August 3, Monday
A CARAVAN of black SUVs met us at the hotel's service entrance at seven-thirty, and I climbed into the second one alongside Preta, an accountant, and Marcus, a high school shop teacher, feeling like a minor dignitary.
Nobody spoke much. The city slid past the tinted windows, familiar streets rendered strange by the angle and the silence.
At the courthouse, we bypassed the line I remembered from weeks ago—the shuffling, the trays, the woman confiscating knitting needles—and were led through a side entrance to a checkpoint manned by two deputies who already seemed to know our faces.
No waiting. No crowd. Just a quiet, efficient pat-down of our belongings before we were escorted up a private elevator.
Once seated in the jury box, I reached for my knitting bag out of habit to calm my nerves. My stomach had folded itself into something small and tight. I wished I'd eaten more of the breakfast that had been served to us in a private dining room.
Out of nowhere it hit me that today was the first day of school, and for the first time in sixteen years, I wasn't there for it.
No first-day photo on the porch steps. No forcing Josh into a shirt with a collar.
No listening to Lily complain about her class schedule while secretly thrilled about whichever friend she'd been assigned lunch with.
Someone else—Warren, God help them both—was handling backpacks and forgotten forms.
I pushed aside guilt to find another emotion sitting there: satisfaction. Maybe Warren was a teeny bit right—a small part of me was glad he'd have to deal with the mundane details of domestication for a while.
Then the side door opened, and Robert Blackthorne was led in, and every other thought in my head evaporated.
His eyes moved over the jury box with unhurried thoroughness, the way a man might survey property he already considered his.
When his gaze landed on me, a cold finger traveled the length of my spine before he moved on.
I resisted the urge to look away first. Barely.
Deputy Wells stepped forward, addressing the jury with a formality I hadn't seen from him before.
"My name is Deputy U.S. Marshal Colin Wells.
I, along with three other deputies, am responsible for your security for the duration of this trial.
You'll see us at the hotel, in transport, and here in the courthouse.
Please don't hesitate to flag any of us if something feels off, day or night.
" He paused, and something in his voice loosened, just slightly.
"I know this is a significant disruption to your lives.
We're going to do everything we can to make it manageable. "
For such an imposing man, there was an unexpected gentleness in the delivery, and I found myself breathing easier than I had all morning.
Judge Arnold took the bench shortly after and addressed the full box—jurors and alternates alike.
"For the four of you serving as alternates, I want to clarify your role.
You will hear every piece of testimony, every exhibit, every argument, exactly as the twelve jurors do.
But you will not participate in deliberations unless called upon to replace a juror who becomes unable to serve.
Please don't consider this a lesser assignment. It's a vital one."
He then reintroduced the players—U.S. Attorney Lorna McDavid and her team, seated with the crisp posture of people who'd rehearsed this moment; defense attorney Bryan Stone, gesturing broadly even in stillness, his team arranged around him like satellites.
"Today, counsel and I have a number of pretrial motions to work through," the judge continued. "This won't involve you directly, so I'm releasing you for the day. Go back to the hotel, rest, eat something decent. Tomorrow morning, we begin opening statements."
I was pleasantly surprised to have the day off—I could finish my knitting project of a baby blanket to donate to a children's hospital.
As we filed out, I glanced once more at Blackthorne, who was watching me still, that same unhurried attention, as if he had all the time in the world to figure out exactly who I was.
I had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that he already had a good idea.