July 13, Monday
The remaining prospective jurors had been redistributed in the courtroom, spread out evenly over the benches in the gallery. Again, I sat near the back due to my juror number.
"Good morning," Judge Arnold boomed into his microphone.
"Thank you again for being here. As I told you on Friday, today will be a day when we'll get to know each of you a little better.
When your juror number is called, please proceed to the front of the courtroom and take a seat in the witness stand.
I'll ask you questions. There's nothing to be nervous about, just answer to the best of your ability.
If you don't want to answer a question, that's okay, too. "
Robert Blackthorne sat with his attorneys. I was mildly surprised he was allowed to hear the questioning but recalled from a distant government class that the defendant has as right to be present during jury selection.
The juror numbers were to be called chronologically.
Knowing it would be a while before I was summoned—if at all—I pulled out my knitting project and picked up where I'd left off.
As prospective jurors submitted to the judge's questions about background, family life, and vocations, I began to categorize people in knitting terms.
The man in the banker's suit whose knee wouldn't stop bouncing—I filed him under dropped stitch. A small but compounding error, innocent if caught early, a disaster if you don't notice for six rows.
The woman with her arms crossed, radiating stoic energy—twisted cable. Good structural intentions, wrong execution, and now it's too late to fix it without pulling the whole thing out.
The man who smiled warmly at everyone, then spoke in monosyllables—hidden increase. Something accumulating quietly that you don't notice until the count is off and you're staring at the row going, wait, when did that happen?
I was deep into this taxonomy, working on a turn, when I suddenly wondered what category I'd fall into. Not a flattering one, probably—loose tension. When the yarn is so yielding it produces a shapeless form.
I looked up from my plastic needles, and the square-jawed deputy was looking back.
He was at his customary post along the back wall, arms loose at his sides, slowly scanning the room. For a second, his eyes landed on mine and held. He'd been watching this room for days, reading all of us. What did he see when he looked at me?
He had very dark eyes, and expressive eyebrows.
I looked back at my needles and stabbed my thumb.
Not a grievous injury since it was a hard plastic needle. But enough of a jab to make me gasp before I stuck my thumb in my mouth.
When I glanced up, the deputy's expression hadn't changed, but the corner of his mouth had lifted a millimeter.
Terrific. Days of conducting myself like a credible adult, and that's what landed.
At the end of the day, the judge had questioned only half of the jury pool. Several more jurors were dismissed. The rest of us were asked to return tomorrow for more of the same.
Sometime during the drive home I realized I'd begun handling the crush of rush hour with more skill.
I was getting the hang of the etiquette—and lack thereof.
I didn't necessarily like sitting in bumper to bumper traffic, but I liked sitting with thousands of other people who had someplace to commute to and from.
It made me feel important. And since my time in the jury pool was likely coming to an end, I would miss it.