Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  She chuckled contentedly. I didn’t see.

  -Think about it, darling. I’ve got it all, big car, big house behind a big gate, big view of the ocean, I can see Catalina Island, I can see the nuclear power plant down in San Onofre, on a clear day I can see the Marines practicing beach maneuvers down at Camp Pendleton, I’m on top of the world. What would Jesus do? What would Mister Peace and Poverty do about that? Nothing. There’s nothing he could do. Too bad, Jesus—that’s what they’re saying—too bad for you.

  I still didn’t see, but now I caught myself doing it again—thinking about Sharon while I’m sitting next to Marissa. I pointed to the big Ford.

  -What do you think of that bumper sticker?

  -I always pretend it means Wasn’t William Just Deadweight?

  -William?

  -Bill. My ex.

  She had wanted to have children with him, she had assumed that’s where they were headed, that’s what she’d told me. He, apparently, had wanted to have children with her friend, or they went through the motions anyway. I tried to remind myself of that when she was distant and vague, that she’d only had her entire vision of the future obliterated by the person she loved most, that it wasn’t always about me.

  -But I should change it to something more positive. Wake With Joyful Demeanor. My yoga teacher was saying don’t be too happy when something goes well and too unhappy when something goes poorly, because you never know what will come of it.

  -Sounds boring.

  -Only if you crave drama.

  -Sounds like Orange County. Nothing good happens, nothing bad.

  -You don’t know how good you’ve got it here.

  -No, Pete’s got it good. He, at least, gets to almost die once in a while.

  In south Laguna, with the gauntlet of traffic lights behind us, traffic finally opened up. Marissa stayed well below the speed limit while encouraging me to exceed the speech limit.

  -Did they call Bud Jack as a witness?

  -Marissa.

  -It’s public record.

  -I can’t have this conversation. How about Waltz While Juggling Daggers?

  -It’s not a conversation, it’s a simple question—yes or no?

  -No. That’s all I’m saying.

  -Do you think he will?

  -Weight Watchers Juice Diet.

  -You can answer that—it’s just a guess.

  -Weak Wrists Just Dangle.

  -If you tell me, I’ll tell you our plans for later.

  She had asked me to go somewhere with her after dinner, after we took Pete home, only she wouldn’t say where, it was a surprise.

  -No.

  -No, you don’t think he’ll testify, or no, you won’t say?

  -Yes.

  For the record, I didn’t think Lawson would call Bud Jack. I wanted him to. I wanted Bud Jack to explain what he’d been doing on the street that night. It would be a lot easier to dismiss the prosecution’s thin case if Bud Jack said he went to Huntington to buy shammies for car washing there’s a wholesale distributor there then my damn car broke down, or my friend was in the hospital in Huntington I caught a ride over with his mother I had to take the bus home—something, anything, a plausible alibi, that’s all I needed to hear. But I had a feeling he’d been up to no good. I mean, late night in Huntington Beach, come on. So even if it wasn’t murder, he wasn’t going to want to answer questions about it, especially not from Sloan. Defense attorneys don’t like to put their clients on the stand—I’d read that somewhere, probably in a Grisham—because the prosecution gets a chance to cross examine and will do anything possible to make the accused look like a liar. Probably that’s why Lawson called in the grandmother instead.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, your grandson was stopped by the police in Huntington Beach. Did he tell you what he was doing there so late at night?

  -No.

  -Did you ask him?

  -That’s not my business.

  -Does he have a girlfriend there?

  -He has girlfriends everywhere.

  Bud Jack washes cars for a living, lives with his grandmother—what message does that send, Sharon?—and he has girlfriends everywhere. What am I doing wrong? All I have is a sort of girlfriend who, at this particular moment, is steering with her left hand and texting with her right. I was tempted to ask what was so important it couldn’t wait. I was tempted to ask if she was still feeling centered and present, but instead I called Pete to let him know we were getting close. A few minutes later, he met us outside. I greeted him with a hug.

  -Glad you’re alive, man.

  -Watch the shoulder.

  I squeezed into the tiny back seat, leaving Pete and Marissa together in the front pretending they were delighted to see each other. How long would it take him to annoy her? I checked my watch.

  -Hi, Marissa, haven’t seen you in a while.

  -Mr. Repetti, how are you?

  -Did Fletcher tell you about my accident?

  -Scary. Are you nervous about riding in a car?

  -I don’t know yet.

  -I can drive slow.

  Yes, you sure can.

  She steered out of his apartment complex and back onto PCH, heading south toward downtown Dana Point. So far, so good. At least Pete hadn’t opened with one of his greatest hits: Hey, Marissa, still slapping flesh? or What’s new at the massage parlor, how’s tricks?

  -Dude, how was court?

  -I can’t talk about it. Hey, what exactly is ultrasound?

  -High-frequency sound waves.

  It’s good to have a friend who knows science.

  -How come they use it on pregnant women?

  -Because they just don’t listen.

  Look out! Marissa let him have it.

  -You’re a jerk.

  Bingo! Annoyance! Four minutes, twenty-seven seconds. Pete tried to repair the damage.

  -That was bad. Sorry. They use ultrasound to check for birth defects.

  -Like if it has a penis.

  Ouch. There was venom in her voice. And malice on her mind. She abruptly changed lanes, accelerated, and whipped through a yellow light. Like it or not, I was going to have to be the adult this evening.

  At the restaurant, a cute Thai waitress greeted us with a cute Thai smile.

  -Welcome, come in, okay?

  Marissa pressed her hands together as if praying and bobbed her head.

  -Namaste.

  It’s some sort of yoga greeting: nah-mah-stay. The cute Thai waitress namaste-ed back. She had a cute Thai accent.

  -Sit down here, okay?

  When Pete and I ordered drunken noodles, she advised caution.

  -Drunken noodles very much spicy.

  But Pete doesn’t believe in caution.

  -Good, I want very much spicy. You know what, make it extra spicy, like you.

  She giggled and turned to me.

  -What about you? You want spicy too, okay?

  Pete beat me to it.

  -No, bring him spicy one. He’s not man enough for spicy two.

  She looked confused. I tried to help.

  -Don’t listen to him. He’s still traumatized. He almost died. I want like a medium spicy.

  -Dude, you can’t handle medium spicy.

  -Are you kidding? I brush my teeth with medium spicy.

  -Fletcher, seriously, last time you got medium spicy you wet your pants.

  Okay, Marissa was going to have to be the adult.

  -I’m sorry. They don’t get out much. Fortunately.

  She, of course, wanted zero spicy.

  -Come on, Marissa, we’re celebrating National Pete Didn’t Die Day.

  -I’ll have a glass of white wine.

  The cute Thai waitress tried to sort it out.

  -Okay, no spicy, medium spicy, and extra spicy for you, okay? How you almost die?

  I couldn’t resist.

  -He’s a very poor driver. He’s legally blind in one eye.

  Pete protested.

  -It wasn’t my fault.

  -And his
other eye is worse.

  -Someone crashed into my Ferrari.

  That got her attention.

  -You drive Ferrari?

  -You like Ferrari?

  -I like Ferrari driver.

  -That’s me.

  -Good for big tip, okay?

  White wine for the woman, beer for the boys, a toast to NPDDD, and all adulthood out the window. Pete insisted that the spice girl had the hots for him.

  -Come here, big American, we make happy time, okay?

  When I laughed at his bad accent, Marissa said it wasn’t funny. Pete didn’t quit.

  -Happy time with spicy nooder.

  When I laughed again, she kicked me under the table and told Pete he was being racist.

  -Racist?

  Another kick—this one from Pete, demanding intervention. Okay, okay.

  -He’s not being racist.

  -No?

  -He’s just objectifying women.

  Your Honor, my client is willing to plead guilty to a lesser charge.

  -Yeah, I’m just objectifying women. What?

  Marissa stayed on the scent.

  -Would you talk like that if she was white?

  Pete’s eyes widened, his lips tightened, like thanks for inviting her, Fletcher, great idea.

  -Come on, Marissa, cut him some slack, it’s NP-triple-D.

  Ow. Her second kick was harder than the first.

  -Yeah, Marissa, where’s your holiday spirit? I could have died yesterday.

  -Are we celebrating or mourning?

  I laughed and took a second kick from Pete. With friends like these, who needs osteoporosis?

  -Okay, how about if we change the subject. And be nice to each other. Marissa?

  -Fine.

  -Pete?

  -Okay. Just make happy time, okay?

  I couldn’t stifle my laugh, so I swung me legs up under my chair. Her kick caught my knee.

  -You’re both jerks.

  -I’m sorry, Marissa, I can’t help it. My prefrontal cortex—tell her, Fletcher—underdeveloped.

  -Oh, does that explain the hair loss?

  Marissa can be brutal.

  -So, in court today, we heard from Bud Jack’s grandmother.

  -Who?

  -The defendant’s grandmother. He lives with her. She raised him.

  I’m sorry, Your Honor, it was all I could think of, and if I didn’t change the subject fast, they were going to cripple me. Pete followed my lead.

  -Let me guess—she said he was home watching tv the night of the murder.

  -She was more like a character witness.

  -My sweet little grandson, he’d never kill no one.

  Actually, that’s exactly what Lawson had wanted her to say, that’s what he was trying to establish—Bud Jack was hard working and responsible, not the kind to shoot a gang member in an unlit parking lot—only Mrs. Wilkes didn’t play that way.

  -That’s the weird thing, she didn’t try to win our sympathy.

  Marissa gave me a look. The look. Great. Either I just said something racist or I’m about to. Fortunately, our meals arrived, and I didn’t have to explain myself.

  -Okay, extra spicy for Mr. Ferrari, okay?

  Mr. Ferrari appeared lost in thought, thank goodness. He didn’t speak until the Spice Girl was gone.

  -She’s black, right? The guy’s grandmother.

  -Yeah. So?

  I inched my chair away from the table. Marissa was on full alert, ready to attack, I could see it in her eyes.

  -The judge, jury, the lawyers—all white people, right?

  -Pretty much.

  I felt like a golf ball, about to get smacked. Pete was teeing me up and pulling out the driver.

  -So why should she expect any sympathy? She looks at that sea of white faces and she knows the system is stacked against her.

  -I don’t know. You could be right.

  I was hedging, I didn’t want to set Marissa off. She jumped in anyway.

  -Of course, he’s right.

  At first I was just relieved—Pete and Marissa in agreement. Later, I saw it as a revelatory moment. What Pete said about Mrs. Wilkes not only appeased Marissa, it helped me make sense of what I’d seen in the courtroom.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, has Rudy ever owned a gun?

  -No.

  -Maybe just to protect the house?

  -I’ll tell you what I told him. You bring a gun in the house, somebody in the house likely to get killed, and we seen enough of that.

  -Like Rudy’s father. Your son.

  -Like lots of folk. Everywhere. Kids finding them guns and bringing them to school.

  She wasn’t hoping for sympathy, she was insisting on respect. And neither attorney understood that. After Lawson had finished trying to paint a reputable portrait of Bud Jack and thanked Mrs. Wilkes for her patience and courage, Sloan began by making a show of being a sympathetic character himself.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, I’m going to ask you some questions that might seem obvious or even condescending. I apologize in advance, but we have to make sure everyone is clear about your grandson.

  They must teach this in law school—don’t appear hostile to the grandmother.

  -Where does your grandson wash the cars?

  -He goes to them.

  -When does he do that?

  -Whenever they call.

  -When he gets a call, he drives somewhere and washes a car?

  -Yes.

  Geez, Sloan, glad we clarified that. Next ask her if he uses soap.

  -How long does it take? One hour? Three hours?

  -It depends.

  -Depends on what?

  -Sometimes he’s gone a little while, sometimes longer.

  -Sometimes he’s gone all day?

  -He’s usually home for supper.

  -And after supper he leaves again?

  -Sometimes.

  -Sounds like he’s gone a lot.

  Sloan waited patiently, hoping she would fill the silence. Hadn’t he been paying attention? Silence didn’t bother Mrs. Wilkes.

  -What I’m wondering about, Mrs. Wilkes, is do you actually see him wash the cars?

  Lawson objected, questioning the relevance of Sloan’s inquiry. Silverson directed Sloan to get to the point.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, when Rudy, your grandson, is gone all day, how do you know he’s washing cars and not doing something else?

  -He tells me.

  -Is that the only reason?

  -Isn’t that enough?

  Halfway through Sloan’s interrogation of Mrs. Wilkes, I had figured out what was different when she was on the stand: less fidgeting in the jury box, less movement in the courtroom, you could tell people were concentrating, taking it in. And halfway through dinner, Pete and Marissa chatting harmoniously about Thai food versus Chinese—The difference is the coconut, yeah, that’s true, and the snow peas—I finally got it, it all made sense. Sloan’s witnesses—the fireman, the detectives, the gang expert, even Victor Ruiz, once he was properly lubricated—were just there to recite lines, to give the prosecutor what he wanted to hear. Did Bud Jack kill Juan Castro? They all swore to tell the truth, but none of them knew the truth. It was all circumstantial, like Lawson had said, all hearsay and speculation—the guy looked suspicious, he has gang ties, he said he killed a Mexican. Mrs. Wilkes, though, didn’t have to speculate, she knew her grandson, knew what he was like. She didn’t speculate and she didn’t equivocate, even when it might have helped, even when Sloan gave her a second chance.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, has your grandson told you he has a girlfriend in Huntington Beach?

  -No.

  -Has he ever told you Grandmother, I’m going to Huntington Beach to see a girl?

  She could have just said yes, he’s got a girl in Huntington, he goes there all the time. It would have been an easy lie, it would have been a plausible explanation for his presence on that street corner, and who could refute her story? But Mrs. Wilkes wasn’t interested in telling stories, that’s what I finally understoo
d. She was telling the truth. Hell, she was the truth. I wanted to go to Long Beach, knock on the door of her little house without a garage, and assure her, don’t worry, Mrs. Wilkes, you won’t lose your home, we’re not going to convict your grandson on the testimony of a drunken snitch.

  Halfway through his drunken noodles, Pete almost died again. His eyes were watering, his nose was running, his face was bright red. He tried to shrug it off, tried to drown it in beer, but he couldn’t go on, he pushed the plate away.

  -Dude, my mouth is on fire.

  On cue, the Spice Girl showed up with a pitcher of ice water.

  -Maybe noodles too hot for Mr. Ferrari.

  -This is extra extra spicy.

  He gulped the water.

  -I told the cook you want it like me, okay?

  Marissa clapped her hands with glee and ordered another glass of wine. Tricky Spice twirled away.

  -Pete, man, she worked you.

  -Holy thit, itth hot. I need ithe cream.

  He was sucking on an ice cube and sounded like Professor Penguin.

  -Maybe you need to apologize.

  Marissa said this with a smile, and Pete, now wiping his tongue with a napkin, didn’t hesitate.

  -I’m thorry. Believe me, I’m thorry. For everything.

  -Not to me. To the waitress.

  He gave up on the napkin.

  -Yes, to the waitress. And to all Thai people. Asians in general. Even the Chinese. Sorry for raughing at accent.

  Look out! But Marissa didn’t erupt. She had relaxed and allowed herself to be amused—in fact, she raughed—which is really all Pete needed from his best friend’s sort of girlfriend. And if she’s happy and he’s happy, then I’m happy. Three happy adults, enjoying a pleasant dinner.

  Halfway through her third glass of wine, Marissa slid her car keys across the table.

  -You’re going to have to drive to Sigrid’s house.

  -What?

  So here’s a good one: Richard Wilhite told his wife he immensely enjoyed our conversation when he drove me home from the theater, and, not to be left out of the fun, Sigrid Wilhite now wants a second chance to meet Marissa’s charming friend, maybe over dessert some night after Richard gets home from LA.

  Here’s another good one: two hours after she’d agreed to dinner with Pete and me—I just blanked, Fletcher, I’m sorry—Marissa said how about tonight, and Sigrid said tonight would be perfect I just had coffee at the Scandinavian bakery I brought home this absolutely luscious tart.