Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -That guard was about to fold. If you hadn’t shown weakness.

  -You watch too much poker.

  That’s Pete’s favorite tv entertainment anymore—sallow-skinned, narcissistic game theorists playing high-stakes tournaments and mugging for the camera when they ought to be lecturing on nuclear deterrence or mapping genomes or otherwise serving the common good.

  -It’s all about psychology. He didn’t want to go all-in—I picked that up right away. I think I’m a natural.

  -Yeah, a poker genius. Here they come.

  The guards were descending the ramp.

  -Relax, dude. We’re legit.

  Maybe Pete’s prefrontal cortex was impaired, but mine was on full alert, warning me to get out now.

  -I need a swim. Let’s go for a swim.

  We could casually walk away, dignity intact, dive into the waves and splash around until the Keystone Kops went back up the hill.

  -No, sit tight. Don’t flinch.

  I watched them trudge across the heavy sand. They looked serious. They looked pissed. They didn’t even glance at Mrs. Smooth, didn’t do a double take at her yellow bikini. These guys were professionals. Pete fired a preemptive shot.

  -Don’t tell me you guys came all this way to apologize.

  -Sir, these are not public chairs.

  -Unbelievable. What’s it going to take? Are you going to crawl in bed with me tonight too?

  -Sir, we do press charges.

  -Room two-nineteen. It’s under Harrison. Call it in. Or go ask Dave.

  -Who?

  -The towel guy. He knows me.

  I’d swear Guard Number One showed weakness. He looked over at Dave, he looked at his partner, he looked indecisive. Pete showed strength.

  -Call it in.

  -I’ll do that.

  Guard Number One stepped away so we couldn’t hear his radio conversation. Guard Number Two remained in place, hiding behind a blank-faced stare, arms folded smugly across his chest. Did the towel guy say Harrison or Haroldson? My stomach growled. Thirty yards away, a roast-beef sandwich was calling my name. Should I retrieve it? A white seagull was cautiously pecking at the peanut shells we’d left behind.

  -Gentlemen, I’ll give you one last chance to leave quietly.

  Number One was back. Pete sat up.

  -Did you call it in?

  -You’re not registered.

  -Unbelievable. Go ask Dave.

  -I don’t need to ask Dave. I need you to get out of the chair.

  -Or what?

  Again, the guards looked indecisive. They weren’t the pitiful, waddling beer bellies in windbreakers you see patrolling time shares and golf courses, but neither were they bouncers—not physically imposing, not looking for a fight. And the cops weren’t on their way, at least not yet, or Number One would have said so. Pete was right—they weren’t going all-in.

  My attention was drawn to Mrs. Smooth as she reached both hands behind her back to tie her bikini top. Then she rolled over, glanced at the security guards, and asked her husband what the fuss was about.

  -Don’t know, but some idiot’s losing his lunch.

  Mr. Smooth pointed to our empty folding chairs where two seagulls were now playing tug-of-war with my plastic grocery bag. Three more gulls swooped in, squawking with delight. If I dashed madly into the birds, shouting and waving, I’d look like a total dork, the kind of guy who parks behind the shopping center and sneaks into the hotel jacuzzi, not a well-heeled investment banker staying at the Montage, but so what? At this point I’d rather save my sandwiches than salvage my pride. Only I couldn’t do that without abandoning Pete.

  -Gentlemen, this is your final warning.

  Pete stood up. Was he finally walking away? Nope.

  -Dave! Hey, Dave!

  He’d found another card to play. As we all watched, the white-shirted attendant came slogging across the sand. I liked that he snuck a peak at Mrs. Smooth—he was one of us.

  -Is there a problem, Mr. Haroldson? The chairs okay?

  I knew it—Pete had screwed up. Guard Number One knew it too.

  -Haroldson? You said you were Harrison.

  The house had drawn an ace. Read ‘em and weep. But Pete didn’t hesitate.

  -Get your hearing checked, man. Unbelievable. Dave, can we get food brought down here?

  -Absolutely, Mr. Haroldson. Beach service. I’ll go score you a menu.

  Dave headed back to his post. Number One and Number Two looked at each other—what if we’re wrong, what if the guy we’re harassing really is a paying guest, and what if he complains? They didn’t know their next move.

  -Well, call it in, guys. Haroldson. Get it right this time.

  They didn’t call it in. They huddled a few yards away and tried to appear satisfied with the outcome. They were going to withdraw by increments.

  Meanwhile, the squawking was getting louder. More seagulls had arrived and were tussling over the loot, trying to get their yellow beaks around scraps of bread and shreds of beef. Our lunch was being slaughtered.

  Mr. Smooth caught my eye and nodded toward the guards.

  -You guys bring in call girls or something?

  -Just a misunderstanding.

  -Yeah, I tell my wife the same thing.

  His wife laughed. What does a woman who looks that good see in a man who sounds that stupid?

  -What line are you guys in?

  Well, we’re high school teachers but we stay at the Montage because you only live once and anyhow we’ve got money to burn he inherited a bundle when his parents died and I if you must know just won the lottery would you believe it one in a million.

  -We’re in education.

  -Excellent. I hear that’s really an expanding industry. Testing and what-not.

  -We do okay.

  Pete aka Mr. Haroldson joined the conversation.

  - Hey, we’re ordering some food. You folks want anything?

  Mrs. Smooth smiled.

  -We just had lunch, but sweet of you to offer.

  I thought Roya was pretty and charming, but this woman could sink a thousand ships, or however the saying goes. If she had said she’d love a dolphin sandwich, I would have happily swum out and hauled one in. It must be nice being that attractive. For one thing, you wouldn’t have to agonize over asking someone out, you wouldn’t have to agonize over anything, you could get whatever you wanted with just a smile, the universe would always say yes. So why would she shack up with Mr. Smooth when she could have someone real, someone—how had Pete put it?—with too much integrity to be smooth, someone like, say, yours truly?

  -Hey, Repetti! Mr. Repetti!

  The skimboarders! The little shits had recognized their favorite biology teacher and were coming over to say hi.

  -What’s up, Repetti? How’d you get a chair?

  I shot a guilty glance at the security detail. Yes, I showed weakness, I admit it. Number One went for his radio. Number Two started moving in. I showed weakness and then I flinched: I stood up and walked away. I could hear Pete feigning enthusiasm at running into students.

  -Great to see you guys. Beautiful day, huh?

  The seagulls saw me coming and retreated to a safe distance. I quickly folded our chairs and began gathering up shredded sandwich wrappers. Peanuts were everywhere.

  -Dude, leave it.

  Pete was right behind me. Somehow, he’d already shed the students and ditched the guards.

  -What’d they say?

  -The Haroldsons checked out this morning.

  He grabbed the chairs, I took our towels, we left the rest for the birds.

  -Let’s go to Aliso.

  We didn’t look back. It was going to be a long walk—fleeing down the beach, then back along PCH to the shopping center, but at least we wouldn’t have to pass Mr. and Mrs. Smooth or look Dave in the eye—sorry, man, no tip—and we wouldn’t have to endure being escorted up the ramp and across the resort property by two triumphant rent-a-cops. And this way Pete could still claim victory.r />
  -I had him. He mucked his cards. Did you see his face when I asked about beach service? Those kids were just a bad beat.

  -You should buy me lunch.

  -I should go to Vegas.

  I expected the cops to be waiting for us in the Aliso parking lot or to catch up to us when we crossed PCH, but they never showed. When we got back to my car, I checked my phone: Something’s come up. Tomorrow night instead? What could possibly come up? She never works late. When she wants to come over, she comes over—which is almost never these days. Marissa was so gung-ho about me saving Bud Jack, and now this? I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

  -Just call her and ask.

  -She’s still at work.

  -No, the jury chick.

  Yeah, maybe Roya’s free tonight. We could hang out and talk about the trial, laugh about the Moderates and the rest of the menagerie—The Mouse, Elephant, Giraffe and a Half. But what if Roya says yes, and then Marissa calls and wants to come over after all?

  -Dude, if you’re not gonna call her, give me her number and I will. I’m not afraid of rejection. It’s like my middle name.

  I got her voicemail, the usual formula—Hi, this is Roya, I’m away from my phone—only in a soft, enchanting voice. I got flustered.

  -Yeah, hi, Roya, this is, uh, this is Fletcher, from the jury. Just wondering…I just…I wanted to say hi.

  -Dude.

  -Yeah, and maybe we could go out sometime, like dinner.

  There. I’d done it—called and asked her out, put my money where my mouth is, the ball’s in her court. Way to go, Fletcher!

  -At least you weren’t smooth.

  Pete suggested we go straight to the Ritz for more hydrotherapy—fall off a horse, saddle right back up—but I’d had enough criminal trespassing for one day, and I wanted to get back across Laguna before the late afternoon traffic disaster set in. I dropped him at The Cave and drove home. I called Marissa and left a message saying I was sorry she couldn’t make it tonight and asking her to call me, we still needed to set a time for tomorrow night, right? I ate, took a shower, tried napping, but couldn’t stop thinking about Roya. Had she listened to my message yet? Would she call back this evening or wait until tomorrow? Like me, she probably didn’t want to appear too eager. By six p.m., no one had called, not Roya, not Marissa. If I sat around all evening waiting for the phone to ring, the anxiety would kill me, so I turned the ringer to vibrate, put the phone in my pocket, and walked down to Heisler Park.

  The tide was low, the sun was setting, it was the magic hour before twilight when the hazy golden glow draws portrait photographers and their clients to the beach. I walked past a family of five dressed identically in unfaded blue jeans and unwrinkled white blouses, neatly casual in bare feet and Sunday hair, grouped on the sand and smiling for the camera, the usual south county portrait of idealized harmony—we dress the same, we think the same, no problems here, all happy families are alike. Except if they’re anything like the families my students tell me about, dad has a bad temper and yells a lot, mom starts the day with gin and ends it with sleeping pills, the fourteen-year-old son spends the day locked in his bedroom playing violent video games, and his two younger sisters will experiment with pot before they even hit their teens and quickly graduate to Vicodin and Ecstasy. Or maybe I’m just being cynical.

  A little farther down the beach, I passed an angelic young woman in a wedding dress and her husband-to-be, handsome in black tuxedo, posing at the water’s edge. What did he have that I didn’t? I mean, besides a woman who loved him. Was he smarter than me or more caring? Did he seem more stable, an obvious family man? The photographer directed them to hold hands as they walked, happily ever after, into the sunset. Tomorrow would be Friday, there would probably be a rehearsal dinner, and late Saturday morning they would become man and wife. What’s that like?—knowing from now on someone will be there for you, someone you can count on, someone to plan things with, the house won’t be empty when you get home from work.

  The vibration from the phone in my pocket startled me, like a mild electric shock. Probably it was Marissa, but be Roya, please be Roya. It was Pete. I didn’t feel like talking to him, I didn’t want to have to tell him she hadn’t called yet, didn’t want to hide the disappointment in my voice. I put the buzzing phone back in my pocket and continued walking down the beach, away from the sunset.

  13

  I’m not very good at parties, especially in a roomful of strangers. I walk in intending to be fun, spontaneous, a hail-fellow-well-met, but as soon as I see all the unfamiliar faces, I become self-conscious, like when I’m leaving a message at the beep, only now it’s in person, in a group, with nowhere to hide. I’m not sure what to say, or where to stand, how to stand even, and what do I do with these hands? Ultimately, the issue is small talk. I don’t do it well. When I chat with someone—oh, I teach math, what about you?—I quickly run out of things to say and don’t know how to make a graceful exit. I stare straight ahead, avoid eye contact, pretend I’m content just taking in the scene—great party, huh?—until the person gets bored or embarrassed and wanders off. Alcohol helps. Not for the intoxication, though, not for letting go of inhibitions. Having a drink gives my hands something to do, gives me an action, an excuse, a raison d’être. What am I doing standing here in the corner not talking to anyone?—oh, I’m enjoying my beer, reveling in this wonderful glass of wine, this here’s the best margarita I’ve ever tasted I love the greenish color I could gaze into it all evening. My other survival strategy, besides working a drink, is to latch onto more skilled conversationalists and use their momentum, draft behind them as they mingle. I’ll nod and smile and ask a question now and then, trying to appear relaxed and engaged, hoping we run into someone I can relate to, someone I can talk to on my own, before my guide slips away and I’m left staring into space and wishing I was back home watching tv.

  Which I suppose is what Marissa did—got tired of me hanging over her shoulder, listening in on her tête-à-têtes, and ducked off on her own. I studied my glass of wine—a rich, dark red with the promise of black cherry and hints of tobacco, that’s what I’d read on the label anyway—then went outside where the host was manning a smoking barbecue grill. Maybe I could latch onto him for a while.

  -Fletcher. Glad you could make it. Last minute, I know, but we decided we had to celebrate. Her idea, actually. How do you like yours done? Medium, I hope. Don’t tell me you’re one of those bloody beef guys.

  I had woken up thinking about Roya—wonder what time she gets out of bed, would she call in morning? Probably not. I took the phone into the bathroom anyhow, just in case it rang while I was in showering. It didn’t. Maybe she’d call on her lunch break at the dentist’s office, so I packed my phone with me while grocery shopping. Nothing. Until I was toting groceries into my apartment, and then I heard the familiar trilling. Is it possible? I dropped the bags onto the sidewalk, dove back into the car, and grabbed the phone off the passenger seat. Be Roya, please be Roya. It was Marissa.

  -Fletcher, sorry about yesterday, something came up.

  His paintbrush, I hope, and nothing else.

  -Fletcher, are you there?

  -Yeah.

  She doesn’t feel obligated to tell me why she backed out last night, doesn’t even care enough to make up an excuse. Just drop me, Marissa, get it over with.

  -Are you free tonight?

  -Yes.

  When am I not?

  -Good. We have plans.

  We have plans! Marissa wants to do something with me. And the trial is over, the verdict is in, so this can’t be about trying to influence my vote.

  -Fletcher?

  -Sorry. I couldn’t hear you. My phone.

  -We’ve been invited to a party.

  But what if Roya calls? What if she’s free tonight?

  -Fletcher? Is something wrong?

  -No. Sounds great.

  I can always fake food poisoning again, or use Marissa’s technique—sorry, something came up—
and race off to Costa Mesa for a discreet dinner with the pretty Persian. Why hasn’t she called? It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left her a message. Probably she was back at work today, probably she already has a date, it’s Friday night after all, probably she’s going out with friends, or her boyfriend if she has one, but why would she give me her number if she has a boyfriend? Maybe I should try calling her again.

  -Don’t you want to know who’s having the party? I’ll give you a hint—they’ve seen all of you.

  -What?

  -Naked.

  Which is how I ended up back in Sigrid’s backyard—third time in nine days—watching Richard attempt to incinerate the steaks. The fire was so hot, the grill sizzled like a frying pan.

  -How long have you been doing this?

  -Why? Am I doing something wrong?

  A dark look flashed across his face—narrow eyes, tight mouth. I’d swear he was about to assault me with his barbecue tongs.

  -No, I mean your organization. Public Defense, right? Sigrid said—

  -Whoa!

  He jumped backwards as the grill flared up, to the obvious delight of one of the other guests.

  -Jesus, Richard, should we call the fire department?

  -Sammy! Whata you say?

  Sammy was dressed for the yacht club—leather deck shoes, white pants, white sweater draped over his shoulders, sporty sunglasses pushed back atop his head, and still not a hair out of place. Who wears sunglasses to a dinner party? I could hear Pete: Dude, some people just need a punch in the face.

  -Sammy, this is Fletcher.

  Sammy had a sun-burnt face, pale blue eyes, and an aggressive handshake.

  -A pleasure, Fletcher. Hey, Richard, heard you had a pervert back here. That’s Laguna for you. Queer City. When are you and Sigrid gonna move up to Newport?

  He winked at me as he slapped Richard on the shoulder. Pete’s right—a good, solid jab to the schnozz.

  -Sammy, that reminds me. Here, Fletcher, keep an eye on these bad boys, will ya? Don’t let ‘em burn.