July 8, Wednesday
IT HAD been another day of waiting, with sporadic announcements of juror numbers who were excused, I presumed, based on some objectionable answer on the questionnaires the judge and two teams of attorneys pored over.
But at least I had my plastic knitting needles with me.
As the day dragged on, I added several rows to the project I was working on for a beloved cause.
Lily and I were talking again, but the temperature remained chilly. I was hoping things would thaw a bit more at our family therapy appointment this evening.
I checked my watch for the hundredth time. If I left in the next forty-five minutes, I'd make it home in time. With luck.
I'd texted a reminder to both kids and Warren that morning—separately. Lily had responded with a question mark, which wasn't a no. Josh hadn't responded but I could tell he'd at least read it. Warren had responded with a big thumbs up—suspicious, but I was determined to be optimistic.
Worst case, I told myself, I'll pull into a parking lot somewhere and join from my phone. I had a plan. I felt almost competent.
"Now I'll hear reasonable excuses as to why you can't serve for the six months we're estimating the trial will take."
Robert Blackthorne had been doodling on a pad of paper all day and looking generally bored. But now he turned his head to listen to the jurors who'd lined up. They all looked nervous. One woman kept glancing over at Blackthorne and was visibly shaking.
One by one, jurors stood and explained, with varying degrees of composure, why six months of their lives could not be handed over to the federal government.
A woman with three kids under five and no childcare.
A man recovering from knee surgery who couldn't sit for long stretches.
A freelance nurse who would lose her health care if she didn't work, and many more.
The judge nodded, made notes, then excused them one by one.
"Does anyone else want to present an excuse?" Judge Arnold asked.
I could say I had two teenagers with no other parent in the home. I could say my family was still healing from a traumatic divorce. I could cite my job search. Either one of those, framed correctly, might be enough. Plus I'd be home in time for the therapy session.
But I didn't raise my hand.
Some of it was pride—I didn't love the idea of standing up in front of three hundred people and itemizing how unsupported my life was. And bottom line, I wasn't ready to talk myself out of this yet.
Finally, the judge thanked the remaining group—maybe two hundred of us now—and released us for the day. "Report back here tomorrow, eight a.m."
What followed was over an hour of frenetic driving. I pulled into the garage with four minutes to spare, feeling victorious.
I burst through the front door. "Lily? Josh?"
No answer. Tucker came running with his leash, indicating he'd been alone all day. I opened my laptop and logged into the Zoom call with ninety seconds to spare.
The little grid of faces loaded. Dr. Anders. And me.
"Good evening, Isabel," Dr. Anders said. "Let's give everyone five minutes, shall we?"
I smiled and nodded, but after ten minutes, I sighed. "Let's try again next week?"
Dr. Anders steepled her fingers. "I want to gently remind you—and I know this isn't entirely in your control—that family therapy is strongly recommended, especially with minor children in the home. Consistency matters."
I felt like an utter failure. "I know. I'll—" I exhaled. "I'll try to do better."
Dr. Anders nodded, kindly, in the specific way of someone who has heard that sentence many, many times, from many, many parents, and has learned not to hold her breath.