Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -We’re not Arabs, we don’t speak Arabic, we speak Farsi.

  -Oh, Farsi, that must make you Farcical.

  -No, Mr. Fletcher, we’re Persians.

  Persians, as if from the great Persian empire—that’s how Iranians in California identify themselves. And according to our principal’s convoluted explanation regarding Dana Hills demographics, Iran is the Persian word for land of the Aryans, which means that Persians, though Asians, are counted as Caucasians, which makes Sigrid right, and Marissa, and also The Sophist, they’re all right: Bud Jack’s jury is all white. One hundred percent.

  -Fletcher, is that you in there?

  A male voice.

  -Uh, yeah.

  -Richard Wilhite here. Sigrid’s husband. Marissa asked me to check on you.

  -Oh.

  -Food poisoning?

  -Leftover sushi.

  I leaned back on the toilet, twisted my neck, and looked with one eye through the gap where the stall attached to the wall. He was standing at a mirror, checking his hair. An expensive haircut, even from my narrow vantage.

  -That’ll do it. I’ve been there. Raw fish is always a risk. Can I get you something to drink?

  Talking to me, but looking at himself.

  -No, that’s okay, but thank you.

  -They probably have soda water.

  How do I get rid of this guy?

  -How’s the play?

  -It’s good. If you like that kind of thing.

  -You should go back in. Tell her I’m okay.

  -Between you and me, I don’t really appreciate theater. Sigrid gets the tickets and drags me along. How about a cup of ice to chew on?

  What am I thinking? I don’t need to hide from this guy. He didn’t see me in his driveway. I pocketed my phone, tightened my face into a grimace, and emerged from the stall, one hand on my stomach.

  -Pretty bad, huh?

  -It comes and goes.

  Mr. Wilhite, the mysterious in-television husband, was wearing a light blue pullover and khaki slacks. I splashed water on my face.

  -You sure I can’t get you something?

  -Do you drive a Lexus?

  I shouldn’t have asked. I already knew the answer. I had imagined a harder, meaner man, like one of Grisham’s corporate villains, but he had a soft, blown-dry look, like an evening news anchor, like he might fall over if you bumped into him. Of course he drove a Lexus.

  -Yes. Why?

  I hesitated. No lie ready.

  -I…excuse me.

  Quickly back into the stall. I asked about your car because Marissa and I had a bet, no, because I think I saw you driving in Laguna recently I remember the hair.

  -Are you okay in there?

  Should I make a retching sound? Do I even know how?

  -Yeah. False alarm. I think I need fresh air. Will you tell Marissa I’ll meet her after the show? Thanks.

  I was past him and out the door before he could say anything.

  The air outside was cool. Even in July, the evenings cool off. South Orange County does have that going for it, I admit, the world’s greatest climate, or so say local license plate frames, in typical south county modesty. Mild winters, no rain all summer. The bored-to-tears weather celebrities report the approach of a potential thunderstorm like the threat of foreign invasion: Bad news, Stu and Linda, we could see heavy precipitation on Friday evening possibly lingering into Saturday morning, stay with us for round the clock updates, coming up next news you can use, how to protect your family in a downpour this could be the big one folks. Usually it fizzles. Just one pleasant sunny day after the next. A guy like Richard Wilhite sports a suntan all year round. A guy like Richard Wilhite was exiting the theater and walking toward me. A friendly wave. Too late to escape.

  -Hey, Fletcher, I’m giving you a ride home. Marissa’s idea. The girls will come later in your car. If that’s okay. Marissa said just leave your keys at the box office.

  Are you kidding me? Forty-eight hours ago we were searching for some guy on the internet, and now I’m sitting in his car feigning illness. What next? Will I run into Lawson at the grocery store? Will I track down Judge Silverson? Uh, sorry, Your Honor, excuse me wrong address, since I’m here though can I pound your gavel?

  We pulled out of the parking garage and headed for the freeway, two strangers in a new Lexus, searching for conversation topics. Richard scored first.

  -I don’t understand why that theater doesn’t have valet parking.

  -Yeah. You’d think.

  -In LA, it’s standard. Suburbs, what can you do?

  -Yeah.

  I was nodding my head, trying to be polite, but you can park your own damn car, that’s what you can do.

  -Where are we headed, by the way? You’re in Laguna, right?

  -North Laguna.

  -Nice. Fantastic area. Some real nice homes.

  We didn’t speak for a few uncomfortable minutes. Does he feel put out taking me home? Am I pathetic, a charity case, using his theater tickets, getting a ride? Does he think I’m rude not saying anything?

  -You’re not going to throw up in here, are you?

  -No.

  -You let me know and I’ll pull over pronto. That smell never goes away. No offense.

  -I’m feeling better.

  -How did you know I drive a Lexus?

  -You probably won’t believe it.

  Long story short, I saw it in your driveway the other night when my buddy and I snuck into your backyard, spied on your wife’s fake titties, and broke your tree. I’m serving on a jury right now, and I thought it was the defense attorney’s car and that he was having an affair with your wife, but when I met you tonight in the john I immediately sensed there was something effeminate about you so I figured you for the Lexus because the defense attorney is, let’s say, more of a BMW man. No offense.

  -Believe what?

  He looked at me with an odd expression, probably because I was grinning. With fake food poisoning comes giddiness.

  -I can look at people and guess their car.

  -No, I’ve heard of that. What’s it called? It’s called something. Auto-savant?

  -I don’t know.

  -What else can you guess? What line am I in?

  -Line?

  -Line of work. Can you guess what I do?

  -No, just cars. But it’s something in television, right?

  -Yes. A production company. That’s unbelievable. How do you do it? I’ve got that industry look, right?

  I bit my cheek to stifle a laugh. So he really was in television, and it was his Lexus, he was at home with his wife, and when the lights went on in the backyard he stayed inside while she investigated. No affair, no drama. Sometimes my imagination gets the best of me.

  -A production company?

  -We create shows and sell them to the networks.

  -Oh. Like sitcoms?

  -Mostly reality shows now. They’re easier to do.

  -Yeah?

  -Cheaper. You don’t need to pay professional actors. Sitcoms, you need a big name, right? A star attraction. And a roomful of writers. Everything costs—it’s all union. Reality, you just need a concept and a camera.

  -Who comes up with the concept?

  -Anybody. Me. You. Like here’s a concept: a guy can look at you and guess your car, your job. So he walks down the street, meets people, makes funny banter, makes guesses about them. And then, I don’t know, you got three contestants, back in the studio, in front of an audience, they guess if he’s right or wrong. Like old school What’s My Line? meets Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?

  -What are you working on now?

  -If I told you, I’d have to kill you. And I would, too, I know people, I’m a serious man.

  -Oh.

  -When you get a concept, I mean a sure thing, solid money, you protect it like gold, like the Ark of the Covenant, until you’re up and running. Then you want to get a buzz going. What line are you in, Fletcher?

  -I’m a teacher.

  -Nic
e. I really admire teachers. The basis for civilization. I get sick of these ignorant politicians beating up on the teachers, saying they’re overpaid, calling for charter schools, vouchers. That’s the end, when you privatize the schools. Then we’re Mexico. My daughter went to Laguna High, public schools all the way. Now she’s at Stanford, so I guess she did alright. You’ll have to direct me to your house.

  -We’ll turn right on PCH. It’s an apartment, actually.

  -I used to own an apartment in north Laguna, until I moved up. Got to start somewhere, right? Build that equity.

  -Yeah.

  -Used to hang out at Crystal Cove. You surf?

  -I’ve got a paddleboard.

  -Nice.

  Nice. That’s what Sharon said—people in south county are nice to you, just not interested, because they’ve got nothing to learn from you, darling, that’s how they see it, either you amuse them or you don’t. Richard was nice enough to check on me in the restroom, nice enough to give me a ride home, it’s nice that he supports public education, rhetorically anyway, and so very nice that his daughter can attend a fifty thousand per year private university, but he could have at least asked what grade level I teach, what subject, and if I enjoy it, so that settles it, he’s not getting a kiss goodnight. A brisk goodbye instead.

  -Thanks for the lift, Richard.

  I was eager to be out of that Lexus.

  -You take care, Fletcher.

  None of that we should stay in touch business, nothing about let’s get together sometime, not even a nice to meet you. Just see ya.

  A big mistake, immediately regretted. Why didn’t I ask Richard about his interest in Bud Jack, get it straight from the horse’s mouth? I was thinking about it the whole way home, but I didn’t want him to know I knew. I was hoping he would bring it up instead, clue me in on his intentions. And why didn’t he? Why didn’t he ask me about being on the jury, drop hints about Bud Jack’s innocence? Probably he doesn’t want me to know I’m being used, wants to keep it subtle, just quietly give the juror a ride home, express great admiration for his chosen profession, meanwhile his wife massages the masseuse hoping the masseuse will influence the juror.

  I figured I had an hour until Marissa arrived with my car. I cleaned up the kitchen, put fresh sheets on the bed, opened a bottle of wine. Good news, honey, the food poisoning is gone, thank God.

  Bad news, honey, Marissa didn’t arrive with my car until midnight, she and Sigrid had stopped for a drink, she just wanted to get her keys and drive home.

  -I can’t stay over.

  -You’re already here.

  She’d rather go out with Sigrid than come home to me.

  -I have to work real early.

  -I don’t mind waking up early.

  Maybe I should join the marine mammal rescue society like Sigrid. Or get disproportionates.

  -Fletcher, please, I’m tired. I just want to go, okay?

  -How was the play?

  -It was alright. A little hard to follow. Great costumes.

  Great costumes? Maybe I should move to the Bay Area like Sharon, get out of south county. I mean, what am I doing here?

  -I’m sorry I got sick.

  -It’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. Oh, Sigrid says you look familiar.

  There’s a spot rich in sea life two miles off the Laguna coast, or maybe it’s farther, I just point my surfboard away from shore, stand up, and start paddling. That’s what it’s called—stand-up paddle surfing—like canoeing, only on your feet, and it’s catching on. If the wind is calm, someone is probably out there, paddling the postcard stretch of north Laguna: Bird Rock, Fisherman’s Cove, Crescent Bay, Seal Rock, Emerald Bay, El Morro, Crystal Cove. Out in open water, away from the cliff and cove shoreline, you don’t see other paddlers, you don’t see much at all, until you hit the spot. Pete says it’s probably an upwelling zone, cold water rising rich with nutrients from the ocean floor, drawing fish and everything that eats them. First you see birds—gulls, pelicans, skimmers—that’s how you find the place, birds mark the spot. Then maybe a few sea lions, out from the Seal Rock rookery in search of a meal. They dive deep, then surface breathing hard. They swim up close and inspect you with strange brown eyes—what are you doing out this far, stupid human? Sometimes you surprise one floating motionless, a flipper extended skyward, napping in the sun. Gray whales pass through, south to Mexico in the winter, northbound with their newborn calves come spring. And there are dolphins.

  On Sunday morning, after a disappointing Saturday night, after my date with Marissa had become a date with Richard Wilhite, I was out early. No wind, no choppy waves, the board traveling easily as I dipped the long paddle into glassy water and pulled forward. Maybe it was the smooth repetition, four strokes on one side, then four on the other, or maybe it was because there was nothing to do except paddle—no books or tv, no cell phones, no people—but standing on a twelve-foot plank surrounded by miles of water, I stopped obsessing about Marissa—how does she feel about me today? is she having lunch with that Vincent van Goatee?—I forgot I was a capable though not inspiring high school math teacher and might never be anything else, I got out of my head, as Marissa would say, and just existed.

  A squadron of pelicans went gliding by, two feet above the water, and then I saw it, what I was looking for, little dark waves and glints of light barely perceptible on the horizon. I reached out farther with the paddle and pulled harder, it took maybe ten more minutes to get there, and suddenly the ocean came alive with gray and white bodies arching, diving, shooting up again—I was surrounded by dolphins! Dozens of them. Hundreds. One cut across my bow, a curious eye, long mouth, then cut back, the opposite eye taking me in. Pale ghosts flashed underneath me. I heard their whistles and clicks. Five feet to my right, an adult and juvenile burst clear of the water together, parallel torpedoes of glistening skin. Whooo! I whooped and laughed. I looked left and right and over my shoulders, trying not to miss a one. They were after fish. They pulled away, circled back, pulled away again. They didn’t swim so much as flow, a river of dolphins, a current of energy streaming across the ocean face. A few stragglers passed me, then the water flattened and calmed. I stopped paddling and watched a long line of dorsal fins shrink into the distance. Okay, so maybe south county isn’t so bad.

  5

  On Monday morning, defense attorney Lawson looked different. Before I entered the fifth-floor courtroom, I ran into him, literally, as he emerged from a restroom, his attention on a folded newspaper. Close up, he appeared even bigger. When we bumped shoulders, I had to step backward to maintain my balance. He apologized and glanced down at me, barely breaking stride. But as I watched him limp down the hallway, he seemed somehow smaller, frail even. It wasn’t just that I had noticed sweat stains along his collar and dandruff in his sideburns. In my mind, he was no longer a man of action who held late-night strategy sessions with Mr. Wilhite or late-night straddling sessions with Mrs. Wilhite, no longer the lynchpin in a complex Grisham plot of intrigue and suspense. The late-night ride in Richard Wilhite’s Lexus had tamed my wild speculations. Lawson was just another overworked courthouse lawyer. And if Lawson wasn’t the superstar I had conjured up, probably I wasn’t the focus of his defense strategy, the one juror he was hoping to persuade. That was my imagination too. His face registered no recognition during our brief encounter. He was just another lawyer, I was just another juror, this was just another trial.

  When Sloan started the day with a second witness placing Bud Jack at the bus stop, Lawson raised the same issues of viewpoint and lighting that had stymied the fireman on Friday. They were just as effective—the witness couldn’t even remember if the suspicious man he saw was wearing a hoodie or just a t-shirt—but, like during jury selection, Lawson now looked bored with the proceedings. I was a little bored too. So what if Bud Jack was at the bus stop? It proves nothing. When Judge Silverson called Sloan and Lawson up to the bench for a hushed conference, I looked over at Roya. She caught my eye and smiled. Forget the cour
troom potboiler, never mind the legal cliffhanger, this is going to be a romance.

  How do I approach her, what do I say?

  -Hi, Roya.

  No, too forward, since she never actually told me her name.

  -Hi, I’m Fletcher, you’re Roya, right?

  That’s good, I can do that. Then what? I can usually say hi to strangers, even attractive women. I can look them in the eye and smile. It’s the second line that throws me.

  -Hi, I’m Fletcher, you’re Roya, right?

  -Yes.

  -Okay, I…I just wanted to be sure.

  Usually they disappear, suddenly needing to refill their drink or check their phone. Usually that’s a relief. Because if I get the second line right, if I don’t sound like a total dork, then I’ve got a bigger problem: the third line.

  -Hi, I’m Fletcher, you’re Roya, right?

  -Yes.

  -That’s Persian, isn’t it?

  -Yes. How did you know?

  -Uh, my ex-girlfriend. I called her from the men’s room, and your name came up. I mean, I thought you were Hispanic.

  And away she goes—sayonara, Roya. That’s the problem: if you’re honest, you frighten them away, you ruin everything. No, just be yourself—that’s what Marissa says. People who reject themselves in advance to avoid getting hurt, hurt themselves. Pre-emptive rejection. It’s better to be honest, honest.

  -Hi, I’m Fletcher, you’re Roya, right?

  -Yes.

  -I have a major crush on you.

  -Oh.

  -Your hair. Your eyes. I can’t concentrate on the trial. And my sort of girlfriend says I should make friends with you.

  -Why?

  -To make sure you vote for acquittal. Wait. You want to get coffee?

  Judge Silverson announced a recess. She needed to meet privately with the attorneys. In the Grishams I’d read, the narrator knows everything and would tell you, in simple prose, what the judge and attorneys were hashing out. No such luck here. Silverson just said be back in thirty minutes. Sloan appeared agitated. Lawson was still bored. Roya looked splendid in a yellow shirt and tight black jeans. She clutched a leather handbag close to her side, as if a fellow juror might tear the purse strap from her slender shoulder and make a run for it. Was she nervous? I was. This was my chance, catch her as we left the courtroom, a casual greeting in the hallway. I can do this, I told myself, never mind the stomach butterflies, the racing pulse.