August 14, Friday
WHEN WE filed into the courtroom, I immediately noticed Robert Blackthorne was absent.
The prosecution and defense attorneys seemed extra alert.
Judge Arnold entered with a folder tucked under his arm instead of his usual stack of papers, and something about the economy of it—just the one folder, held close—told me before he spoke that today's business would be brief and unpleasant.
"Before we resume testimony," he said, settling behind the bench, "I have an administrative matter to address. Alternate Juror Number One has been dismissed from this jury for reasons that will remain confidential to this court."
A small stir moved through the jury box.
I didn't turn my head, but I felt the empty space where a woman I'd shared a bench with for six weeks—a soft-spoken paralegal from Marietta who kept peppermints in her purse and had once offered me one during a particularly grueling afternoon of forensic testimony—had once occupied.
"As a result," the judge continued, "Alternate Juror Number Two will move into the position of Alternate Juror Number One, Alternate Juror Number Three will move into the position of Alternate Juror Number Two, and Alternate Juror Number Four will move into the position of Alternate Juror Number Three. "
I was being bumped up. I sat with the reshuffling of my own status for a moment, an unsettling promotion in a system where advancement meant that I'd moved one seat closer to more serious obligation—and consequences.
"This brings me to a matter I want to address with the entire panel," Judge Arnold said, his voice sharpening.
"I remind each of you, in the strongest possible terms, that you are not to discuss any aspect of this case with anyone—not your spouse, not your children, not your closest friend, not a stranger in an elevator who asks an innocent question.
This includes the substance of testimony, your own impressions of witnesses, or your opinions about guilt or innocence. "
He looked slowly across the box, meeting eyes one by one, the way he did when he wanted a point to land.
"If someone approaches you—at the hotel, during a supervised call, anywhere—and asks about the trial, even in the most casual, well-meaning way, you are to say only this: 'I'm not able to discuss that.
' Nothing more. Not 'it's going fine.' Not 'it's more complicated than people think.
' Simply that you can't discuss it, and then you change the subject or end the conversation.
If the person persists, you report it to your marshal immediately, no matter how insignificant it seems."
He let that settle before continuing. "I want to be direct with you about why this matters so much in this particular case.
We are not dealing with an ordinary defendant.
Even a stray comment repeated to the wrong person could compromise this trial, endanger a witness, or endanger one of you.
I do not say that to frighten you. I say it because I respect you enough to tell you the truth. "
The room had gone very quiet. I thought of the paralegal with the peppermints, wondering whether she'd said something she shouldn't have to someone she trusted, a slip so small she probably hadn't recognized it as one until it was already too late to take back.
When the judge finished speaking, Robert Blackthorne was escorted in. The judge called for the day's first witness and I let my gaze drift, just briefly, toward the back wall.
Deputy Wells was watching the box with his usual careful attention, and for half a second his eyes found mine.
He gave the smallest nod, so slight that anyone not already looking for it would have missed it entirely—a private acknowledgment, you're doing fine, you're safe, carry on—before his gaze resumed its steady circuit of the room.
I picked up the baby blanket, found my place in the pattern, and tried very hard not to think about what, exactly, the alternate before me had said, and to whom.