July 27, Monday
WHEN I walked into the courtroom Monday, I scanned until I found the dark-eyed deputy.
He was talking to a bailiff, going over a form of some kind.
I screwed up my nerve and walked toward him.
He handed the form back, then spotted me.
Our gazes locked as I approached. I suddenly wondered if I'd remembered to put on deodorant. I was feeling… moist.
"Hello," he said in a professional voice. "Can I help you?"
"I, um, need to report something to Judge Arnold. How do I do that?"
"I can take you to his chambers. Come with me."
I fell in step beside him but couldn't keep up with his stride.
And the man was at least eight inches taller than me.
He led me to the front of the courtroom and through a door that led to a hallway with doored offices.
At the end of the hallway, the frosted window on the door was glazed with "The Honorable James Arnold. "
The deputy rapped on the door.
"Come in," came the judge's voice.
The deputy opened the door.
"Ah, Deputy U.S. Marshal Wells. What can I do for you?"
"Beg your pardon, judge, but prospective juror 247 would like a word."
I registered his name—nice name—and the fact that he'd memorized my juror number, then dismissed it because he probably knew everyone's number.
"Show the juror in."
The deputy stepped aside and I walked into the judge's chamber, which was really just a very nice office with sumptuous carpeting and window treatments.
"Hello," the judge said with a smile. It was strange to see him in slacks, dress shirt, and tie, without the robe. He consulted a binder on his desk. "Two forty-seven, you're Isabel Good."
"Yes," I said. "Thank you for seeing me, Judge Arnold."
"You have something to report?"
The deputy stayed back but hovered near the door. My face warmed. "I thought you should know that I… got a speeding ticket over the weekend."
The judge's eyebrows climbed. "Was anyone hurt? Were you going more than twenty over the limit?"
"Er, no. Fifty-five in a forty-five zone."
One beat passed, then two. The judge's mouth quirked. "I see. And why were you in such a hurry?"
"My son's, um, ride didn't show up and he was late for a soccer game."
The judge smiled outright. "Thank you for letting me know, Ms. Good, but a moving violation isn't enough to get you dismissed from the pool." Then he frowned. "Are you trying to get dismissed from the jury pool?"
I blinked. "What? No! I just thought it might be pertinent. I've never had a speeding ticket."
The judge sighed. "Wish I could say the same. How about you, Deputy?"
"I've had one or two," Deputy Wells said.
I relaxed and gave in to a smile, feeling foolish. "Then I'm sorry for wasting your time."
"You didn't," the judge said, peering at me over his glasses.
I walked back out in the hallway with the deputy and retraced my steps to the courtroom. I could feel the mirth rolling off him and it made me feel silly. I couldn't make eye contact as I settled into my spot on a bench.
So much for seeming worldly.
A few minutes later, the judge appeared in his robes and extended a greeting to those of us who remained. The defendant was brought in and passed a dark glance over the gallery. Was it my imagination, or did his eyes stop on me? A chill skittered over my shoulders.
The bailiff pulled him down into his chair and I tried to brush off the heebie jeebies.
But at the attorney tables, the atmosphere had definitely shifted.
There was a new sharpness in the way both teams oriented themselves toward the remaining candidates.
The jury consultant for the defendant's attorney, a trim woman I'd noticed earlier in the week who sat slightly apart and watched people with detached precision, had her notepad out and was using it with intent.
Whatever conversation was happening across those tables, it had acquired urgency.
I picked up my knitting and watched from beneath my lashes.
Throughout the morning, members of both legal teams conferred in tight clusters, passed documents, compared lists.
Three times in the first hour the jury consultant looked directly at me, frowned, and wrote something down.
The lead defense attorney looked my way twice.
Even the U.S. Attorney glanced over and frowned at me in a way that felt personal.
In that moment, I felt the object of more attention than I'd received at any point in my life.
By mid-morning the room was down to thirty prospective jurors.
When my number was called, I walked to the front of the courtroom to sit in the witness stand with the awareness that every legal professional in the room was laser focused on me.
The judge asked me several questions I'd answered previously and it occurred to me they were probably comparing my responses to see if I'd lied or changed my mind.
It made me nervous because some of the questions were so philosophical and could be answered in more ways than one.
The afternoon ran its course. More numbers were called and dismissed. By four o'clock, the pool was down to twenty-five. When the judge released us for the day, I gathered my things and joined the procession toward an exit, carefully avoiding the door Deputy Wells stood next to.
But in the crush of bodies in the lobby, I found myself next to him as I made my way to the main entrance.
"Be careful out there," he said, then gave me the merest hint of a smile. "Don't be such a lead foot."
I closed my eyes briefly and let the embarrassment roll over me. Okay, so the man knew I was a goody-two-shoes. What did it matter? Tomorrow the judge would dismiss me and I'd probably never see Deputy U.S. Marshal Wells again.