe’s life like? Were there any changes to his routine?”
She shakes her head. “No, it was pretty normal. Though by normal, I mean every day was different. But Mr. Kitsch was in town that week. He was working locally, on the set of that Kit Harington film The Never Days .”
A few people around the courtroom nod in recognition, likely pleased they’ll get to mention an actor’s name in their reports from the day, possibly gaining more clicks for their respective articles. I know of it, too. The Never Days is a postapocalyptic thriller set to release next week. And thanks to the attention around Joe’s death, it may now see more significant box office numbers than otherwise anticipated.
“And what about on the part of Mrs. Kitsch? Did you observe any changes in her behavior in the days leading up to Joe’s death?”
“No. She was home that morning, got the kids off to school. Then she usually went out about her business and would return by late afternoon most days to spend time with the children.”
Durrant Hammerstead makes eye contact with several jury members so we catch the not-so-subtle subtext. Margot was a doting wife and mother, even on that last day of Joe’s life.
I hear the ticks of a clock’s second hand reverberating in my ears as we inch into the specifics of Joe’s final moments.