Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -Marissa, I can’t go to their house. I’m on the jury and they’re funding the defense.

  -We’ll tell them you can’t discuss the trial.

  -And it’s NP3D. We can’t just abandon Pete and go have dessert with someone else.

  -Who’s Sigrid?

  Funny, Pete.

  -She’s one of my clients at the spa.

  You know, the one who caught me coming out of her backyard after you broke her tree and your shoulder trying to have a gander at her surgical enhancements.

  -Fletcher, you promised you’d go with me.

  -Yeah, because I thought you meant a lot later.

  And I thought you meant your place, just the two of us. In which case, forget the stupid holiday, I’d dump Pete in a heartbeat.

  -Dude, it’s okay, you can drop me off.

  -No.

  -I’m kind of tired anyway.

  Pete was loving this—pretending to be doing me a favor while setting me up for disaster.

  -No!

  I didn’t mean to raise my voice—a few other diners looked our way—but it worked. Pete and Marissa got quiet, they could see I was serious. Another crisis averted. Or so I thought.

  -Pete can come with us. Sigrid won’t mind. I’ll call her.

  When my friends don’t like each other, I get kicked. Now that they’re drinking buddies, I’m going to end up in jail. While Marissa made the phone call, Pete put his good arm around my shoulders.

  -Relax. I got your back.

  He was in adventure mode and couldn’t see the perils ahead.

  -Sigrid’s gonna recognize me and call the cops.

  -You can escape in my Ferrari.

  As we exited the restaurant, Marissa bowed to Tricky Spice.

  -Namaste.

  Pete bowed too, then crawled into the back seat of Marissa’s car and pretended to be a sensitive and decent human being.

  -Marissa, yesterday in the accident I didn’t know if I’d ever get to hang out with my friends again, this means a lot to me.

  In the front passenger seat, Marissa was a little drunk.

  -I’m glad it worked out, Pete, Sigrid’s like totally great, she said the more the merrier.

  Now I was the one driving slowly on PCH, looking for ways to delay our arrival. If I took long enough, maybe Marissa would fall asleep—three glasses of wine usually puts her out. I found the classical station again and switched on a little heat. It was just getting dark.

  -Should we stop and watch the end of the sunset?

  -No, Fletcher, we can’t be late for Sigrid.

  We drove past The Cave.

  -Pete, if you’re tired, I can just drop you off.

  -No way. I want to meet this luscious tart.

  A few miles into south Laguna, Pete pointed out the window.

  -Right here. This is where my life almost ended.

  I pulled over.

  -Fletcher, what are you doing?

  -We have to pay our respects to the not dead. It’ll only take a minute. Everybody out.

  There was no sidewalk, so we stood in the short driveway of a three-story house—no front yard, but tremendous ocean view—and Pete pointed out where the little shits ran across the highway, where he swerved into the wrong lane and got Hummer-smacked.

  -Right there, dude, the place where I should have died. Unfuckingbelievable.

  He shook his head. Marissa put a gentle hand on his shoulder. I told them I wanted to deliver a reverse eulogy and say all the nice things I would have said at a funeral. Marissa checked the time on her phone and told me to hurry.

  -We are gathered here tonight to honor Pete Repetti, who we almost lost yesterday at this very spot. If he had died, if Pete’s brains had been splattered across the concrete like soup—

  -Gross. Fletcher.

  Marissa gave me a shove.

  -Sorry. Like spicy noodles. I would have stood up in the church and said he was a great friend and a gifted teacher.

  -Say I was a scratch golfer.

  -I’m not going to lie.

  -Say I could have played on the pro tour but I chose to teach high school. At great personal sacrifice.

  -Pete Repetti was a great friend and a gifted teacher. He taught me how to engage students. He showed me—

  -That is so boring. Say how I turned down the Nobel Prize for my work on embryonic stem cells in mice.

  -Pete, shut up. This is my speech.

  -And I should have won the peace prize too.

  -Pretend you’re dead.

  -Because my ex-wife is a bitch.

  -You guys have it wrong. A reverse eulogy should say all the bad things.

  Marissa had a point, and anyway Pete was too amped up to recognize my sincerity, so I started over.

  -Pete Repetti didn’t die, which is too bad. He cheats at golf. He hits on all the Dana Hills cheerleaders.

  -Not true. Not the ugly ones.

  -Never cooked a meal his whole life.

  -So?

  -And I always have to buy dinner.

  -That’s bullshit.

  -Who paid tonight?

  -It’s my holiday. I almost died.

  -Pete Repetti didn’t die, which is hard to believe because he is such a wuss.

  -You don’t always buy dinner. Do you really think that?

  -When was the last time you bought?

  -Okay, I’ll pay for tonight. What did it cost?

  -Fifty bucks.

  -No, I mean my share.

  A man was approaching us from the house.

  -Hey, this is private property.

  Judging by his tone, he wasn’t happy with our little huddle on his driveway. Pete wasn’t impressed.

  -Who invited him? He didn’t even know me.

  -Is that your car? You’re in a no parking.

  Marissa tried to be polite.

  -Sorry. We’re leaving. We just wanted to see where the accident was.

  She took Pete by the arm. The homeowner kept coming.

  -Right there. Some asshole driving drunk. What’s there to see?

  Pete turned to face him.

  -He wasn’t drunk.

  -Sure. Now get off my property before I call the cops.

  -Call ‘em. He wasn’t drunk.

  Look out, sports fans, Pete and his adolescent prefrontal cortex can hash up a petty confrontation like this in no time, he has no tolerance for self-righteous bullies, he’s seen too many at parent-teacher conferences—You are not going to block my son’s ambition, Mr. Repetti, my son will not receive a C—they are endemic to south county.

  -Listen, pal, I saw the van before they towed it. Beer bottles everywhere.

  -He was coming home from the grocery store.

  -You know the guy or something?

  -I am the guy or something.

  -Pete, come on.

  In most cases I can talk him down from the ledge, keep him off the yacht and out of the hot tub, but this time I was ambivalent. The homeowner was kind of asking for it.

  -You’re lucky you didn’t kill someone, pal.

  -It’s not too late, pal.

  And if there was trouble, if cops showed up, maybe I’d get out of dessert with Sigrid. Better Pete arrested than me. Unfortunately, Marissa intervened.

  -Listen, he almost died yesterday, and he avoided killing those two kids, thank God, and we just stopped so he could like process his emotions, and you’re so like caught up in your property, your stuff, your ego, and that’s cool, that’s where you are right now, fine, only you can’t see how maybe this moment could be critical for you too because believe me you totally don’t want a guy with repressed trauma occupying your egoic consciousness.

  Yeah. And namaste.

  We were two miles down the road when Pete finally stopped laughing.

  -Thanks, guys. Great fucking funeral.

  9

  Why does a criminal return to the scene of the crime? To view the damage he’s done? To see if anything has changed? Maybe, if the crime occurred at night,
to see what the place looks like in daylight. Or to see if the place actually exists. I mean, if Bud Jack shot Juan Castro in a dark parking lot in a nondescript warehouse district in an unfamiliar city, after a couple of days wouldn’t it begin to seem surreal to him, like did that really happen or was it just a bad dream, and wouldn’t he want to drive by just to verify yes, there’s the dumpster, there’s the retaining wall, and wouldn’t he be tempted to get out of the car and walk to the fatal spot, trying to make sense of what happened, reshaping his memory, convincing himself that the other guy had threatened him, had gone for a knife, a gun, something tucked in his waistband, it wasn’t cold-blooded murder, man, I’m sorry it went down like that, I’m sorry you’re dead, but I couldn’t wait and see what you were pulling, you shouldn’t have moved like that, that’s what got you killed, homeboy, should have kept your hands still, and I’m screwed too because no one’s going to believe me, I can’t prove it, only you and I will ever know it was self-defense. On tv, that’s not normally how it happens. On tv, the killer doesn’t look back, it’s just bang, you’re dead, and he goes and gets a burger or something, no remorse, no deep-seated guilt about having broken the ultimate social bond and taken a life. But tv lies. If my conscience kept nagging me about having snuck into Sigrid’s backyard and peeked into her windows, then I had to believe Juan Castro’s killer, unless a complete psychopath, was carrying a much heavier burden.

  She greeted us—Sigrid, not the killer—at the front door in a tight t-shirt.

  -Marissa, honey, come in, come in. Fletcher, nice to see you again, no more food poisoning I hope. And you must be Fletcher’s friend.

  -Sigrid, this is Pete.

  I smelled incense and coffee, candles glowed in a window, a crystal vase on an antique table held fresh cut flowers, and, holy Moses, those have to be the two biggest tits I’ve ever seen! I pretended to be drawn to an oil painting of sea lions and cormorants on Seal Rock. I couldn’t look at Sigrid, not without leering. Pete elbowed me. I couldn’t look at him either, not without convulsions of laughter. Mission Disproportionates accomplished and then some.

  -Fletcher, that painting’s by Terrell Hirst, he’s local. Marissa, do you know Terrell? I love his work. There’s another piece by him back here, this way, let’s go into the sitting room, would you like coffee or I could open a Reisling.

  The sitting room was only slightly smaller than my apartment, an entire algebra class could sit there, sit there and not learn math, too much distraction, the only figure they’d remember would be Sigrid’s. Was that little shirt a power play for our benefit? Did she think to herself Marissa’s bringing two men over, better trot out the heavy hitters? While Marissa explained our tardiness…

  -All we were doing was standing in the guy’s driveway and he goes ballistic. I mean what’s that all about? This is Laguna not LA.

  …I peered out a back window into the darkness. On the drive over, I had formulated my plan: keep moving, don’t let Sigrid get a good look close up, and if she did recognize me from our first encounter, well, I was at Pete’s house that night, ask him, Sigrid, he’ll tell you.

  -Oh, here, this will help. Let there be light.

  Sigrid reached for a switch and through the window the patio came aglow—the red lanterns, the luminescent pool. You couldn’t see much beyond the deck, which was a relief, two trespassers wouldn’t have been visible against the trees.

  -Richard had to stay in LA. Emergency production meeting. He sends regrets. Come on, you must see the garden.

  She slid open a glass door, and Pete elbowed me again as we stepped out onto the patio. Marissa affected a gasp.

  -Sigrid, this is amazing.

  -Isn’t it? This is my decompression chamber. My oasis.

  -I see what you mean about the three boulders.

  -I know. You can’t design without feng shui, you just can’t.

  Pete and I didn’t speak, there was nothing to say, the beauty of the moment spoke for itself: back in the backyard, just five days after being chased out, and this time as invited guests. Another one-in-a-million? No, it wasn’t random like that, just totally unexpected. No one would have predicted this outcome, not when we first began hunting down the Wilhites on the internet, not when Pete was lying in the grass with a bashed shoulder and the lights came on, not when we fled the neighborhood in the minivan with Pete moaning in pain and me trying not to panic at the thought of my fingerprints on the forgotten beer bottle. Since then I had imagined dozens of scenarios, some (unemployment, incarceration) worse than others (probation, community service), none ending with pastry for the prowlers, the deviants getting dessert.

  A dog barked next door—woof, woof, it’s them, they’re back, I smell perverts.

  -Okay, Chelsea, good puppy. We had a break-in last week and the neighbors’ dogs are still disquieted.

  Woof, woof, they’re right next to you, Sigrid, get out now!

  -Good puppy, Chelsea, it’s just us. Usually she doesn’t bark at me.

  I walked toward the hot tub and scanned the dark yard for evidence of a broken tree limb. Maybe a lawbreaker returns for the thrill, the adrenaline rush of getting away with it all over again.

  -A break-in?

  Marissa wanted details.

  -I caught some creep back here.

  -What was he doing?

  -I don’t know. He ran off. The cops say there’s a guy going around peeping into windows and masturbating.

  -Gross.

  -Sounds like Fletcher.

  Thank you, Pete. Maybe Pete is a psychopath. I’ve read they make up at least one percent of the population—people without conscience—so they must be everywhere, one in a hundred.

  We went back inside, and Sigrid proudly unveiled the raspberry chocolate tart.

  -Doesn’t this look heavenly? It’s all organic, even the sugar. In Europe they call it biologique.

  She poured a cup of coffee for Pete and asked why he kept cradling his elbow. I cradled my breath. A psychopath might just tell her the ruinous truth: fell out of your tree, nearly landed on Fletcher. Thank God he was on good terms with Marissa and didn’t feel the need to sabotage our sort of relationship. Thank God he recounted his car wreck instead.

  -I can still see that Hummer coming for me.

  Marissa had opted for the Reisling and was getting silly.

  -Those Hummers are too big. Toooooo big.

  Sigrid took the first opportunity to redirect the conversation to her favorite topic.

  -I’ve never been in a smashup—knock on wood—except when we drove to Mammoth for skiing and Richard slid off the road into a snowdrift. That’s why we fly to Colorado now, it’s just safer and the snow is better too. You know what, Pete, you should get a massage for your shoulder. Massage is the best, totally therapeutic, I’d go to Marissa every day if I could afford it.

  If only, poor woman.

  -The doctor said what I really need is to sit in a jacuzzi.

  Pete gingerly raised his arm and grimaced. Nice try, Repetti. I helped myself to a second piece of pie, carefully avoiding eye contact with Sigrid, who had been glancing my way, but now was occupied with Pete.

  -Hop in ours, Pete.

  Are you kidding me? The other night I had to talk him out of taking your hot tub for a joy ride and now you’re handing him the keys. Are you friggin’ kidding me? Not to mention he’s got three beers and a cup of caffeine in him. Pete feigned reluctance.

  -I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be—

  -Nonsense. You need the hydrotherapy. We keep it at a hundred and four degrees, equivalent to a Hopi sweat lodge. Optimal for healing.

  -If you really don’t mind. Just for a couple minutes. Doctor’s orders.

  A masterful, if shameless performance, I had to admit.

  -Towels are in the steamer trunk next to the wet bar.

  -Thank you. I won’t be long. Fletcher, you coming?

  -I’m not taking a bath with you.

  -Oh, come on. Maybe we’ll see the peeper.
>
  He flashed what I can only describe as a shit-eating grin—ain’t stopping me this time, suckah—and headed out. The dog started barking again, and I was feeling a bit disquieted myself. I couldn’t tell if it was too much tart too fast or the way Sigrid seemed to be sizing me up, but something had set my stomach churning. I was searching for a joke about Pete getting into hot water when I caught Sigrid eyeing me again. Officer, it wasn’t me, I swear, it’s mistaken identity she met me briefly at the theater that’s why she thinks I look familiar. For the first time ever, I was glad I’d been to South Coast Rep.

  -Fletcher, I told Sigrid you can’t discuss the trial.

  Thank you, Marissa. Thanks for bringing it up.

  -Are you enjoying the courtroom experience, Fletcher?

  -It’s interesting. But like Marissa said, I can’t—

  -Of course. Absolutely.

  Sigrid refilled Marissa’s glass—her fifth, counting dinner. This could get ugly.

  -The guy’s grandmother testified today.

  -Marissa.

  I gave her the look.

  -What? You told us all about it at dinner.

  Sigrid sighed and shook her head.

  -That must have been heartbreaking. Can you imagine having your grandchild accused of murder?

  -Sigrid, he can’t talk about it.

  I got up and examined another painting: some mermaid-like creature rising from a murky underworld, that’s what I saw anyway. Nice tits on her too. Was Lawson ever in here, sitting in Sigrid’s sitting room, trying not to stare? It really did look like him, not Richard, entering the front door five nights ago, and since he also drove a Lexus I couldn’t rule Lawson out, even if it almost certainly was Richard, who after all lived here. Isn’t that Occam’s Razor? We had it in my college philosophy class: the simplest explanation is the most likely. But how would Occam explain The Sophist at the gas station and the MBA watching me at the beach and Sigrid, wife of the man funding Bud Jack’s defense, inviting Juror Number One and his sort of girlfriend to the theater and now inviting us to her home? The simplest explanation is that the rich guy is running a conspiracy—call it Grisham’s Razor. There was a new hardcover Grisham, one I hadn’t seen before, on the antique table next to the flower vase when we came in. Was Richard reading Grisham to figure out how to manipulate a trial? Let me guess: a jailhouse snitch, the prosecution’s pride and joy, shows up drunk and loses all credibility with the jury. How did Richard pull that off? Or how about a long-lost childhood friend rematerializes and risks self-incrimination to testify for the defense. That had been in the afternoon. His name was Scooter Hopkins. Lawson brought him in after dismissing Mrs. Wilkes.