Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  I sat back down, leaned in toward Roya, and whispered.

  -Stay strong.

  She giggled. Cowboy Kev said something I didn’t catch. Roya leaned away and giggled louder. I needed a good line and quick, but nothing came.

  Chairman Chad asked for suggestions on how to proceed from here, folks, and Moderate Mike or Mark chimed right in.

  -Not to put anyone on the spot, but maybe the two undecided people could say what they’re confused about.

  Moderate Mark or Mike seconded the motion.

  -That seems fair.

  But Lady Yoga had a dissenting opinion.

  -I don’t think people should feel pressured to talk.

  -No, but we gotta know what people are thinking if we’re gonna get anywhere. Whata you say?

  He looked over at Roya and me. I looked down at my lap.

  -They’re all staring again.

  -You want to know what I’m thinking?

  -Just tell them the truth.

  -I’m thinking the butler did it. No, the butter did it.

  My brain was fried.

  -The butter and Colonel Mustard. In the dining room.

  -I just can’t believe he’s a killer.

  I looked up, and all eyes were on Gramma Jamma, who smiled as she spoke.

  -And his friend—the young man he works with—he seemed very nice. And it sounds like they’re together a lot, so I think his friend would know if he was doing bad things. That’s why I put undecided.

  I surveyed the faces across the table. Giraffe and a Half and Lady Yoga were gently returning Gramma Jamma’s smile. Moderate Mike or Mark glanced at Moderate Vice Versa and rolled his eyes. El Nerdo sported a frown. Chairman Chad scratched his head, then gestured to Gramma.

  -What would it take to convince you?

  -Convince me of what?

  -To vote guilty.

  -Oh, I couldn’t do that.

  I laughed out loud. It was the way she said it, smiling sweetly as she sentenced a roomful of people to continued confinement. One of the moderates groaned, El Nerdo checked his big watch, I laughed again. With sleep deprivation comes giddiness. Our Fearless Leader didn’t give up.

  -But what if he really is guilty, like the police say?

  -Oh, I don’t know. We should ask this young man.

  Gramma Jamma was touching my arm and smiling at me.

  -You mean you would go along with whatever Fletcher says?

  She ignored Chad’s question or didn’t hear. She just sat there beaming.

  -Fletch, can you help us out here?

  -Yeah. I mean no. I mean I can’t think straight. I was up all night.

  The Elephant snorted.

  -Your dog sick again?

  -Something like that. I can barely keep my eyes open.

  -At least tell us where you’re at on this.

  Moderate Vice Versa was getting impatient, but my brain was blank—no clever comeback, no honest answer, no ideas whatsoever. I turned my palms up and shook my head—there’s nothing I can do, guys, sorry, I can’t even tell you two apart anymore. Moderate Verce Visa didn’t like my silence.

  -You’re not even going to answer?

  Lady Yoga stepped in.

  -We agreed not to pressure people.

  -Then what are we going to do, play tiddlywinks?

  The room went quiet as the bad news sunk in: the undecided old lady won’t budge without encouragement from the smartass teacher, and the smartass teacher won’t cooperate until he gets some sleep, so the afternoon session will be a wash, further debate is pointless, a children’s game would be just as productive, maybe more so. Chairman Chad shifted the bent ballots around the tabletop—twelve-card monte, not tiddlywinks.

  -I don’t know, folks.

  It was an accusation, like I’ve done everything I can do and I’m really disappointed that you people aren’t cooperating—a passive technique employed by tired, desperate teachers when threats no longer work.

  Lady Yoga perked up.

  -Why don’t we quit for now?

  Chairman Chad shook his head.

  -We can’t. It’s only two o’clock.

  -Can’t we do what we want? We’re the jury.

  -The judge said we go till five.

  -Oh.

  More silence. El Nerdo suggested we play charades.

  -I’m serious, we’ve got to pass the time somehow.

  Moderate Mark or Mike had a better idea.

  -Let’s play that old game where you close your eyes and stick up your thumb.

  -Heads Up, Seven Up?

  -Or Show and Tell. And he can have nap time.

  He meant me. The tone wasn’t friendly. I met his glare—yeah, buddy, why don’t you show and tell us how you stick your thumb up your ass. I didn’t say it, but at least my brain was blinking back to life. Sensing trouble, Giraffe and a Half raised her long neck and scanned the savannah for carnivores. As she spoke, she bobbed her head like she was agreeing with herself.

  -No, she’s right. A jury can do what it likes. I read about it somewhere.

  Lady Yoga bobbed her head in reply.

  -Yeah, we could tell the judge we’re done for the day.

  -I think it was in a John Grisham novel.

  More head bobbing. Chairman Chad leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

  -That’s not how it works. Not in real life.

  -What can she do, arrest us?

  -Yes, actually, yes, she can.

  He interlaced his fingers behind his head. His fellow Mod Squadders laughed with him, exchanged wry smiles, and shook their heads dismissively—these women just don’t get it! It was the head-shakers versus the head-bobbers. The Elephant joined the bobbers.

  -It’s in the one where the woman outsmarts the cigarette companies.

  -That’s right. And her boyfriend’s on the jury. And they do whatever they want.

  -It’s called The Runway Jury.

  The Elephant and Giraffe know their Grisham.

  -No, it’s called…isn’t it…it’s The Runaway Jury.

  The Mouse too, apparently.

  -I thought that was the one where the jury gets killed.

  And El Nerdo. Grisham fans, one and all. And none of them seemed embarrassed.

  -No, that’s a different book.

  Et tu, Kevin? The cowboy can read? El Nerdo conceded the point.

  -Well, they all run together.

  Head bobbing all around. The Elephant, Giraffe and a Half, The Mouse, El Rhino, Kudu Kev—must be the whole damn Serengeti reads Grisham. Even Kill ‘em Guillam, the great white hunter—I admit it, the renegade jurors sounded familiar. Gramma Jamma, though, had missed the safari.

  -Why was the jury killed?

  El Rhino filled her in.

  -They convicted a murderer, and he’s taking revenge, one juror at a time.

  -Didn’t he go to prison?

  -A mental hospital, but they released him.

  -Oh.

  Her smile was gone. She looked a little worried. Dying jurors—I’d given that one a try too, when I was searching for a way out. Why didn’t I say yes when Heronor offered to dismiss me back on day one? I was too tired now to remember.

  The Elephant, of course, remembered everything.

  -You’re supposed to think it’s the convicted murderer taking revenge one by one, but really it’s someone else.

  El Rhino slapped the table in mock anger.

  -Now you’ve spoiled it for everyone, Cheryl.

  The Elephant apologized and recommended instead the one where the Supreme Court judges get assassinated.

  -You’ll never guess how that one ends.

  -I think I already saw the movie. With that one actress, right?

  -You mean Tom Cruise?

  -No, the actress. That woman.

  Gramma Jamma touched my right arm. Her smile had returned, and she wanted to tell me something.

  -Killing jurors one by one sounds like Agatha Christie.

  -Who?

&nbs
p; -Why don’t we vote on it?

  Lady Yoga was calling for a show of hands.

  -On Tom Cruise?

  -No, who wants to go home early?

  My hand shot up—hell, yeah! The Elephant and Giraffe were almost as quick. The other women followed, then El Rhino and The Mouse. Attaboy, Smokes!

  Chairman Chad laughed dismissively.

  -People, this won’t make a difference. The judge won’t care.

  But even Kudu Kev had joined the stampede. Moderate Mike and Mark held out, not wanting to betray Comrade Chad, but it didn’t matter, the yoga instructor had taken charge and seemed satisfied with a three-fourths majority.

  -That’s nine. Nine to three. I’ll tell the bailiff.

  She left, and Comrade Chad mumbled something about an exercise in futility and getting us all into trouble—so much for Our Fearless Leader’s fearlessness—but no one was listening, the entire Serengeti was talking at once, the jury-room debate had finally heated up.

  -I can’t stand Tom Cruise.

  -Oh, I think he’s great.

  -He’s a good actor.

  -He plays the same character every time.

  -So?

  -He never gets killed—have you noticed that?

  -That’s true.

  -It’s like in his contract or something.

  -Just once I’d like to see him killed.

  -Or at least mess up his hair.

  -What’s his wife’s name again?

  -Which one?

  -Isn’t he divorced?

  -I can’t think of her name.

  -Didn’t she get remarried to that singer?

  -Why do they always marry rock stars? You know it won’t last.

  The vote to quit early so I could go home and sleep had energized the room, and I found myself wide awake, like maybe I didn’t need an afternoon nap after all, my whole brain was working again. I smiled at the irony and kept it to myself.

  SILVERSON: They have a verdict?

  BALDY: No, they’re tired.

  SILVERSON: Take them some coffee.

  BALDY: They want to go home for a nap.

  SILVERSON: Not a bad idea, actually. What do you think? Feel like a nap?

  BALDY: I think Juror One is behind this. Let me lock him up. What’s so funny?

  SILVERSON: I just remembered your handcuffs are still on my nightstand.

  When Lady Y returned, she was beaming like Gramma J.

  -Okay, she wants us back at eight a.m. sharp.

  Later days, Chadster. Out of the room, down the elevator, past the security checkpoint, and—yowzer!—Cowboy Kev was right. The furnace blasted your face once you stepped clear of the courthouse doors. Had to be over one hundred. My car would be broiling hot.

  -Hey, what’s happening?

  The Sophist! I was walking out, he was walking in.

  -Oh. Hey.

  I mean, are you friggin’ kidding me?

  -Y’all finished up?

  He raised his right hand, palm open, initiating the hip handshake. Moderate Mark or Mike hurried past, pretending not to notice me, but he had to see it—a serious black man publicly acknowledging a white guy as a brother. A brothah. I liked how it felt.

  -You find my man innocent?

  -We’re still in deliberations.

  -The all-white jury. Alright, you take care now.

  -Wait. What’re you doing here?

  See, my brain really was working. I was going to get to the bottom of this.

  -Taking care of some business.

  He took a step toward the doors. I tried to keep him talking.

  -You in some kind of trouble? I mean, with the law?

  Oops. Was that racist? He didn’t seem put off.

  -Just got some paperwork. Damn, it’s hot.

  He wasn’t carrying anything, no briefcase, no papers. I studied his face. Was he lying? I tried another angle.

  -Let me ask you something. We keep running into each other.

  -See you tomorrow, Fletcher.

  Black curly hair. Not The Sophist, the Persian Princess, heading for the parking lot, and not a single cowboy in sight.

  -Roya, wait.

  She stopped. She smiled. The Sophist grinned.

  -Looks like you got business too, brother.

  I barely heard him.

  -Roya, can I walk you to your car?

  She giggled. I took it as a yes.

  -Maybe we could have lunch tomorrow.

  -Yeah, maybe.

  What’s the old joke? If a lady says no, she means maybe. If she says maybe, she means yes. If she says yes, she’s no lady.

  -They were really putting the pressure on us, weren’t they?

  -What?

  She was looking at her phone.

  -Trying to get us to vote guilty.

  Roya had to be the other undecided—her and Gramma Jamma.

  -I guess. This weather’s way too hot.

  -No kidding. I can’t wait to get home. I live close to the beach.

  I checked to see if she was impressed. She was digging in her purse.

  -I hope I haven’t lost my keys.

  -I can always give you a ride. You’re in Costa Mesa, right?

  -Here they are, thank God. What? Yeah.

  -Ever go to the beach?

  -Sometimes.

  -Do you come to Laguna?

  Because, I mean, I live right there, we could hang out, you could come to my place and we could walk down to Heisler Park or have lunch downtown.

  -We usually go to Newport.

  She unlocked her car with a remote button and flinched when she grabbed the metal door handle.

  -Hot?

  -I swear it better be cooler tomorrow.

  -I think tomorrow you’re gonna really feel the heat.

  -I’ll come early and get like a spot in the shade. This is crazy.

  -I mean from those guys, trying to get you to vote guilty.

  -Oh.

  -I mean, I’ll do what I can. I won’t let them bully you.

  Because, Roya, I’m not afraid of those guys, it was me who voted not guilty, I was the only one. They want to lock up Bud Jack and throw away the key, but I’m standing up for the truth, and I hope you’ll join me.

  -Actually, I did vote for guilty.

  Ka-thump!

  If the CIA was serious about torture, they would take their sleep-deprived victims and force them to sit in a traffic jam on a blistering July afternoon. The southbound 5 was stopped dead. My left arm was in the sun, my legs were in the sun, and even with the air conditioner blowing high I was sweating and feeling carsick and my head was fogging up again. Please, just let me sleep, I’ll admit to anything, I trained the suicide bombers, I work for bin Laden, I confess it all. The radio reported a two-car fender bender and a three-mile backup. A fender-bender? Just exchange your damn insurance numbers and get moving, how long can that take? My eyes tried to shut themselves. With my left thumb and middle finger, I stretched my eyelids open. They started closing again. Okay, okay, I am bin Laden, you got me, bring on the lethal injection and let me float away. Whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh. Ninety minutes of stop-and-go agony—we quit early for this?—and when I reached the site of the accident, the dented cars were long gone, which was a good thing because, not owning a gun, I would have had to kill the irresponsible driver with my bare hands. When I finally got home, I was too stressed out to lie down. I took a shower, ate two bowls of cereal, with a bowl of ice cream for dessert—dinner of champions—watched mindless television until I mellowed out, then pulled all the shades in my bedroom and fell asleep. It must have been around five o’clock.

  When I finally woke up, it was four o’clock in the afternoon, I’d slept twenty-three hours. I wonder what the world record for sleeping is—that was my first thought. My second thought was oh, shit! I checked my clock again and fell back in relief—a.m., not p.m., I’d only slept eleven hours, Bailiff Buzzsaw wouldn’t be busting down my door and serving a warrant.

  My third tho
ught was what was she thinking? Before lunch she couldn’t decide, and after lunch she votes guilty. It had to be Cowboy Kev, the jerk on the motorcycle, he convinced her to convict an innocent man. Does raw fish make a person pliant? I could just imagine what he’d told her: Bud Jack’s a hoodlum, Roya, everyone can see that, except maybe the old biddy and that teacher dork, and they’ll get it eventually, mind if I eat this last piece of eel? Well, newsflash, cowpoke, maybe you lassoed Roya yesterday, might even round up the old gray mare today, but it takes twelve to convict, and I’m hanging this jury. And if Roya voted guilty, there’s still another undecided besides Gramma Jamma running loose. Way to go, Smokes! Had to be the little pipsqueak, he’d said he’d go along if everyone else agreed, and not everyone else agreed. As long as I hold out, he will too, the Dynamic Duo standing together for justice and truth—Smokey and Sleepy, Mighty Mouse and Superman.

  Or Mickey and Goofy. Because what if we’re wrong? What if Bud Jack hates Mexicans, capped one in a dark parking lot, threatened another in a jail cell, and what if I’m only arguing for acquittal so Marissa will still occasionally sleep with me, or so Roya won’t sleep with Cowboy Kev? Maybe it’s true we’re hardwired to seek justice—I read that somewhere, not in a Grisham—but we’re also hardwired for something else, wired hard, if you know what I mean, and I might be desperate enough to ignore the obvious—the man confessed!—in hope of preventing one more woman from walking briskly away.

  No chance of falling back to sleep now, not with my mind starting to regale me with tales of rejection and woe: Sharon choosing northern California over me, this cute woman who lived next door for a while choosing a preppy-looking marketing guy over me, Marissa choosing the beach ball artiste or maybe just aloneness—rather be alone than with ol’ Fletcher any day—and now Roya, seated next to me in the jury room yesterday but leaning away.

  I opened the front door, the sun wasn’t quite up and already the air felt warm, no foggy marine layer this morning, today would be hotter yet, a perfect beach day, and I would be commuting inland to fiery hell. Like I said at the beginning: jury duty in July—I’ll die. But I had three good hours before heading to my death, might as well make the most of it.

  I saw them as soon as I hit the water: a pod of bottlenose dolphins cruising parallel to the beach just beyond the surfline. Four, five, six dorsal fins. I sat on my knees, paddled through a few ankle-slapper waves, then stood up on my board. The water was flat and glassy, I could see the sandy bottom thirty feet down, two orange fish hovered beside a rocky outcrop. Five minutes of hard paddling, and I caught up to the dorsal fins—six turned into eight turned into eleven or twelve pale gray bodies, scratched, scarred, mottled, and surprisingly big up close, their long mouths set in beguiling grins. They creased the surface with the tops of their heads, took in air, arched back down. I pulled ahead of them, they were hardly moving, they were coasting, I could see them gliding just off the seafloor. We passed Rockpile, the sun broke over the hills behind Laguna, the broad curve of Main Beach came into view. A few early risers were strolling the boardwalk, traffic was moving on PCH, no doubt the homeless crew in Heisler Park was gathering up their dirty sleeping bags and bracing for another bright, unforgiving day. When they surfaced again, I could have tapped the closest one with my long paddle, I was right on top of them, they didn’t care—the dolphins, not the vagrants. Three feet to my left, a gray body sensed my presence, rolled onto its back, and contemplated me with its left eye. Why not just open your right eye, Flipper? Why do you think, Jerk on a Paddleboard? Unbelievable! I was actually seeing it: dolphins at sleep. Half asleep. While downtown Laguna was rising with the dawn, one hundred yards offshore this pod was still on snooze. And I was right there with them, floating past Main Beach, moving south. What a trip! The chatter in my brain subsided, the world dropped away, dissolved, nothing existed beyond the gleaming morning sun, the gently undulating water, the effortless dolphins. We drifted with the current. I only paddled enough to change course when they did, and I was careful to give wide berth when they rose for air because I know what it’s like being pressured by strange creatures, I know how it feels when you just want to sleep.