Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  When it was his turn, Lawson had only one question.

  -Did you find anything—fingerprints, shoe prints, blood drops, hair samples, food crumbs, clothing fibers, personal items, a gun—anything at all tying Bud Jack to the crime scene?

  -No, we didn’t.

  The killer, it occurred to me, must have been a professional, leaving no trace like that. My stomach clenched. My scalp released a chill. Why this unsettled feeling? It wasn’t the horror of a cold-blooded assassination. You hear about this stuff so often, it almost doesn’t register. It wasn’t hunger, a long morning without a bite to eat. I was used to that too, having started enough school days on an empty stomach. No, it was Pete and I, being amateurs, had left behind more crumbs than Hansel and Gretel.

  We’d found a side gate unlocked, the side walkway into the backyard was dark, Pete’s adventure gauge was on full—no one’s going home till we have a story worth telling. Once our eyes adjusted, we could see a swimming pool, deck chairs, a wet bar. Beyond the pool, a forest of trees and ferns rimmed the yard. I’d never actually been in a layout like this. You see them all the time in glossy real estate ads and the local fashion magazines. From the front, another nondescript upscale home. In the back, a secluded little paradise.

  -Let’s sit in the hot tub.

  -That would be gay and suspicious.

  -Dude, seriously, I’m getting naked.

  -Don’t.

  -Hold my beer.

  -No. I’m leaving.

  Pete’s momentum builds upon itself, an autocatalytic reaction—something he acknowledges, at least later, after the battle, in moments of subdued reflection: It’s my prefrontal cortex, Fletch, it never fully developed, I get these impulses, probably too many Twinkies as a kid. When The Bagel went down, leaving us treading water in the dark harbor, he had wanted to crawl aboard one of the yachts anchored nearby.

  -Dude, they gotta take us in, it’s maritime law.

  We swam past Retirement Package and All Aboard. Is there a law mandating yacht owners congratulate themselves with a smug christening? The good ship Our Happy Hour caught Pete’s fancy.

  -Arr, we’ll show them a happy hour. Come on, me hearty, let’s hoist the jolly roger.

  He started climbing. The lights of a harbor patrol boat were bearing our way. I had to pull him back into the drink. He’s the id. I’m the superego. I protect him from himself.

  -Pete, I’m not kidding. No hot-tubbing.

  -Okay, okay, you’re right. Stick to the mission.

  Mission creep averted, we stood in the dark backyard. An electric motor hummed. A waterfall gurgled over large rocks and streamed into the pool. What had Marissa said Sigrid had said?—We put the cascade opposite the barbecue, you know like hot and cold for balance, and three boulders, the landscaper wanted two but we had it feng shui-ed, the splashing water focuses your chi. It sounded to me like a running toilet.

  The only light in the rear of the house came from upstairs. At one point, we could see a woman near a window, too briefly though to declare success. We backed away from the house hoping for a better angle. When a dog barked next door, we took refuge beneath some trees, in case someone poked their head outside. Another dog barked in reply. What were they saying to each other? Woof, woof, everybody, there’s two guys sneaking around next door, I can smell them! Woof, woof, I smell them too, they had burritos for dinner! According to Pete, dogs have a sense of smell so acute they can detect hormonal levels in humans. Woof, woof, one of them suffers from jealousy! Woof, woof, yeah, the other one’s prematurely bald! Pete nudged my chest with his beer bottle. I took it, took a swallow, had to laugh. Seven hours earlier, I had been in a courtroom, my first time ever in the halls of jurisprudence, and now I was trespassing in someone’s backyard, spying on the defense attorney. So it’s true what they say: the criminal justice system creates criminals.

  When quiet returned, the dogs having lost interest in our glandular secretions, my accomplice had disappeared.

  -Pete?

  No response. This could be bad.

  -Pete?

  -Dude, I can see them.

  He was up a tree, his binoculars trained on the window.

  -What are they doing?

  -He’s just standing there. She’s gone now. Into the bathroom, I think.

  -What does he look like?

  -Hard to say. Now he’s gone too.

  A deep growl from the dog next door: Grrr, don’t you assholes even think about traipsing through my yard!

  I was getting anxious. If that was my dog making that guttural sound, I’d be going for the flashlight. And the baseball bat. Suppose we get caught—the neighbor calls, the police arrive—what would we say? We needed a lie ready. Officer, we were tracking a coyote a bobcat a baby bobcat my friend is a biologist the bobcat got separated from its mother we followed it this far the gate was open we think it’s still up in these trees.

  -Dude, you’re not going to believe this.

  -What?

  -I think it’s John. In the window. Yeah, it’s definitely John.

  -John who?

  -Grisham.

  -Very funny.

  -Wait, he’s back in the room. So is she. He just—I think he just kissed her.

  -You’re kidding. Is it the husband?

  -I can’t tell for sure. Whoever it is, he’s kissing her. Oh, yeah.

  -What?

  -Oh, yeah. They are getting it on.

  -Seriously?

  -Oh, baby.

  -What are they—?

  -He’s all over her.

  -Yeah, right.

  -Come see for yourself.

  -I will.

  -Wait. Now they’re gone.

  -Yeah, exactly.

  -They might be on the bed. I need to climb higher.

  I know when Pete is putting me on, but it was a funny thought, pie-faced Lawson and Super Sigrid having an affair. Officer, we’re private detectives dicks for hire that’s our summer job missing persons marital infidelities and, officer, I think you’ll find no one here wishes to press charges we don’t want anyone embarrassed this can all be handled discreetly.

  A branch cracked. Pete hit the ground with a thud. A loud groan followed.

  -Are you okay? Pete?

  -I think I busted a rib.

  The canine chorus started up again. The lights went off upstairs.

  -Try not to move.

  -I’m okay. Just help me up.

  We were standing behind the tree when the outdoor lights came on—Chinese red lanterns on the patio, swimming pool glowing blue, the waterfall backlit. Pete groaned again.

  -Looks like my damn honeymoon. The hotel.

  A second set of lights flickered on, illuminating the ferns around our feet. This wasn’t good.

  -Let’s get out of here. Can you walk?

  We moved from tree to tree along the perimeter of the yard, crushing plants underfoot, then paused in some shadows, checking the house. Still no one on the patio. Had a motion detector triggered the outdoor lights? Had the people inside heard Pete’s crash landing, and were they now standing by a dark window, peering nervously into the luminous garden? Ahead of us, ten feet of exposed fence stretched to the side walkway. No trees, no cover. Maybe they’ll see us, maybe they won’t, but if we wait and someone comes outside, we’re sitting ducks.

  -You ready?

  -Yeah, go.

  A few quick strides, and we were safely in the dark walkway between the garage and the fence. Pete was still making pained sounds.

  -You okay? Pete?

  -I never should have listened to you.

  -To me? This was your idea.

  -No, the hot tub. I wouldn’t have fallen out of that.

  We stood listening. No voices, no doors, no sirens. The dogs were calming down. So far, so good. I carefully pulled the gate open and snuck a quick peek around the corner. No one in the driveway.

  -You go first, I’ll close the gate. Go ahead.

  With his right hand cradling hi
s left arm like it was broken, Pete hobbled out past the Lexus and was gone. After a couple of tries, I latched the gate, turned, and walked smack into Sigrid.

  -Oops. Sorry.

  I assume it was Sigrid. She definitely fit the description.

  -What are you doing?

  She was tough, she held her ground, unfazed by a strange man emerging from her backyard late at night.

  -Looking for—

  I kept moving.

  -For what? Excuse me.

  The excuse me was an accusation, not an apology.

  -Wrong address. Sorry.

  I was almost off her driveway.

  -I’m calling the police.

  I ran down the street and found Pete leaning against the van.

  -I saw her. I saw her rack. Mission accomplished.

  -You gotta drive.

  If Pete’s juvenile humor is gone, adventure gauge on empty, he must be in serious pain.

  -Okay. We’re going to the hospital.

  -Have you got my beer?

  -No.

  I started the engine. Pete eased himself into the passenger seat.

  -I need a beer. Don’t tell me you left it.

  I turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, still busy after ten p.m., and drove cautiously. Still no sirens, a clean getaway, but they would find it—one glass beer bottle, two sets of prints, saliva samples for DNA testing. I must have set it down when I helped Pete to his feet under the tree. But I didn’t notice it when the lights came on, so maybe it had rolled underneath a fern, out of sight, and two weeks from now the gardeners will stumble upon it and throw it in the trash. Okay, no reason to panic, just get Pete to the emergency room. He was hunched over, looking suddenly old.

  -Pete, where’s your hat?

  -Probably with my binoculars.

  Sorry, officer, we were just looking for a dark place where we could watch the meteor shower there’s too many lights where we live we didn’t mean any trouble the tree branch uh what tree branch? Even with time to prepare, my lies aren’t very good.

  Fortunately, the painstaking detective on the witness stand worked Huntington Beach, not Laguna, and wouldn’t be called in to audit the odd refuse and incidentals left behind in Sigrid’s backyard. Fortunately, he was done testifying, excused, and it was time for lunch. There’s no such thing as fresh air in Santa Ana in July, no point in leaving the courthouse, so I sat on a bench in the hallway, hoping the dental hygienist with dark curls might sit down next to me and notice the apple and celery sticks I had grabbed from the refrigerator in my morning rush.

  -Hi, I’m Roya. That’s a fine lunch. Good for healthy teeth and gums.

  -The apple’s organic.

  No such luck. Instead, it was the smiling gray-haired woman, a retired church secretary, it turned out, with three grandchildren.

  -Here’s a picture. Aren’t they adorable? Five, eight, and the oldest is nine. They keep me on my toes.

  She thought it was nice having a teacher on the jury.

  -You’ll explain everything for us, won’t you? All this information is hard to follow. I would hate to have to decide all by myself.

  She thought it was nice they sell water in the cafeteria.

  -Usually I bring my own, but I’m glad they have it in case I forget.

  Right. A wealthy county in the wealthiest state in the wealthiest country in the history of the world, and we have to pay for a bottle of water? I bet jurors in Canada get a decent sandwich. I bet jurors in Denmark get the whole damn smorgasbord. In my next life, I once told Marissa, I’m living in a social democracy, a real one. You won’t like the winters, she replied. I could hear Pete’s voice in my head.

  -It takes more water than they hold to manufacture those stupid little bottles, never mind the BPA.

  -BPA?

  -Yeah, dude, chemical shit, leaching from the plastic. Makes you impotent.

  The smiling woman reminded me of my mother, and I’d hate for someone to be rude to my mother, so I nodded and smiled back. Life must be easier for people like her, people content with what they’re given. I should work on that. Accept what is. Marissa’s better with acceptance. Everything is okay right now at this exact moment. That’s how she got through the divorce. I gave it a try: right now I’m sitting here in an air-conditioned courthouse, I’m breathing, I’m alive, my throat isn’t sore. But doesn’t acceptance breed complacency? If no one speaks up and complains, will anything ever change? Was Marissa seeing her painter pal today? Should I complain about that or just accept it?

  -That’s not enough lunch for you, dear, would you like a peanut butter and jelly? I packed an extra one just in case. It’s strawberry jam.

  -No, I—

  -Here, it’s okay, I won’t eat it.

  Another warm, gray-haired smile. I wanted to hug her, I don’t know why. If Lawson could get Bud Jack to smile like that instead of staring us down, he’d be home free. Of course, it’s probably not so easy to accept what is when what is is indictment for first-degree murder.

  The first witness after lunch was a Huntington Beach fireman, and he looked the part—broad-shouldered, dark mustache, a respectful nod to Judge Silverson, like a cop without the attitude, a little self-conscious in jacket and tie. On the night Juan Castro was killed, the fireman had gone out late to buy cold medicine for his ailing wife, and driving home he saw this guy running down the street. Sloan led him through his account.

  -By running, do you mean like jogging, for exercise?

  -No, he was kind of half walking, half running, and he would kind of stop and look behind him and start running again. It looked suspicious.

  -What did he look like? A physical description.

  -A physical description? Black guy, kind of average build, wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

  -Running shorts?

  -No, definitely not. Long pants. He wasn’t out jogging.

  -So you thought it looked suspicious. What did you do?

  -Yeah, I drove past him and something didn’t seem right, so I turned right at the next street and circled back through a residential street, and then came back up behind him.

  -What was he doing?

  -Same thing. Kind of running, kind of walking. He wasn’t jogging. But then he kind of looked over at me. I’m pretty sure he could tell I was watching him.

  -What did he do?

  -He stopped walking and just looked at me.

  -What did you do?

  -I kept on driving. That was it. I figured it was probably nothing, or maybe he was on drugs, just acting weird.

  -When did you call the police?

  -Next day. I had kind of forgotten all about it, but the next day it started bothering me again, and I know some of the guys on the force, so I called over there and told them what I saw. You know, it’s probably nothing, I just saw this guy acting weird, that kind of thing. But then a couple days later they called me back and asked me to come down to the station and see if I could identify the guy.

  -Identify him how?

  The fireman turned toward the jury box, as if to say this is for your benefit.

  -In a lineup. They had six or seven guys. Maybe more. It was like you see on television. I picked him out right away.

  -The defendant sitting over there—is that the man you saw running down the street?

  -Yes.

  -Are you sure?

  -That’s him. Absolutely.

  Taking a step backwards, Sloan looked over at the defense table. So did I. I’m sure the whole jury did. Bud Jack was staring at the fireman and shaking his head slightly. Lawson placed his hand on his client’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper something, shielding him from our collective gaze. An effective turn, I thought, meant to remind us that Bud Jack was a real person, someone with whom you could quietly confer. Effective and rehearsed. Everything seemed rehearsed. The dialogue between Sloan and the fireman—not jogging, suspicious—the fireman turning to address the jury, Bud Jack’s glower, Lawson’s protective, almost intimate motion. Lawson w
as right, this really did feel like television. Then, abruptly, he stood, his chair banging against the wooden barrier behind him. Another neat move, breaking the tension of the fireman’s accusation. No open palms this time, almost no limp. Sloan was finished, and Lawson was on the attack.

  -Do you know where the victim’s body was found?

  -I think so. Parking lot off Palm and Seventeenth.

  -That’s correct. Firemen know their streets. Did you see the suspicious walker-runner in that parking lot?

  -No.

  -Did you see him come out of that parking lot?

  -No.

  -How far was he from that parking lot when you saw him?

  -Half mile.

  -You wear glasses?

  -Only for reading, not for driving.

  -Were you wearing your glasses that night?

  -I don’t need them when I drive.

  -So you weren’t wearing them.

  -That’s correct.

  -The suspicious walker-runner was on the sidewalk, yes?

  -Yes.

  -On the same side of the street as you?

  -No.

  -Across the street?

  -Yes.

  -Were there cars passing between you and him?

  -A few, but I could see him clearly the whole time.

  -Did you stop your car?

  -No.

  -You were driving the whole time you saw him?

  -I slowed down.

  This was getting interesting. Under Sloan’s encouraging direction, the fireman was just trying to be helpful, fellow citizens, probably it was nothing, just kind of telling you my experience. Lawson’s rapid grilling was evoking something else.

  -Just so we’re clear so far, you were driving, but looking over your shoulder, across the street, through traffic, without your glasses—

  -I don’t need—

  -At night, and you saw him clearly the whole time.

  -There were street lamps. The sidewalk there is well lit.

  There it was again, defensiveness, a hint of I know what I saw.

  -From above?

  -What?

  -These street lights shine light from above.

  -Yes.

  -You said the suspicious walker-runner was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. A hoodie.