Chapter 40.
40.
Judge’s Chambers (n.)
the office of a judge where the judge conducts various activities apart from the public courtroom proceedings
the reckoning room
J udge Gillespy’s chambers look a lot like my grandpa’s old home office, with rich floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves lined with books and paperweights, plaques and frames. Judge Gillespy’s robe hangs on a hook on the back of the door. She wears a simple fitted black dress, hair collected at the nape of her neck and lips swiped with her signature burgundy lipstick. She looks up from the file in her hand at the table in the corner as we enter.
“Have a seat,” she says, dropping the legal file onto the table and circling to her side of the desk. We take the two chairs opposite her.
Damon and I don’t make eye contact. My heart wallops against my navy-and-white-striped blouse as Judge Gillespy evaluates us. It’s like my first outing into the world after losing my virginity. The feeling that everyone I encounter instinctively knows I had sex last night. Twice. Like the sex is oozing out of my pores in a scent they don’t know they can smell.
As soon as we arrived at the courthouse this morning, Bailiff Maurice pulled Damon and me aside and escorted us here. My heartbeat chimes in my ears at the thought that perhaps this is Damon’s doing. Did he feel guilty about what happened last night and tell Judge Gillespy? He did, after all, tell George about the Outback Steakhouse guy.
I steal a glance at him and immediately shame myself for questioning him. He wouldn’t. This has to be about something else entirely.
Judge Gillespy clasps her hands atop the desk tightly and continues to stare at us. Her eyes move slowly from Damon, to me, back to Damon, before she clears her throat and leans in. “I don’t have to tell you what goes into a trial like this. Hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars”—she pauses to audibly exhale—“not to mention the three-ring circus of media and ‘fans’ outside the courtroom daily.” She makes air quotes when she says fans , then pushes her rolling chair backward and walks to the window, which overlooks said group of fans, who I know without looking are already parked outside with their signs and chants. “A mistrial would be incredibly damaging for everyone involved, especially when the case has already been fully presented and we are just about to start deliberations. And it would be an embarrassment to me, personally.” She turns to look squarely at me. Not Damon, just me. I swallow with great focus, the saliva in my mouth having grown thick. “Have I not made the ramifications of derailing this case abundantly clear?”
I speak first. “You have. You very much have.”
She returns to her seat, leans forward. “People have noticed how... close the two of you are. Perhaps closer than you let on in voir dire. So,” she says, crossing her arms, finally turning her attention to Damon, “I will ask you both directly. Is there anything I should be aware of that would cause me to be compelled to call a mistrial in this case?”
I look to Damon, whose eyes remain forward. Neither of us immediately speaks.
Judge Gillespy huffs at our silence. “Let me be more direct. Is there anything involving the two of you that would violate court rules regarding juror relationships?” She peers between us again.
I swallow hard and feel with certainty that Judge Gillespy knows everything about the presidential suite, about the rooftop, about my two very vocal orgasms last night. I have a choice to make: tell the truth that Damon and I had the most insanely hot sex of my life just hours ago in my tax-payer-paid hotel room, or lie.
We’re all just one decision away from a completely different life. His words from our conversation in the presidential suite echo in my ears between the beats of my thumping pulse. If I admit to a relationship of some kind with Damon, Judge Gillespy will call a mistrial, resulting in a slew of dominoes falling. Wasted time for everyone involved, including Margot and the other jurors. It would humiliate Judge Gillespy. It would cause emotional turmoil for Joe’s family, his kids. His poor kids. And, of course, there’s the prospect of jail time.
If I lie, I am no better than the worst parts of this trial, prioritizing my self-preservation above anyone else’s needs or best interests. It would make me like my father.
My views and priorities coming into this trial have completely shifted. My attention has fallen more on Damon than the case. My steadfast belief that Margot couldn’t have killed Joe is waning. I’ve made minimal effort in my goal to secure the role of foreperson. I don’t even know my purpose here anymore.
I think of Damon in bed last night. How his hands felt against my skin. How he felt inside me. Of his tongue and fingers invading me together. Of his soft forehead kisses after. How he could be so forceful at all the right times, so gentle in all the others. Of how he’s taken me back to being sixteen again, but also shown me how far we’ve both come.
Despite it all, I cannot deem myself more important than the overall judicial process. Everyone involved deserves a clean trial. I glance at Damon, who is pleading with his eyes. I’m sorry, I tell him silently as I feel him slipping away as a result of what I’m about to do.
I’ve been a substandard juror up until this point. It’s time to right this ship and stop being selfish.
“We had sex last night,” I announce. I look back at Damon, who presses his eyes shut. “And this morning,” I add, because I assume it’s relevant.
Judge Gillespy releases a breath, and the weight of it strikes me like the blast of a gale-force wind as it pushes me back in my seat.
My worst-case scenario has come true.
“I don’t have to tell you how negligent you have been,” Judge Gillespy says, standing again, this time with what I assume as intended intimidation. “Or how incredibly disappointed I am in you both. Your neglect of the rules, the severity of the situation. Someone’s life is on the line”—she presses her fists to the top of her desk—“another’s justice in death. There are no greater matters.”
She stares at us for a long while. Damon and I remain silent. I cannot think of a single word to make this better. There simply aren’t any.
“You do realize there is more than a mistrial at stake here? Although the weight of that should be enough. I can cite you both with juror misconduct, hold you in contempt, and give you jail time. Was that not made clear?”
My mind spirals from what I should be doing to get myself out of this situation to all I haven’t yet done if Judge Gillespy holds to her threat. There’s a significant amount of living I’ve missed. Being here with Damon, experiencing the highs we have, makes me want to start doing . I need to see the pyramids in Egypt and eat at Din Tai Fung at least one more time. I need to fly somewhere with a seat in one of those fancy sleeping pods and attend BravoCon with Mel. I need to watch the last season of You , which I had to stop watching because I found myself lusting over a fictional serial killer. I need to love.
“It’s my fault,” Damon says. “I was the one who—”
Judge Gillespy throws a palm in the air and closes her eyes. “I do not need the details of your trysts. Nor will you be rewarded for some measly attempt at chivalry now. Please stop there.”
My ears burn with embarrassment, and I swallow with great difficulty as my throat swells. I’ve ruined everything. I think of Tamra, of her time away from her husband and grandkids, now for nothing. I think of Luis, elderly and exhausted. I haven’t considered myself truly selfish until this instant, but I am. And not just because of Damon. Because of my omittances during jury selection to be chosen for this trial. And well before that, my view of my parents’ divorce as only my pain. In many ways, I’ve always been selfish. I am my father’s daughter.
Judge Gillespy begins to pace the room. I turn to watch her. Damon remains stationary, facing toward her empty desk. I wonder if he is up set by my admission. I want to ask, reach out and grab hold of his hand, but I can’t do any of it.
After a few moments of tense silence, the only noise the muffled weight of Judge Gillespy’s heels against the thin black carpet, she says, “I’ll be back in a moment,” before exiting the room.
“Shit,” Damon whispers as soon as she’s gone, and I close my eyes and wince against the sound of his voice. “I’m sorry I got us into this,” he says.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. It’s mine. I’m the one who cares about this case. I’m the one who sought a spot on this jury to help Margot, only to find I could be the reason this all ends badly.
He turns to face me, and his acute sincerity makes me lean away. “I don’t regret it,” he says, the dimple in his chin constricting as he clenches his jaw.
I don’t either, sitting here, looking at him, with his earnest face and strong pull. How could I possibly? But the stakes are too great. I don’t even know what I believe about the case anymore after everything we’ve heard, but still, I absolutely didn’t want to be the cause of a mistrial .
“Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you,” he says, and I have no choice but to smile. There really has never been a time when our wrong lyrics haven’t made me feel better, in some small increment.
I wonder if there’s a way we could pass notes in jail. I bet Cam could help with a plan.
The door opens, and Judge Gillespy strides in aggressively, crumpling a paper towel from the restroom between her hands. She tosses it into the bin under her desk and takes her seat. Her stare bores into Damon, then me. The stern clench of her jaw makes me think for a moment the two of them could be related.
Finally, she releases her jaw and opens her mouth, though it takes her several seconds to speak. “A mistrial would be devastating,” she says. “Even replacing you with alternates at this point would draw unnecessary scrutiny to already highly scrutinized proceedings. Any hiccup at all results in a negative headline or viral post.” She flicks her hand in the air in annoyance. After some time, she sighs in reluctant defeat. “Have you discussed the case?” she asks. “During any of your...” She gives up on finding an appropriate word and instead thrusts her hand in quick circles in the air.
“No,” Damon and I both say in unison. Margot has come up in our conversations, sure, but we haven’t specifically discussed the details of the case. At least, not in the way I believe she means.
“Are you two capable of a course correction, if given the opportunity?” she asks pointedly. We both look up immediately. “The last thing I want to do here is have all this time and all these resources wasted only to have to start over completely. So tell me, if we move forward from this, can you two be trusted to... remain professional?” She says “remain professional,” but it’s clear her words are code for not fuck .
“Absolutely,” I offer. “I am so very sorry, Judge Gillespy. I can assure you, it was a lapse in judgment. A by-product of being isolated for so long. I take this case, the judicial system and process, very, very seriously. If given another chance, I promise we would have no future involvement.” I motion my thumb at Damon, who remains unmoved.
“Juror?” Judge Gillespy urges Damon.
He clears his throat and leans forward. “It won’t happen again.”
Despite having just expressed the same sentiment, somehow his words still cut me. The idea that last night can’t happen again is excruciating. It makes my desire for him grow, an immediate burst of craving at my core.
“Assuming that is true, that I can trust you both to keep your focus for the last leg of this process, then”—she pauses, sighs—“I am willing to keep this between us. For now. I suppose this...” She looks back and forth between us, searching for the right words. “This situation of yours isn’t directly impactful to the case...” Her voice trails off as if questioning whether she believes it.
I audibly exhale.
“We are so close to the end,” she says, making her way to the door to open it for us. “Get through deliberations, then after that, well, that is up to you.”
I am floored as we exit the judge’s chambers. I thought for sure Judge Gillespy would call a mistrial and our names would be leaked, our likenesses splashed across TMZ. Thankfully, she has shown us some mercy, even if it is for the benefit of the trial and not us.
There is one lingering thought—I have no idea how we were found out. Did Cam give us up after Damon’s condom request? Did one of the bailiffs see us sneaking around? Or was it someone I would have least expected to be paying attention? Gray Man perhaps? We may never find out, though it hardly matters now.
Damon and I head to the courtroom to join the others, stepping into the same elevator I saw him step out of at the start of all of this.
He presses the button to the fourth floor, and as we descend, the air in the elevator car grows immediately viscid. The idea that I cannot touch him, the stakes even higher than before, makes me want to tackle him to the floor of this elevator. He feels it, too. I know he does. He stands unnecessarily close to me, his forearm grazing mine, and I have to fight to ignore the growing flutter between my legs. He leans against the elevator wall, quiet and unreadable. When he doesn’t speak, I take the opportunity. “Maybe after,” I say in almost a whisper, and I lose myself entirely, joining him against the back wall.
“Maybe,” he says.
After this trial, after this deliberation, which will likely last only a few days at most, there is the potential of us. One where we can get to know the new versions of each other further, in the real world, without having to hide or sneak around. I know he warned me that he’s not capable, but perhaps he just doesn’t see it yet. Sure, there are complications outside, too, but my heart pinches at the prospect. As long as there is a small window of possibility, there is hope. My lust is replaced with the excitement of a potential future. That he might want it as much as I do.
Closing statements remind me of debate class in high school. D.A. Stern goes first, speaking for nearly an hour, the only reprieve about two-thirds of the way through, when Durrant Hammerstead “accidentally” knocks his water glass to the ground just as D.A. Stern begins talking of Margot’s assumed vitriol toward her late husband.
He lays out again the details of the prosecution’s case. That Margot had several reasons to want her husband gone, dead specifically. The multiple affairs. His full ownership of her successful business. His will, leaving everything to her. D.A. Stern outlines how the autopsy and toxicology reports did not point to a clear-cut natural cause of death. How the timing of Joe’s smoothie consumption that morning and subsequent time of death align to the window of affect given by the forensic toxicologist. How Margot “rushed” to cremate her dead husband’s body to destroy any potential evidence. He reiterates how Jackie Kitsch found three eye-drop bottles, hidden by Emblem. How even she suspected Margot, her own daughter-in-law and the mother of her grandchildren. He references that she could have easily had someone else do it for her—someone indebted to her—a clear nod to Ms. Pembrooke. He paints Margot as a manipulative mastermind, and having watched her for seven seasons of AMOM , I can’t argue the mastermind part.
Margot stares on, tracking D.A. Stern as he strides, bouncing his pen between his fingers as he talks.
When it’s his turn, Durrant Hammerstead rises slowly, goes through his now expected laborious motions of adjusting himself to a stand. “Margot had ample time—years of affairs—to seek out ‘revenge’ if that were her mission,” he begins, gesturing his hands toward us. “She is not the first woman to be tied financially to her husband. You heard from our medical expert and even from the state’s medical examiner that Joe Kitsch’s death was caused by cardiac arrest. A tragic though natural occurrence. The likely result of genetics or lifestyle or age—not foul play. And let’s not forget, Margot has an alibi.” He says this last part as if ignoring it would be incredulous and irresponsible. He talks us through how Emblem very well could have collected those eye-drop bottles over several months and how being “disliked” (he glances at D.A. Stern as he says this—a clear reference to the onslaught of witnesses he brought forth to display their distaste for Margot) is not grounds for determining someone a murderer.
He tells us, just as he had in opening statements, that D.A. Stern must have proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Margot was responsible for Joe’s death in order for us to find her guilty. “And what we have here, at the end of this trial, is an abundance of reasonable doubt,” he tells us sharply.
I study the other jurors when he says this, though I don’t garner much from their neutral faces.
He does take one shot at D.A. Stern, saying, “I know it would be a career-maker for the D.A. to pin the Malibu Menace in the trial of the century.” He speaks with such taunt in his voice that it surprises me. I didn’t think Hammerstead had it in him. “But this case is not about D.A. Stern building his résumé. It’s about this woman’s life. Don’t lose sight of that as you deliberate.”
Sliding back into the Durrant Hammerstead we have seen throughout the trial, he ends his statement with “Remember: If she wasn’t there, a guilty verdict’s not fair,” in what I glean as an attempt at his own notorious “if it doesn’t fit, you must acquit” aphorism. It’s not his finest moment. He’s made the case in his closing arguments, though, that the prosecution has not clearly shown Margot killed Joe, directly or indirectly. Hell, they didn’t even prove that he was, in fact, murdered. But still, something nags at me. A cumbersome little voice that says this case is not as cut and dry as I’d like it to be.
Margot smiles gratefully at Durrant Hammerstead as he returns to the defense table, seemingly in agreement that he has laid his defense out well.
The end of the trial, and thus Margot’s fate, is looming. And we twelve jurors are about to determine the outcome.