-That’s right.
Lawson was not receiving my telepathy.
-Just for being a little drunk in public?
-It’s messed up.
A veteran trial lawyer with superb powers of observation, knows when to nail a witness to the wall, knows what jurors are thinking just by their eyes—that’s going in my tv drama. His name will not be Lawson.
-Did you tell them it was messed up?
-I don’t know.
-Maybe tell them you’re tired of being hassled?
-Yeah. Probably.
-Did you tell them to fuck off?
-The cops? You think I’m crazy? I ain’t crazy.
Ha! Good thing it was National Adulthood Day, or I would have laughed out loud.
-Victor, what does fuck off mean?
-Means we’re gonna throw down.
-Fight?
-That’s right.
-Always?
-If someone disrespects you.
Lawson rested his chin on his right hand and thought for a moment.
-Victor, do you like cops?
-Not those ones.
-So why did you tell them about Bud Jack?
Ruiz hesitated.
-Mr. Ruiz, if you didn’t like those cops, why did you help them out?
Suddenly Lawson was impatient again.
-Mr. Ruiz?
One minute a pal, the next he’s a jerk.
-I don’t know.
-You just told them?
I get it—Lawson is playing good lawyer/bad lawyer all by himself. Ruiz looked flustered. Lawson kept firing.
-Where did this conversation with the cops take place?
-In the cell.
-The same cell with Bud Jack?
-A different one.
-The cops took you to a different cell?
-That’s right.
-Why?
-How should I know?
-What did they tell you?
-They said he was dangerous.
-The cops told you Bud Jack was dangerous?
-That’s right.
-Are you sure?
-Yeah, I’m sure. They said they didn’t want to have to put me back in with that black guy.
Lawson turned toward the jury box, a quick, knowing glance—raised eyebrows, wrinkled forehead—encouraging us to connect the dots.
-They threatened to put you back in with that black guy?
-They said they didn’t want to.
-Is that when you told them what Bud Jack said?
-That’s right.
Okay, dots connected. I’m with you, Lawson, maybe you don’t get my telepathy, but I get yours.
-When Bud Jack told you to fuck off, did he disrespect you?
-That’s right.
I get yours loud and clear: the cops pressured Ruiz to cooperate, Ruiz had a grudge to settle with the black guy, take Ruiz’s testimony with a grain of salt.
-Victor, do you know anyone named Juan?
-I know a couple guys named Juan. But they ain’t dead.
Lawson was finished, Sloan was on his feet.
-Victor, did Mr. Jack tell you he killed someone?
-Yes.
-Did you feel it was important to tell the police about this?
-That’s right.
The next witness was the police: a Huntington Beach detective who laid out the murder investigation for us. When Juan Castro’s body was discovered and the time of death estimated, they went through the logs and discovered that an officer had questioned Bud Jack that same night—stopped him on the sidewalk, asked him what he was doing in Huntington if he lived in Long Beach, didn’t get much of an answer but had no cause to detain him. When an off-duty fireman reported having seen a man acting suspiciously and the description matched Bud Jack, they brought him in, put him in a lineup, and the fireman picked him out. While he was being held, Bud Jack bragged to a cellmate about killing a Mexican named Juan, and they knew they had their man. Sloan pressed him on that point.
-Couldn’t Mr. Jack just be talking tough?
-The thing is, we arrested him on suspicion of drug trafficking, we didn’t say anything about murder, didn’t put him in a lineup right away, we were hoping he might let something slip.
The detective seemed convinced, even when Lawson got him to admit there was no physical evidence tying the accused to the crime scene and that the physical description—black guy in hooded sweatshirt—offered by the fireman was rather vague.
-So let me get this straight. A police officer stops him on the street for no real reason except something didn’t look right and later you detain him because an off-duty fireman said something didn’t look right. Tell me, detective, what does the law in Huntington Beach say about looking right?
-The law allows us to investigate suspicious behavior, and when a murder is committed, we follow up all possible leads.
-How does the law define suspicious behavior?
The detective didn’t have a good answer for that. Lawson let it go.
-When Bud Jack was stopped on the street, when you picked him up at his house, when you questioned him, when you put him in the lineup, did he at any time threaten anyone?
-Not that I know of.
-Did he exhibit any dangerous behavior?
-Not that I’m aware of.
-Does he have a record of any dangerous behavior?
-Not that I know of.
-Did you ever tell Victor Ruiz, the drunk prisoner, that Bud Jack was a dangerous man?
-No. But just for the record, he wasn’t drunk when I talked to him.
-Do you know which officer, if any, told him that Bud Jack was dangerous?
-No, sir.
I was surprised Lawson didn’t dig more into the reliability of the jailhouse confession—it was pretty clear to me that the case hung on that. Sloan brought it up when Lawson was finished.
-Detective, did you ever interview Victor Ruiz?
-Yes. I wanted to hear his story for myself, make sure it was believable.
-What did he tell you?
-He said that the black guy in the cell with him claimed to have killed a Mexican named Juan.
-Was Victor Ruiz drunk when you talked to him?
-I don’t believe so. I spoke with him in the morning on the fifteenth, after he’d slept it off.
-Did you find his account believable?
-Very much so.
-The witness is excused.
The witness is excused and the prosecution rests. Silverson checked her watch and sent us off to lunch. Out of the box, down the hall, into the crowded elevator.
-Oh, hi. Fletcher, right?
Roya! Standing right next to me!
-Yes. You remembered.
Did she like my dressier look today? Or did she think I was trying too hard to impress her?
-This is Kevin.
He was there too.
-Nice to meet you, Kevin.
I mean howdy, pardner. Nice boots.
-Hey, how ya doing?
We didn’t shake hands. There wasn’t really room, the elevator was packed tight. One floor down, even more people got on. Roya moved toward the back, and I slipped in between her and Cowboy Kev, allowing the crush of bodies to push me up against her.
-Tight squeeze. You alright?
-I’m fine.
The familiar perfume or was it the shampoo scent from all that hair? I pretended not to realize my elbow was digging into the cowboy’s ribs. I gradually increased the pressure until he leaned away. Sorry, pardner, this county ain’t big enough for the both of us. Roya was looking down, avoiding eye contact. I needed a third line, but the only thought in my brain was please, let the elevator get stuck, a five-minute power outage, that’s all I’m asking for, five minutes in darkness with her hip pressing against mine. The elevator started down again. Come on, Fletcher, think of something clever to say. No, think of something mature, in the spirit of National Adulthood Day. No, don’t think at all, just let it happen, like when
she drove up next to me. The lines had come easier then, in the parking lot, and before I knew it I was sitting in her car. That’s it!
-Roya, thanks for the ride yesterday. I should—can I buy you lunch?
She laughed.
-Actually, I brought a sandwich. But thank you.
-You know what, I did too. We could sit in the cafeteria.
-Okay.
Simple as that. Straightforward. Mature. Sliced turkey on sourdough meets roast beef on wheat. Or maybe she had felt trapped in the elevator, couldn’t find a graceful way to say no. I mean, if she really wanted to have lunch with me, wouldn’t she have said yes, love to, and not mentioned the sandwich? Doesn’t matter. Bottom line: she said yes to me, and after we exited the elevator, Cowboy Kev disappeared from the scene, out whispering to his horse or something.
-Can I get you something to drink? It’s only fair, after you saved me from spending last night in the courthouse.
-Okay. A bottle of water. Thanks.
Dude, those plastic water bottles—shut up, Pete. I blocked his carping voice out of my mind, bought two bottles, and Roya and I were soon sitting across from each other at the end of a cafeteria table. The conversation came easily. She lived in Costa Mesa, worked in a dental office in Fountain Valley, the clientele were mostly senior citizens, and no, jury duty wasn’t a problem.
-They brought in a hygienist to cover for me, and I still get paid, so….
-Do people ever bite your fingers? I mean at work.
She laughed. This was going well.
-No. One woman hit me. Not on purpose. I didn’t know she had like really sensitive gums, and when I touched them she like jumped and totally smacked me in the stomach.
-Ouch.
-Hi, Roya.
-Oh, hi, Cheryl.
-Mind if I join you guys?
Great. The Elephant squeezed in beside me and unwrapped an egg salad sandwich. A nightmare from back in junior high: trying to ask the cheerleader to the Valentine’s dance, and the fat girl with stinky food shows up and grosses you out, but you have to be nice because the fat girl and the cheerleader are friends.
-Hi, Cheryl.
-Hi. How’s your dog?
Roya and I looked at each other. We had a secret: there was no dog.
-About the same, I guess.
-Gosh, I really miss Sugar. I wish I wasn’t allergic.
I didn’t make a joke, it was National Adulthood Day. Roya made it for me.
-I don’t eat sugar either.
She was trying to be sympathetic, which made it even funnier. I was trying not to laugh and cough up roast beef.
-No, Sugar was my dog, a cockapoo. I had to give her up.
-Oh.
Roya looked at me and we suppressed grins. This was fun. The Elephant turned to me.
-Yours is a mutt, right?
-Uh, yeah.
Does this woman ever quit?
-You never told me his name.
-Oh, his name—
There’s an old African proverb: Don’t mention a fake dog to a real elephant. Or there should be, because I swear this woman was determined to catch me in a lie.
-Is there room here for one more?
Blonde hair, big earrings, big lunch. Saved by a giraffe carrying a loaded cafeteria tray.
-Sure, have a seat.
I mean, if I can’t be alone with Roya, bring on the whole damn zoo, let her see what an animal lover I am. Giraffe sat down beside Roya, somehow folding all her legs under the table.
-I’m Fletcher.
-Hi, I’m Deborah.
-That’s Roya, this is Cheryl.
See, the court jester is actually a gentleman. I still couldn’t bring myself to say Guillam, but one step at a time, right? An adult doesn’t have to rush into things. An adult can work on just being an easygoing conversationalist, confident and attentive, fun, not obnoxious. Giraffe’s tray held yogurt, a baked potato, green salad, a cup of soup, and a banana.
-You must be hungry.
She gave me a funny look. Oops. Was that a faux pas? Did I just call her a glutton?
-I’m eating for two.
Bam!—like a cloudburst, like a traffic light turned green—a flood of instant sisterhood.
-Congratulations. That’s so wonderful.
-You look great.
-Thanks.
-Are you comfortable sitting there?
-I’m good.
-Is it your first?
-Yes, and I’m craving everything.
-How far along?
-Five months.
-Wow.
-You can hardly tell.
-You look fantastic.
-Thank you.
-This is so exciting for you.
Instant sisterhood for the ladies, sudden invisibility for the gentleman. I had the urge to go find the Mod Squad and talk baseball. Male sports bond versus female baby bond. I think we know who would win.
-Have you seen the ultrasound?
-A girl.
-Ohhh.
-It’s best to have a girl first, isn’t it?
-Have you picked a name?
-We’re negotiating.
-Oh, wow.
-I know. He wants Jessica, for his mom.
-Jessica is nice.
-I want Mariam.
Mariam? I barely know ‘im! I just thought it, I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything. They were speaking a foreign language. I mean, how do you see ultrasound? I thought ultrasound was for sore muscles. I chewed my sandwich and smiled, pretending to be elated that a complete stranger got knocked up. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Mariam in the white gown. Mariam in the white gown who? Mariam in the white gown, leave him in the red.
-My mother gave us the cutest singlet.
-Ohhh, I love outfits for infants.
-And those little socks, they’re sooo adorable.
-And the shoes.
-Ohhh.
-My mother still has my old baby shoes.
Baby names, baby clothes, blah blah blah. What’s a singlet? Just give it a blanket, give it some diapers. Givit would be a good name for a mutt. Come here, Givit. Come here, Givit. Give it, Givit. Give it, Givit, damn it! Good dog.
Why did it bother me so much being left out of the conversation? Because I was trying to impress Roya, and the baby talk rendered me mute. Mute and dumb. I hate feeling dumb. I felt eminently dumb back when Sharon first announced her resignation from Dana Hills. At the last sold-out performance of West Side Story, Mr. Worster had come up to us and congratulated Sharon on a successful show. I was relieved that he didn’t seem miffed about the pointed lyrics. Sharon was in no mood for pleasantries.
-Speaking of sell-outs, isn’t it weird that those parents didn’t protest the gang violence in this show, it must have been racism after all.
Worster tried to change the subject, asked which plays she had in mind for the spring semester.
-I won’t be here in the spring, because the way you did their bidding suggests you’re racist yourself or maybe just a coward. Either way, I can’t stay at your school.
Sharon felt vindicated, who knows how Worster felt—he turned and walked away—but I was the dumb one. Thanks for the warning, Sharon, thanks for including me in the discussion, I thought we were working toward something. That still hurt whenever I thought about it. Three years gone by, and I was still trying to understand what had happened with Sharon, what I’d done wrong. And then one day on the phone she had the nerve to say my lack of furniture sends a message about not sticking around. Who’s the one who didn’t stick around? Maybe that’s why now I was so frustrated with Marissa. I could never tell where I stood with her, and for all I knew maybe she too was pondering a move to northern California or wherever, maybe her vision of the future didn’t include me either. Was it my fault? Did I avoid asking questions for fear of the answer? I’m going to be different with Roya, I’m going to ask the dangerous questions. Are we just friends or is this something more? Do you even want something mor
e? Do you see us together in the future? Assuming, of course, she says yes when I ask her out after the trial is over. Assuming I don’t chicken out.
I finally thought of something I could say to the expectant mother.
-Deborah, did you tell the judge you were pregnant?
-I didn’t.
-I bet you would have been dismissed right away.
Why didn’t I think of that a week ago? Your Honor, my sort of girlfriend is sort of pregnant, expecting any day now, any minute, I don’t want to miss it. What’s the judge going to do, ask to see the ultrasound? I could be smelling ocean breezes and thuntan lotion, not egg salad. But then I never would have met Roya. Or Giraffe and a Half, a tall pregnant woman who actually wanted to be a on a jury.
-I always thought it would be fun. I guess ‘cause of those tv shows. And maybe being in court will inspire my baby.
-Like one day she’ll end up on trial for murder?
It just came out. You can’t keep a good clown down. The Elephant snorted and said that was mean. Roya didn’t say anything. I apologized, said I was kidding. Fortunately, Giraffe and a Half took my gaffe with a laugh.
-I guess you never can know how your child will end up. We’re just hoping for the best.
She chewed some greens and smiled at me. Giraffes are forgiving. The Elephant, though, felt obligated to reassure her that being in the courtroom would not push little Mariam toward a life of crime. Again, the expectant mother took it in stride.
-I was thinking more like law school, not prison.
And, again, the clown stuck his big shoe in his mouth.
-Why not both?
After lunch, I looked in the restroom mirror and thought, why do I bother? The long sleeves were too warm, the stiff collar made my neck itch, and nobody was fooled. No matter how nicely I might be dressed, as soon as I opened my mouth the charade was over. I try to have a little fun, try to be an engaging adult, and I end up sounding obnoxious. Or mean, apparently. I’m not mean. Does Roya think I’m mean? When we were walking out of the cafeteria, she thanked me for a pleasant lunch, said we should do it again. No, that’s not what happened. What happened was we were all getting up from the table, and I said something like hey, Little Mariam, don’t worry, now that you’ve had lunch with me, I think you’ll grow up to be a math teacher. I was hoping Roya would find that endearing, but when I turned to catch her reaction, she was walking briskly away. Sometimes I think I’ve spent my entire life watching women walk briskly away. Well, forget her. A pretty face, but so what? Cleaning teeth all day—how interesting can she be?
Grisham's Juror Page 15
