Okay, they don’t all walk briskly away. Marissa was walking slowly away. What should I do about her tonight? I got off the elevator on the fifth floor and sent a text message—How about dinner with Pete? He’s feeling down—and immediately regretted it. It seemed like an adult solution, except Marissa and Pete didn’t really like each other, and I didn’t want to play the mediator. I was sick of the adulthood business, sick of feigning politeness. I wanted to relax and be myself. I wanted to go to The Cave, Pete’s bare-walled apartment, drink a few beers, be immature and irresponsible. I started typing in a new message, telling Marissa to ignore the previous one. Before I could finish, though, she had already replied: Sounds good. I started typing again, pecking away with my clumsy thumb. Another message arrived: Thai food? She was too quick. I felt tongue-tied, trying to keep up in a texting dialogue with someone who zips off messages like machine gun bullets. It would be a lot easier if we just spoke on the phone, old-school communication, but she was at work, and if I called she wouldn’t answer.
-Thanks again for the water.
Roya! Standing next to me in the hallway! I turned off my phone.
-You’re welcome. My pleasure.
So she hadn’t been fleeing from me. Maybe she had urgently needed to visit the bathroom or escape the smell of egg salad. Like Sharon would say, maybe, darling, it isn’t always about you. We entered the courtroom together—two adults in cordial conversation.
-She looks great for five months pregnant, doesn’t she?
Roya said it in a whisper, nodding toward Giraffe and a Half, a few long strides ahead of us. I nodded in reply.
-I think all pregnant women look great.
Where that line came from I have no idea, I’m not even sure it was the truth, but judging by Roya’s smile, it was a winner. Forget cleverness, forget honesty, from now on, when I’m with Roya, I’m only going to say very nice things, I’ll be positive and supporting, kindness to a fault. Cheryl waddled up behind us.
-You still haven’t told me your dog’s name.
Giraffes are forgiving, an elephant never forgets.
-Givit. My dog’s name is Givit.
-Really? That’s cute.
-Givitarest.
Lawson began the afternoon session by making a motion for dismissal, citing lack of evidence. Silverson called both lawyers to the bench for a conference. Is this the end? A dismissal would be perfect. I’d get out of these uncomfortable clothes, spend the afternoon at the beach with Pete, pondering life and near-death and bikinis, then still have time for dinner with Marissa, who would be in a good mood after hearing the charges against Bud Jack were dismissed. First, though, I’d have to catch Roya—hey, could I call you sometime, I still owe you lunch—or I’d never see her again, a third one-in-a-million chance encounter being too much to hope for. Would she give her phone number to a guy who means well but can’t control what comes out of his mouth? Motion denied. Silverson instructed Lawson to call his first witness.
BALDY: Why didn’t you dismiss the case? All they got is that supposed confession.
SILVERSON: I want to watch him sweat.
BALDY: The accused?
SILVERSON: No, Juror Number One. Didn’t you notice how uncomfortable he looks in his long-sleeve button-down?
On Professor Hanson’s final exam, I proposed a Dorothy Day Day. There was nothing about her in the textbook, but I had found a biography in the library and actually read most of it. Dorothy Day worked tirelessly for the poor, chose poverty for herself, opposed war—I knew The Penguin would approve. Also, there was a girl in the class who I was trying to impress with my broad-mindedness and sensitivity, my appreciation of women. We usually sat next to each other, and when she missed class she would ask to copy my lecture notes. She was cute and funny and I could tell she was interested in me. After the test, I made my move.
-Lori, how’d you do?
-Pretty good, I think.
-What did you put for a holiday?
-My boyfriend had it last semester, and he did Gettysburg Day, so I went with that.
Then she walked briskly away.
8
Traffic in Laguna is an affliction, particularly on summer evenings when the tired, sunburnt masses pack folding chairs, boogie boards, and sandy towels into minivans and SUVs and head home. Because the surrounding hills have been preserved as open space, there are only three ways out of town: inland through the canyon and either north or south on Pacific Coast Highway. The canyon road aka Broadway meets the coast highway aka PCH at Main Beach aka ground zero, a three-way thrombosis where crowds of beachgoers in the crosswalks stymie right turns on green lights, and the HummerSuburbanNavigatorQuestTahoeSequoiaYukonSiennaExpedition backup clogs the narrow arteries of downtown. The short drive to a grocery store drags on for thirty minutes, locals take side roads to avoid the stoplights and can do it in twenty, smart locals don’t bother trying until after seven p.m. Marissa picked me up at six. From her place in the canyon to mine in north Laguna was no problem, driving beachward while the outgoers played arrhythmic stop-and-go in the opposite direction. The trip over to Pete’s in Dana Point, fighting through high-cholesterol downtown, then joining the plug-along parade on PCH, was misery. I called him and said we’d be there when we got there, that was the best I could do.
-We?
-Yeah. Marissa’s driving. You up for Thai food?
-Dude?
Dude can mean a lot of things, it’s all in the tone. In this case, the tone said why are you bringing her? I was wondering the same thing. Marissa’s driving was grating on my nerves—is she doing this on purpose?—or maybe it was the sense of powerlessness—you call this a free country?—knowing it would take an hour to go eight miles—free country, my ath!—and there was nothing we could do—this is so stupid—except creep along PCH—why don’t we have decent public transportation?—past art galleries, hotels, restaurants—you can’t even see the ocean, all these buildings—past photography studios, t-shirt shops, day spas—what’s a day spa anyway?—and more art galleries—who buys all that stuff?—and still she refused to maneuver her little Saturn—Marissa, maybe you should get over—between the two southbound lanes—Fletcher, relax—even when ours came to a dead stop. Great. She did, however, encourage any and all lane-switchers to cut in front of us—sure, why not?—inviting them over with a friendly wave—we’re in no hurry—driving like she had no place to be—is she intent on keeping Pete waiting?—driving me crazy. Experience told me nothing good would come from suggesting a more aggressive approach—you could go a little faster—yes, and you could get out and walk—so I directed my frustration toward other drivers.
-Why didn’t he go? He could have made the yellow light. What a jerk.
-Fletcher.
-He’s on his cell phone. You see that? Hang up and drive, buddy. This is ridiculous. Bud Jack’s grandmother moves faster than this.
She had entered the courtroom in slow motion, a thin, gray-haired woman leaning on a four-legged walker. I wasn’t convinced. I was a little sleepy, I needed a nap after lunching with the ladies, still I noticed the old woman looked spry enough, like she could get around fine without the prop. Lawson had put Bud Jack in a tailored suit, and now grandma gets a crutch. If I was Sloan, I would have yelled Fire, everybody out!, just to see how quickly she jumped. Sloan didn’t yell anything. The prosecution had rested before lunch, this was Lawson’s first witness, and Lawson’s limp returned as he helped her into the stand, the lame leading the lame, or so we were supposed to believe.
-Mrs. Wilkes, how long has your grandson lived with you?
-I raised the boy.
-Was he ever in a gang?
-No, sir.
-Did he have friends in a gang?
-There was one or two.
Lawson waited for more. It wasn’t coming.
-Why didn’t he join? What did you tell him?
-I told him you come straight home, Rudy, don’t be messing around.
-Why do you cal
l him Rudy?
-His mother named him Bud, but he reminded me of Durand.
-Durand Jack, his father.
-Yes.
-Your son.
-So I started calling him Rudy.
-Short for Durand.
-Bud isn’t a proper name for a child. Not for a man, neither. I tried telling her that.
-Why did you raise him?
-His mother had to work.
-What about his father? Mrs. Wilkes?
-Durand was killed when Rudy was two.
Lawson paused for a moment, as if the unhappy news had caught him by surprise, as if he hadn’t intended to bring it up at the first opportunity.
-I’m very sorry.
Good lawyer/bad lawyer was now empathic attorney, deeply saddened by the witness’s tragic loss.
-Your grandson—he still lives with you?
The witness stared straight ahead.
-Mrs. Wilkes?
-He does.
-Does he help out around the house?
-He cleans up after supper.
-He cleans the kitchen?
-He cleans everything.
She spoke without animation.
-His bedroom?
-Yes.
-The garage?
-There is no garage.
Lawson waited. She was giving nothing away.
-Does Rudy go to church?
-No.
-Never?
-He’ll go if I need a ride.
Again, Lawson gave her time to elaborate. Again, he had to prompt her.
-Usually you drive yourself?
-Joyce picks me up, but sometimes she’s not feeling well.
-You don’t have a car?
-No.
-Do you know how to drive?
-My husband always took care of that.
Cleaning his room, going to church—what does that have to do with a murder investigation? And here’s a bigger mystery: how do you get by in southern California without a car? I’d thought about giving it a try when the price of gasoline started soaring, or at least I’d considered driving less. I could take the bus to work, except that would entail a twenty-mile detour, three transfers, and two wasted hours each way. I could bike to school in under half that time—the only question would be whether I’d be killed on PCH in the first week of the semester or in the second, sidewalks being rare and bicycle lanes nonexistent. So forget that. This is car country, buddy, like it or lump it.
Marissa allowed a white Excursion to nose in ahead of us. The Ford Excursion—three and a half tons of metal, eighteen feet long, ten miles per gallon but who’s counting?—your own private bus for a family of four.
-Would you ever want an SUV? You could…I mean, a person could put two kids in the back of this car just fine, don’t you think?
Marissa shrugged. She didn’t like discussing the future with me, she especially didn’t like discussing a future with me, and any mention of children, even incidental, brought a change of subject.
-What happened in the trial today?
Of course.
-The defense started this afternoon. That’s all I’m going to say.
I know, Your Honor, I shouldn’t have said even that. Because once you start….
-Is that why his grandmother was there? The poor woman. Sigrid said she could lose her house.
-I’m not going to talk about it.
It’s bad enough I’ve got Sloan and Lawson trying to make up my mind for me. I don’t need a third voice in my ear.
-Okay, just tell me, did the prosecutor ever bring up the supposed confession?
See what I mean?
-Marissa, I can’t discuss it.
I don’t need someone telling me if a confession is real or not.
-Are you upset about something?
-No.
Another red light. We’re going to be sitting here all night. I should have brought a Grisham. Nothing to look at but the back end of the Excursion. Is it just Orange County, or do they have this elsewhere?—cartoon stickers on the rear window indicating daddy, mommy, and two kids. Sometimes it’s on the license plate frame: Final score Boys 2 Girls 2. What if one of the little brats dies?
My phone rang.
-Dude, where are you?
-Almost to Thousand Steps. It’s brutal out here.
-You could walk faster than that.
Thousand Steps is a picturesque cove accessible only by a steep, narrow stairway—closer to two hundred steps but who’s counting?—because the bluffs overlooking the sea are otherwise monopolized and despoiled by private mansions with private stairs, even private funiculars. But at least there is public access. Other Laguna coves are fully enclosed by exclusive gated communities. By law, California beaches are public land, but what good is public land if the public can’t land? If the coastline was open and preserved, if you didn’t have to walk across a busy highway to reach the strand, maybe the two skateboarders, the little shits, wouldn’t have made their mad dash and Pete wouldn’t have swerved and then Marissa and I could have stayed home this evening, we could have walked to the Chinese restaurant near my place for takeout, we wouldn’t be stuck in this four-lane parking lot. Or maybe if Pete hadn’t survived the accident. Boy, was I in a mood.
Mrs. Wilkes had been in a mood too. I wouldn’t say uncooperative, but perfunctory, especially after Lawson had asked about her deceased son, like I’ll answer your questions, Mr. Attorney, just don’t expect nothing more. If she was a tenth grader in first period algebra on Monday morning, I would have understood.
-Good morning, Jennifer.
-If you say so.
-Finish your homework, Jennifer?
-Leave me alone.
Tenth graders don’t care, and why should they? But the grandmother of the accused—didn’t she realize the stakes here, didn’t she know Lawson was on her side?
He had kept her on the stand for a long time—it was like pulling teeth, every biographical tidbit had to be carefully and patiently extracted from the reluctant witness. We learned that Rudy never cared much for sports after he broke his arm playing Pop Warner football, Rudy liked to read, mostly car magazines, Rudy went back and took the GED to get his high school diploma.
-Why did he do that?
-He never graduated.
-Why did he decide it was important?
-Rudy doesn’t like to leave things unfinished.
Good for him, but so what? How about telling us something about the night in question.
-Does your grandson drink alcohol?
-Not in the house.
-Does he get into fights?
-Not any more.
-Does he make much money washing cars?
-Enough to get by.
Where is Lawson going with this?
-Does he pay rent?
-Rent?
-Yes, I mean, how do you—
-Let me explain something.
-Please.
Finally, he’d struck a responsive chord.
-That’s not my house, that’s our house—me and Rudy. One day going to be just his house. My husband, Jeffers Wilkes, when he died, I told Rudy I don’t know if I can keep the house, so that’s when he started with washing the cars. Between that and the Social Security from Jeffers driving for the city all them years, we make the payments.
That’s depressing—her husband spending long hours behind the wheel, probably coming home with a bad back, and now her grandson scrubbing hubcaps and polishing bumpers, just to pay the bank on time. Is that all life comes down to?
-Does your grandson have a girlfriend?
-He has lots of girlfriends. The girls like him. He’s a gentleman. His daddy was the same way, girls coming and going.
A green light. Marissa hesitated, like she wasn’t sure if it was worth the trouble.
-Did you go to yoga today?
-Yes. It was fantastic. Total release. Why?
-Just wondering.
Just wondering why you’re driving in a tr
ance.
-I feel like really centered.
-What does that mean?
-See. I can tell something’s bugging you.
-No, people always say that—feel centered. I don’t get it.
-It means you’re calm.
-So why not say that?
-And you’re present. You’re in the now. You’re focused on what really matters, what you’re supposed to be doing.
-What are you supposed to be doing?
-Right now it’s driving.
So why not give it a try?
Another fat Ford pushed into our lane. You could tell they weren’t locals, probably a nice family from Aliso Viejo or Mission Viejo or some other viejo in the south county sprawl. The good people of Laguna prefer European sedans and European SUVs, and they don’t normally sport bumper stickers, particularly not ones that say WWJD? What Would Jesus Do—ha!—in a fifty thousand dollar automobile? That had been one of Sharon’s favorite rants.
-Darling, didn’t Jesus say sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor, or am I thinking of some other first-century Jew?
-Maybe they need an SUV to carry all their possessions to the swap meet.
Sharon and I had these routines—this one triggered by the frequent high-speed collision of conspicuous consumption and conspicuous Christianity: My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter on the back of a Cadillac Escalade, Real Men Love Jesus on a two-ton, monster-tire, lifted pickup truck. She would press her hands against her head like she was trying to compress her brain—another of her strange, dramatic gestures.
-Help me out here, darling, help me understand these bizarre people, does all-wheel traction get you through the eye of a needle?
-You can’t fit a cross in a compact car, not a real cross anyway, the nails snag the upholstery.
And away we’d go, amusing each other with obvious jokes.
-The bumper sticker on his SUV says I’d rather be walking on water.
-No, no, Jesus’s bumper sticker says My other car is the foal of an ass.
Except one time she had an epiphany.
-I’ve got it, darling, it’s all in the emphasis. They’re not asking what would Jesus do, that would be ironic, slapping that on your gas-guzzler, and there is no irony in south Orange County, not intentional anyway, I know because I’ve looked. What they’re really saying is what would Jesus do? It’s not irony, it’s certainly not piety, it’s contempt, you see?
Grisham's Juror Page 16
