Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -That’s correct.

  -Was the hood up, on his head?

  -Yes.

  -Are you sure?

  -Yes.

  -How much of his face did it shade?

  -What?

  -If he had his hood up, and the light was coming from the street lamp up above, his face would be shaded, like a shadow across his forehead and eyes. Do you recall what was shaded?

  -No.

  -Where was the suspicious hooded walker-runner standing when you last saw him that night?

  -Corner of Palm and Twelth.

  -The northwest corner?

  -Uh, yeah.

  -I have here a photograph of that corner. Does this look like the same corner?

  -Yes.

  -What does that street sign indicate? The blue one.

  -That’s for a bus stop.

  -Do you know what time it was when you last saw the suspicious hooded walker-runner at that corner?

  -10:28.

  The pedestrian’s behavior was so suspicious, the fireman explained, that he had checked his watch and jotted the time on the cold medicine receipt. Lawson next produced a bus schedule and had the fireman confirm that a bus was due to arrive at the corner in question at 10:29 on the night in question.

  -You told Mr. Sloan that you thought the man looked suspicious, but that it was probably nothing, correct?

  -Yes.

  -What did you mean by probably nothing?

  Mr. Sloan must not have seen that one coming because the fireman wasn’t prepped for it. He searched for an answer.

  -That it was that nothing was…I guess there was probably nothing to be suspicious about.

  -Would someone hurrying to catch the last bus of the evening fall into the category of probably nothing to be suspicious about?

  Score one for the defense. Sigrid’s husband was getting value for his dollar—a humanizing touch with the defendant and a clever rattling of the prosecution’s sturdy eyewitness, not to mention the after-hours house call. I was still puzzled about that. Lawson arrives to confer with Sigrid’s husband. Sigrid is alone upstairs where we saw her in the window. Lawson and the husband must have been in some inner room, a study, conferring in private. After his passive performance during jury selection, I would have said Lawson could use help from anybody, even a guy in television. Now I’d say he knew what he was doing. So it had to be the in-television guy who requested the late night summit meeting. But what was so urgent? In the Grishams I’d opened so far, there was always a secret plan, carefully plotted down to the smallest detail. Everything happens for a reason, nothing left to chance. What’s the plan, Lawson, what’s the big secret? I know where you were last night, I just don’t know why.

  On the way to the emergency room, Pete and I had carefully plotted our own conspiracy. If the police find our crumbs—beer bottle, hat, binoculars, broken branch—they might go checking hospitals for someone who fell out of a tree.

  -Tell the doctor you tripped down some stairs.

  -No.

  -Why not? You were drinking, you fell down the stairs.

  -It’ll get out. Mr. Repetti was so drunk.

  -It won’t get out.

  -Some nurse will tell her kid, and then the whole school will know. I’ll just tell them you backed into me with your car.

  -Mr. Fletcher was so drunk he ran over Mr. Repetti. I don’t think so. How about you fell off your couch?

  -No.

  -You slipped in the shower.

  -I’m not telling them I’m a total klutz.

  -How about you were being an idiot and I kicked your ass?

  -Who would believe that?

  -Okay, here’s an idea. Tell them you broke into a woman’s backyard and climbed a tree so you could peep into her window and see her fake tits.

  -I should have sat in the hot tub.

  While Lawson interrogated the fireman, the unsettled feeling in my stomach gradually dissipated. Perhaps it had been hunger after all. Or I was finally calming down. I mean, so what if the police found our crumbs?—I understand, ma’am, a man in your backyard trespassing, not exactly breaking and entering, maybe put a lock on that gate and keep the shades pulled, anything turns up missing call us. I mean, police in coastal communities have better things to do, like track down shadowy black men suspiciously late for the bus.

  -So you went home, gave the cold medicine to your wife, went to bed, and forgot all about it, correct?

  -I didn’t really forget.

  -Isn’t that what you just told Mr. Sloan? We could check the transcript.

  -I mean, yes, I forgot about it, because I was sleeping, but the next day I remembered and it started bothering me again.

  -According to the police report, you were shown the lineup and picked out Mr. Jack on the fourteenth, three days after you first called them. Do you accept that?

  -Yes.

  -So you forgot all about it, then you remembered it, then three days later, not a couple, but three days later you identified Bud Jack. Tell us about the lineup. What was the lighting like?

  -The lighting?

  -Yes, was there a street lamp in the lineup room?

  -No. I don’t know.

  -Was Bud Jack wearing a hoodie?

  Lawson got the fireman to admit that conditions in the lineup were nothing like the street that night, then he sat down. Sloan came forward and asked the fireman if the suspicious man looked like someone racing to catch a bus. Over Lawson’s objection, Judge Silverson instructed the fireman to answer, and with Sloan’s friendly guidance he was able to conclude that a man hurrying for the bus probably wouldn’t keep stopping and looking back over his shoulder in the opposite direction from which the bus would be approaching. When the fireman caught Sloan’s drift, a smile softened his face, his confidence returned, he was going out a winner.

  -One last question. Are you still convinced that the defendant sitting over there was the person you observed acting suspiciously that night?

  -It was him.

  And then we were done for the day. Her Honor wanted to meet with the lawyers.

  -Jurors, thank you. Remember, you are not to discuss the case with anyone, not even spouses. Have a nice weekend. Court recessed until Monday morning.

  I stepped outside, into the afternoon heat, heading for the parking lot. In thirty minutes, I’ll be home. Thirty-five, I’ll be asleep on my bed.

  -Long day, huh?

  Long day, long eyelashes, long black curls. Roya! Say something, you fool.

  -Yeah, long day.

  No, say something clever, something witty. She smiled. Perfect teeth. I couldn’t think.

  -How’s your dog doing?

  -She died.

  At least I didn’t hesitate.

  4

  At first I didn’t realize how little I liked south Orange County. I thought I was living the sun and sand California dream. Eighty degrees on Christmas Day, a bike ride along the beach with our shirts off, and Pete says, can you believe we get to live here, they pay us to live here. Then I met Sharon, and she set me straight.

  -This place has all the misery of a city and none of the advantages, too many people, infuriating traffic, nothing to do, don’t even pretend you’re happy here, darling, I’m not buying it.

  Always it was darling. I don’t like my given name, and she refused to call me Fletcher.

  -Too chummy, darling, I’m not your chum.

  Not the drawn-out, aspirated daahling of an overwrought matron, it was primarily businesslike—she had to call me something—but it could stray anywhere from condescending to almost affectionate, depending on her mood.

  -Darling, darling, please. No need to overanalyze.

  We dated for a year, then she moved to northern California, the Bay Area.

  -Can’t take it anymore, darling, sorry, it’s oppressive, uninterrupted sprawl filled with anxious people, a cultural wasteland.

  I begged her to stay. She didn’t ask me to go. I suggested she had a case of the grass is
greener. She suggested I had a case of get a fucking clue.

  -The only reason to stay here, the only possible reason, darling, is to avoid being challenged, no surprises, no scary strangers on the street, no trash cans out the night before. People just sit here, warmed over and rotting, thinking they’ve got it good. Look around you sometime, really look.

  She jabbed a finger against the passenger window as we sped down the 5.

  -You’re a prisoner in a cushy gated community, it’s an honor farm.

  A stupid thing to say, I told her, seeing how at the time I lived in a decidedly ungated apartment complex on a busy street across from a noisy gas station in a small bedroom community called Lake Forest.

  -Ha! Lake Forest, Aliso Viejo, Laguna Niguel.

  She flailed her arms above her head as if fending off a swarm of gnats, a frequent gesture I never understood. One of many. Teaching high school drama was her vocation, dramatics were her life’s work.

  -Mission Viejo. Rancho Santa Margarita.

  She rolled the r’s with contempt.

  -One big gated community, south county, guarded by the high cost of living and a tragic lack of history, don’t let the quaint names fool you.

  She looked at me sadly, shook her head and sighed, then chuckled to herself, signaling satisfaction with her performance. I pondered ramming the car into a center divider.

  Pete and his wife lived in a gated community. No guard, just a gate that swung open in slow motion after you punched in the passcode, and even that was usually unnecessary as you could just slip through with the car ahead of you. One time I parked in Pete’s driveway, walked in the front door without knocking, and found myself in an unfamiliar living room. A woman screamed, ran upstairs, slammed a door. I was still driving in circles, trying to pick out Pete’s house, when the police car, full lights and sirens, arrived at the gate and couldn’t get in. After five minutes, someone else drove up and opened the gate, the cops roared through, I drove out. It was an honest mistake—the same white stucco house and red tile roof, wrong damn gated community. Acapulco III not Acapulco II.

  -Maybe put your name on your mailbox, Pete.

  His wife vetoed that.

  -We’d rather not draw attention to ourself, people will steal your identity, you know, or worse.

  -Then how about a lawn ornament or planting a tree?

  She smiled and shook her head at my foolishness.

  -That’s not allowed. Only an American flag. We all want to keep the neighborhood neat.

  I could hear Sharon’s ha! I had a sudden urge to flail my arms.

  So I moved to Laguna Beach, to a smaller apartment at double the rent, and gave up any hope of ever owning my own home. At least the town had an identity, a sense of place, protected from the sprawl by the last few unravaged hills and the canyon. At least the town was a town, I could be sure where I was living. Sharon scoffed when I called her with the good news.

  -I don’t see the difference, darling.

  -Well, for one thing, Laguna has character.

  -Ha! You mean had character, it’s fading fast, the hippies are long gone, you’re thirty years too late, Lake Forest by the sea.

  -That’s not true, Sharon. For one thing, the houses in Laguna don’t all look alike.

  -Proud of you, darling, really pushing the diversity envelope, and good luck dining out, all that pretentious inelegance, you’ll need a bank loan.

  She was right about that too. After trying to impress Marissa with a few dinner dates at Laguna’s newest and most intimate, I had to confess that I couldn’t afford to keep it up, Marissa graciously conceded the food wasn’t as good as it sounded on the menu, and we settled on sushi once a month.

  Which is where we were Friday night after my long day in court. Marissa was in a flirtatious mood. She ordered an expensive glass of wine, playfully kicked me under the table when I looked too closely at the waitress’s tight shirt, and told me about the day’s excitement.

  -This girl came in totally plastered, the poor thing, drunk off her ass. She was supposed to get married tomorrow but her fiancé, what a jerk, he backed out, I mean like the day before. What a bastard. She said her mother made her come to the spa because it was already paid for. So I started the massage, just real light stuff, but it was too much for her. I put a warm towel on her forehead and went to ask my manager if it was okay for her to just sleep there. They get upset if you’re kind of taking up space. And then she started puking, like, all over, which guess who had to clean up. I know, gross, huh? So I think I deserve the good Chardonnay this time. You look tired, were you up late?

  Was I ever. The emergency room staff had not been impressed by Pete’s complaints. No shortness of breath, no chest pains, no urgency. I had expected doctors hustling in with concerned looks, nurses shouting out vitals, like on tv, good-looking nurses, not fill out this form, sign here, sign there, have a seat we’ll be with you shortly. Or in an hour. Forty minutes in the waiting room, twenty in an examination room, Pete getting bored, catapulting cotton balls at me with a tongue depressor, and finally Dr. Jekyll sidled in, untamed hair, lopsided glasses on a pinched nose, bewildered eyes. Definitely not prime time.

  -You landed on your side, is that right, Mr. Repetti, you didn’t hit your head?

  -That’s correct.

  -Repetti. Is that German?

  Pete shot me a look of disbelief, like are you kidding me?

  -It’s Italian.

  -Italiano. What were you doing on the roof?

  -Getting a frisbee. My friend here can’t throw for shit.

  -That’s not true, Doctor. He can’t catch.

  -His throws go straight up in the air. He has limp wrists.

  Dr. Jekyll ignored our clever repartee.

  -You sure you didn’t hit your cranium, Mr. Repetti?

  -I’m sure. I landed on my side, this area here.

  -The only reason he fell off is his ballet slippers couldn’t get any traction on the shingles.

  -He’s lying, Doc. There’s no shingles.

  -We always want to be careful with the cranium. That’s our computer. Any dizziness?

  -No. I’m only feeling my side right here and my shoulder.

  -Any headaches?

  -No headaches. I told you, my side hurts.

  Disbelief turning to impatience. I’ve seen that shift from Pete before, usually when a principal, with inexplicable enthusiasm, is reiterating the latest irrelevant policy change.

  -Nausea?

  -Not yet. But any minute now.

  Pete was at his limit.

  -Ever have trouble sleeping?

  -Only at night.

  With impatience comes sarcasm.

  -We might want an MRI, if your insurance will allow it.

  -For God’s sake, there’s nothing wrong with my computer, Doc, it’s a Mac, it doesn’t crash.

  Doc liked that.

  -Okay. Let’s take your shirt off and have a look at those shingles. Did you ever have chicken pox?

  By the time I got Pete—bruised ribs, separated shoulder, arm in a sling—and his van from the hospital to The Cave and drove my old beater back across Laguna, it was two a.m. Leaving the hospital, Pete had finally declared the mission a success. He held a refillable prescription for Ambien and we had a really cool story—the stakeout, the tree, my brush with Sigrid, the insane doctor.

  -Was he for real, dude, or just messing with us?

  A really cool story, so long as the police didn’t come knocking, but sitting in the sushi restaurant, I couldn’t tell Marissa a word of it.

  -Yeah, I couldn’t get to sleep last night.

  -Worrying about the trial?

  -No. I don’t know. This tuna is pretty good.

  I was trying to steer away from any discussion of jury duty, but she wanted to talk about day two and wouldn’t take contempt of court for an answer.

  -You can describe what happened, I mean, I could go to the courthouse and watch, right? Come on, Fletcher, don’t hold out on me.


  I fed her a few details—I couldn’t help it, Your Honor, she was rubbing my shin with her bare foot and I wasn’t going to risk contempt of a flirty, tipsy Marissa, but no opinions, I swear, Your Honor, no judgments, just the facts—and she practically exploded.

  -That’s all they got?

  -So far. But—

  -Someone thinks they saw Bud Jack a half mile from the place?

  She jabbed a chopstick into her plate, flinging rice across the table.

  -Marissa, calm down.

  -Walking down the street while black—is that a felony now? Someone ought to arrest the fireman for driving under the influence of racism. I bet your all-white jury ate it up.

  Another jab, more rice.

  -It’s not all white.

  -Sorry. All white and one Hispanic. A real jury of his peers.

  One Hispanic, indeed.

  -Roya means queen, doesn’t it?

  -What?

  -In Spanish. Roy is king, right, so roya must be queen.

  -I don’t know. Why?

  -The Hispanic on the jury—that’s her name. Roya.

  -Is she nice? I mean like sympathetic.

  -I guess.

  No need to guess really. After hearing of my dog’s demise, Roya had been a perfect picture of sympathy.

  -That is so sad. I’m sorry. How old was she?

  -She was…I’m not sure.

  -Oh.

  One lie leads to one hundred.

  -I got her from the pound.

  I should have introduced myself, said something charming or at least pleasant. I should have asked if she had a dog. Instead, I stood there like a fool. She was even prettier close up. I could have stared at her eyes all day.

  -You should make friends with her.

  -With Roya? Why?

  I mean, okay, sure, friends for life, I’ll do my darnedest, bosom buddies.

  -Just in case.

  -In case what?

  -You know.

  -Marissa, what are you talking about?

  -In case she thinks he’s guilty.

  -You want me to influence her?

  -No, I—

  -I shouldn’t even be having this conversation.

  -I want you to make sure the prosecution doesn’t confuse the jury. I want you to make sure Bud Jack gets a fair trial. Please. They’re framing him, he’s not a murderer, he washes cars.