July 31, Friday
JUDGE ARNOLD surveyed what remained of the jury pool. "We will now select twelve jurors and four alternates. If your number is called, please take a seat in the jury box."
My heart was pounding like a drum. After four weeks of questions and questionnaires and sidebars and peremptory strikes, it had all come down to this.
He called one number, then another, and another. Each juror left the gallery, walked to the jury box, and claimed a seat. Before long, all twelve seats were filled.
I'd been holding my breath. Now I let it out slowly. This was fine. I'd known I probably wouldn't be selected. I had prepared for this. I was—
"Prospective Juror Number 247, you are alternate juror number two. Please take a seat in the juror's box."
I waited for someone to stand and when no one did, I realized with a bolt of shock that I was Prospective Juror Number 247.
I stood up and took one tentative step to make sure my legs were working. Phew. I walked to the juror's box as calmly as I could while my heart was doing calisthenics in my chest, then sat in the first empty seat.
The judge called two more alternates, then thanked the remaining prospective jurors and dismissed them.
"Will the jury and alternate jurors please rise and raise your right hand."
We all stood. I raised my right hand. It was shaking.
"Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will well and truly try this case and render a true verdict according to the law and the evidence?" The judge's voice was measured and exact. "Affirm 'I will' when I call your number."
He moved through the jury box. One by one.
"Juror Number 247."
"I will," I said.
Clear and steady. I considered that a personal achievement on par with anything else in recent memory.
When the last juror had responded, the judge set his papers down. "We have a jury." He looked at all eighteen of us. "Go home. Spend time with the people who matter to you. Come back Monday prepared for an extended period of sequestration. You are dismissed."
As we filed out in quiet procession, I could feel Robert Blackthorne's gaze follow us. My feet felt heavy, as if my body had been imbued with something important and weighty.
Deputy Wells stood at the door. He nodded to each juror as they passed—a small, professional acknowledgment. When I reached him, he held my gaze one beat longer than the others. Then he nodded.
I walked to my car, feeling excited and nervous and, yes, a little scared as I processed the gravity of what just happened. I'd been chosen to serve on—what was it Elaine had said? The trial of the decade.
Warren and the kids were going to lose their everloving minds.
I sat in the parking deck, keys in hand, wondering what it said about me that I was looking forward to breaking the news.
*****
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