Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -Roya, I hate to just say goodbye. I don’t know—could I call you sometime?

  -Okay.

  Okay? If a woman says okay, it means…okay. Okay, okay, okay! Like I said, I was on top of the world. This was all too good to be true. The screenwriters had tightened up the ending. A poem kept lilting through my head.

  Bud Jack acquitted

  Dolphins aslumber

  I can’t believe Roya

  Gave me her number.

  When I got to my parking space, I spotted The Mouse and Cowboy Kev a few rows over, smoking cigarettes and admiring a motorcycle. I ducked into my car and shut the door. I didn’t want to go through more goodbyes and nice meeting you and see y’around and all that. I started the engine, got the air conditioner blowing cold, and checked my phone: Can I come over around six? Silly question, Marissa, we’ve got some celebrating to do.

  As I steered toward the exit, a motorcycle zoomed up next to me. The rider looked over and nodded. Cowboy Kev? No, The Mouse! Hey, nice working with you, Smokes. He gave me a thumbs-up and sped off, the little pipsqueak aka Runaway Ralph. I checked my rearview mirror—sure enough, Cowboy Kev at the wheel of an old Volvo station wagon, a long, blue shoebox on wheels. Might as well be driving a chuckwagon, cowpoke.

  Bud Jack acquitted

  Dolphins aslumber

  Beautiful Roya

  Gave me her number

  Could Cowboy Kev

  Look any dumber?

  The greatest morning of my life.

  12

  There is a certain technique to calling a woman—if only I knew what it was. If I call too soon, she might think I’m pushy or needy. Don’t want that. Better to wait, be patient, play it cool, she already knows I like her so let her wonder a little, let her imagine I’m in demand, I’ve got a cluttered social calendar, I’ve got important stuff on my plate. But how long can I wait? I should strike while the iron is hot, while it’s fresh in her mind that Fletcher is the surfer with smarts who detected the flaws in the prosecution’s case, Fletcher is the one who courageously resisted peer pressure, stood up for racial tolerance, and saved an innocent man from a life behind bars, Fletcher is the man I want to father my babies. There must be at least a hint of that floating around in her subconscious mind, right? But when this morning’s excitement starts to fade, she’ll recall that Fletcher is also the guy who got lost in the courthouse, cracked wise with the judge, couldn’t find his own car in the parking lot, what kind of children would that goofball raise? Would calling her tonight be too soon, too desperate, like I couldn’t get her out of my mind? What about tomorrow? I guess I kind of need to decide on the message I want to convey. Is it Roya, I’m calling because 1) you seem interesting, I’d like to get to know you, I’m not concerned where it leads, or 2) I have this strong romantic attraction to you and I’m hoping it’s mutual? If it’s 1, maybe I wait a few days. If it’s 2, tomorrow is probably right. Tomorrow evening. But even if 2 is the truth—and I’m not saying it is—should I still go with 1 just to be on the safe side? Yeah, I’ll go with 1, wait a few days and relax about it. But waiting a few days to call might come across like I’m nervous and trying to get my courage up, like I’m thinking about it too much. Tomorrow evening then. No, calling on a Friday evening would be really pathetic, like I’ve got zero social life, and anyway she wouldn’t be home. I could leave a message—hey, Roya, just calling to say hi, I’m running out the door in a couple minutes but call me back if you get a chance. Why would I call to say hi if was running out the door? Okay, I’ll call on Saturday. Afternoon. No, late morning.

  -Dude, shut up and just call her.

  -You think? Yeah, you’re probably right.

  We were at Treasure Island, the ocean breeze was warm, the sun high in the sky. Just another typical day in the fascinating life of Guillam Fletcher: surfing with dolphins at the crack of dawn, a few hours at the courthouse in the morning securing justice for the oppressed and getting a phone number from a beautiful woman—ho-hum, happens all the time—then picking up Pete, my partner in crime, and hitting the beach.

  -I mean now. Call her now. You got your phone?

  -I left it in the car.

  And my car, thankfully, wasn’t conveniently close. It was at the shopping center on the other side of PCH, a fifteen-minute trek away. A sign warns no beach parking allowed—customers only, violators towed—and a security guard cruises around in a cart watching for evildoers, but as Pete once put it, if you can’t outsmart a minimum-wage rent-a-cop, you’ve got no business breaking the rules. This was one technique I had down pat: I dropped off Pete and our beach chairs by PCH, parked behind the yoga place, and entered a back door, looking to all the world like I was attending a class. Thirty seconds later, with a confident smile for the receptionist—Namaste!—I exited the front door and hurried across the parking lot to where Pete was waiting. Piece of cake. If the security guard spotted us now, so what? He couldn’t know which car was ours.

  -Dude, dolphins.

  Out beyond the whitewater, a pair of dorsal fins disappeared and reappeared in steady rhythm, too quickly to be sleeping.

  -I think she’s kinda on the fence with me. I’m just looking for the right approach.

  -No, you’re looking for plausible deniability. In case she’s not hot for you. Then you can pretend you were just being friendly.

  Crack. He was eating peanuts from a plastic grocery bag and tossing aside the empty shells.

  -I just don’t want to come off as a dork.

  -That’s your mistake. You’re trying to be smooth, which is all wrong. You’ve got to let her see you have too much integrity to be smooth.

  Crack.

  -I’m supposed to be awkward?

  -And a little nervous—out of respect for her. Chicks dig that, the real ones, anyway. Trust me, I know.

  -So where’s all your girlfriends?

  He shook his head and threw a peanut shell at mine.

  -Just wait till I get my Porsche.

  Treasure Island is actually a postcard-beautiful spit of coastline, formerly secluded and hard to reach until the city council approved construction of the Montage resort on the cliff top where an abandoned trailer park had been decaying in the sun—the last vestige of funky Laguna plowed under. Now there are staircases with handrails, a ramp for golf carts, a lifeguard tower, kayak rentals, morning yoga on the sand, and resort staff in conspicuously white shirts handing out towels to wealthy, indulgent vacationers who sprawl in cushioned lounge chairs—hotel guests only, violators towed.

  -Check her out. Good God.

  Tall and thin and busty in a flawless blonde sort of way, a fashion model a few years beyond her prime, but still a neck-wrencher in a yellow bikini. She had gotten up from her lounge chair and was walking toward the water. Her husband’s smoothness—designer sunglasses, silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down, highlighted hair moussed into place, fifty-plus going on thirty—was obvious at a glance from thirty yards away, the diamond ring on her left hand was visible from the moon. Pete stood up for a better look.

  -Oh, crap.

  He sat back down.

  -What?

  -Students.

  Two teenaged boys toting skimboards were walking up the beach. Skimboarders are skateboarders without wheels, the little shits. Pete pulled his hat down low, tucked his chin, covered his face with his hand. I pulled my beach towel over my head and shoulders like a shroud.

  -You know them?

  -Had the tall one in class last year.

  Dana Hills students usually don’t hang out at Treasure Island—no waves, no parking—but these two were wandering up from Aliso Creek, a quarter mile down the sand.

  -We should’ve gone to Main Beach.

  In the classroom, students watch our every move—they know our speech patterns, physical quirks, dress habits—and when you’re constantly on display, when your successes are made the stuff of local legend and your shortcomings cruelly mocked, you become jealous of your privacy, you carefully li
mit familiarity. Away from school, you want to relax, be yourself, escape the scrutiny. If you run into students—at the grocery store, going to the movies, at the beach with your shirt off and your guard down—you have to shift back into teacher mode, professionally concerned but emotionally detached. It’s like getting called into work on a weekend. It sucks. We stayed under wraps until the boys disappeared around the bend in the coastline, then Pete stood up.

  -Let’s get out of here.

  -They’re gone. Let’s eat lunch.

  The grocery bag also held sandwiches, hastily assembled in my kitchen, and I hadn’t eaten since a quick breakfast after paddling.

  -No, let’s go sit in the jacuzzi.

  -It’s too hot out.

  -Dude, my shoulder. Hydrotherapy.

  We put on our shirts, left our chairs and towels behind, and after a slight detour to get a better look at Mrs. Smooth’s smooth assets, walked past the eager towel dispenser—Enjoy the awesome afternoon, gentlemen!—and up the ramp. The city council had insisted the resort grounds remain a public park so locals, if they solve the parking puzzle, can stroll the bluff and take in the ocean view. And if they know how to break the rules, they can visit the hot tub. We had a technique for that too. We stopped twenty feet short of the target, where a fat man was having a warm soak.

  -Dude needs a bra.

  He wasn’t moving, so we continued strolling the sidewalk. We passed a woman in a tailored green and brown uniform. She stepped aside and stood at attention, arms at her side—the servile Montage salute.

  -Good afternoon, gentlemen.

  We nodded and kept walking. Something about her professional politeness made me uncomfortable.

  -Dude, our students should stand like that. Heil, Repetti.

  I guess I’d rather she was permitted to be fully human. Then we could encounter each other honestly and spontaneously instead of playing prescribed roles. Which, when I thought about it, was really what I wanted with Roya. Why does it have to be so difficult?—asking for a phone number, arranging a date, taking care to present myself as myself, but not too much of myself, a reserved, non-threatening, idealized sampling of myself.

  -He’s up.

  Fatso was toweling off. We quickened our pace—steady but nonchalant—and timed it perfectly, arriving back at the gate just as he was exiting. Pete and I both went for our pockets.

  -You got your key?

  -Yeah, somewhere. I think.

  Our usual routine, probably unnecessary, probably overkill. The big guy held the gate for us.

  -Oh. Thanks. How’s the water?

  -Fantastic. Enjoy.

  We had it to ourselves.

  -I’m going naked.

  -Yeah, right.

  We pulled off our shirts and dropped into the swirling water. Ahh—not as hot as Sigrid’s, no titillating symphony of ascending bubbles, but jets powerful enough to propel you off the wall. Would Roya sneak into a hot tub? Will she pick up when I call?

  -So, if I get her voicemail, what do I say?

  -Dude, you’re like a tenth-grader, you know that? Hi, this is phone number, my Fletcher is….

  Voicemail always throws me. At the beep, I become self-conscious, I can’t think of what to say because I’m thinking about how I’ll come across. I don’t like my voice on recordings, I sound depressed, and if I compensate and try for pleasantness I end up sounding ridiculous. But getting her voicemail might be best. That way if the answer is no, she can spare us both the embarrassment, avoid the need for excuses, and simply not call back.

  -Dude, security guard. Don’t look.

  -Should we bail?

  Our escape plan is to grab resort towels left behind by legitimate guests and walk straight into the hotel like we belong there.

  -He’s leaving.

  -Good. There’s no way we look suspicious.

  That’s what we counted on. Two clean-shaven white guys in their thirties, one partially balding. We could be corporate lawyers. We could be investment bankers.

  -Does this look suspicious?

  Pete lifted his swim trunks out of the water and draped them over his head.

  -Are you crazy? Pete, man, seriously, I’m leaving. You say I’m the tenth-grader?

  -Okay. Calm down.

  His shorts disappeared back under the roil of bubbles and foam. I disappeared back into voicemail. Roya, this is Fletcher, your fellow jurist. Too dorky. Roya, this is Juror Number One. Too cute. Roya, this is Fletcher, from the jury, just wondering if you might at all be interested in going out to dinner with me on some evening. Too wordy. How ‘bout dinner some time? Too brisk. How ‘bout we skip dinner and start with dessert?

  -Gentlemen.

  Shit. The security guard—coming through the gate.

  -Gentlemen, these facilities are reserved for guests of the Montage. I need to ask you to exit the whirlpool.

  My first impulse was to play dumb—oh, sorry, my mistake—and be on my way. Pete had a different impulse.

  -You’re kidding me. Is this a joke? Is this how guests get treated?

  Pete has a philosophy on security guards: their authority is limited and depends on your cooperation, you’ve got to call their bluff.

  -Sir, could I see your room key?

  Pete turned to me.

  -You got yours, Bill?

  -No, I—Sharon has it.

  Why did I pick Sharon?

  -Yeah, it’s with our wives. One of the other guests let us in.

  -I understand, sir. If I could just have your room number.

  I shrugged. Pete gave it a try.

  -Three…three-thirty…I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The wife keeps track of that. I just sign the receipts. You know how that goes.

  Two investment bankers who can’t remember their room numbers.

  -I apologize for the trouble, sir.

  He stepped away and spoke into his radio. I couldn’t make out the words that came crackling back, but I knew he wasn’t finished with us.

  -Let’s just go. I’m hungry anyhow.

  I climbed out of the water and toweled off, trying to appeared bored by the confrontation, trying to keep my unmarried ring finger out of sight.

  -Sir, what’s the name on the room?

  If the guard wasn’t giving up, neither was Pete.

  -This is unbelievable. Bill, can you believe this? Listen, I know you’re just doing your job, but we stay here because it’s private and quiet. Otherwise we’d be over at the Ritz.

  The Ritz is in Dana Point. Nice jacuzzi there, too.

  -No one’s ever hassled me here before, everyone’s very accommodating, maybe you didn’t get that memo, but what exactly do you want us to do, paste the room key to our forehead? This is totally unacceptable.

  Pete had worked himself into a fit of agitation, he slapped the water angrily as he climbed out. The guard remained calm and polite.

  -Sir, I apologize. If you tell me your name, we can clear up any misunderstanding.

  Resort towel in hand, Pete took an aggressive step toward him.

  -I’m not giving you my name. I’ll go up to the front desk and take care of this myself. I tell you what, why don’t you go on about your business, and I’ll tell your boss you were very respectful, very discreet and understanding, and I have no complaint about you personally.

  It was a convincing show—the Type A corporate lawyer, accustomed to bullying people and getting his way, insulted by the wage worker’s insolence, but magnanimously cutting him some slack. The guard studied Pete for a moment, weighing alternatives, but only for a moment.

  -Why don’t you cut the bullshit and remove yourself from the resort premises, and I won’t call in Laguna PD and have you arrested for criminal trespassing.

  Pete pulled on his t-shirt.

  -Fine. I don’t have time for this.

  When you’re beat, you’re beat. Time to get out of Dodge. To his credit, the guard didn’t rub our noses in it. He spoke again on his radio, then held the
gate open for us.

  -Leave the towels here, please.

  -What, no salute?

  We headed for the beach—steady but nonchalant. Okay, maybe a little chalant. Another security guard was hustling up the sidewalk. He extended his arms wide to block our path.

  -Gentlemen, excuse me. Gentlemen.

  We stepped around him and kept moving—they rely on your cooperation. I didn’t look back until we were halfway down the ramp.

  -They’re still behind us.

  -What can they do? Beach is public.

  -What if they called the cops? We should have left right away.

  -Dude, I had him going until you jumped out. You flinched.

  -No, he knew from the beginning. Probably saw us earlier coming in from the parking lot. I bet they called the cops. And you know how the cops handle things here.

  One time the Laguna police were summoned and ended up killing two Montage guests. True story.

  -Are they still coming?

  -No.

  -Okay, then. We’re golden.

  The guards remained at the top of the ramp. The towel dispenser greeted us at the bottom.

  -Good afternoon, gentlemen!

  -Could we get a couple towels?

  Pete doesn’t know when to quit.

  -Absolutely, sir. Room two-nineteen, right?

  -Yeah, that’s right.

  -Cool. I remember you from yesterday.

  I checked the ramp. They were still up there. The beach attendant handed Pete two towels.

  -It’s Mr. Haroldson, right?

  -Excellent memory. What’s your name?

  -I’m Dave. You guys need lounge chairs, or are you good?

  I interrupted.

  -We’re good. Thanks, Dave.

  -Right on. Enjoy the beach.

  -No, dude, let’s get lounge chairs.

  I should have put my foot down, ended the charade right there, but Pete directed my attention to two unoccupied lounge chairs next to Mr. and Mrs. Smooth, and soon we were sunbathing in cushioned comfort. Mr. Smooth was fiddling with his phone. The missus was lying face down, her bikini top unattached, a hint of soft white breast squeezing out from under her torso. Leering without Mr. Smooth noticing wouldn’t be easy. Not leering wasn’t an option.