Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -Oh. I don’t know the process. I guess if they think the guy’s truly innocent. And in danger of conviction.

  -What’s Bud Jack like?

  He hesitated.

  -What’s he like?

  -Yeah. He seemed so—what’s the word?—stoic.

  -He was on trial for murder.

  -No, I know. I’m sure I’d be stoic too. But what’s he like outside the courtroom?

  -I only met with him at the jail. But he’s alright. If I remember correctly, manatí is an old Caribbean word for breast.

  He was trying to change the subject.

  -I’d like to meet him.

  -Bud Jack?

  -Yeah. Is that allowed? I mean for a juror.

  -I guess. If the trial’s over.

  -Could you help me, I don’t know, contact him? You could tell him I’m the one who helped acquit him.

  -My guess is he’d like to forget the whole thing.

  -Can’t hurt to ask, right?

  -I’d have to think about it.

  Sounds like a no.

  -What about Judge Silverson? I bet she’s a wild woman.

  He laughed.

  -You want to meet her too?

  Richard entered through the sliding door and announced dinner was ready on the patio. Lawson and I joined the general exodus from the sitting room, but when no one was paying attention, I headed back through the house and out the front door. My car was parked on the street a few houses down, my phone was in the cup holder. No messages, no missed calls. But I didn’t really expect any. She’ll call tomorrow, Saturday, she’ll have more time then.

  I sat in the driver’s seat, leaned my head back, closed my eyes. It was good to be away from those people. I was tempted to leave, just turn the key and drive away, but I still had work to do. And just then Sigrid and Lawson emerged from the side gate where I’d run into her that first night. She turned to face him. Hello! They kissed hungrily, the big lawyer pushing the hostess with the mostest against the garage door. Mixing salads—that must make you salacious. They stopped abruptly and hurried back to the party. The moment they disappeared behind the gate, like on cue, the front door opened, and, sure enough, Jay and Marissa walked out to the driveway. I slumped down so they wouldn’t spot me. I wanted to run up and interrupt them before things went too far, but I knew I needed to see it happen, needed to finally face the undeniable truth. They looked around cautiously, then, as I watched in equal parts belief and disbelief, performed their own passionate two-step. Well, there it is. Absolutely. Totally. Should I honk the horn? Drive past and wave goodbye? With one finger? They gazed into each other’s eyes, then Jay went back inside while Marissa waited a few minutes on the driveway, fixing her ruffled hair. Should I confront her now? A noise startled her, and she turned to see the gate swing open. Are you kidding me? Sigrid and Marissa looked at each other—who had caught whom?—then suddenly they were grappling like love-struck grizzlies. Even to my distant eyes, their mutual lust made the previous exhibitions look like, well, a peck on the cheek. Hands were everywhere, grabbing at hips, running through hair, clawing at manatís. I noticed myself getting aroused. Only when they slammed onto the hood of Sammy’s bright red convertible did they unclench. One more gymnastic kiss, then they retreated, Sigrid through the gate, Marissa via the front door.

  Okay, enough. I opened my eyes. Time to end this farce before Richard and Sammy show up—I don’t want those two lovebirds taking flight in my overwrought imagination. But seriously, what would I do if I caught Marissa and Jay hot and heavy? I guess wish them all the best and bow out gracefully. Let her go, and then get on with my life. After getting Pete to help me slash some tires.

  I dialed his number and got his voicemail.

  -Pete, I’m outside the party. Operation Hardcover—ground zero. I’m going back in to deliver the package. I’ll call you later with a full report.

  I reached down and pulled the stolen book out from under my car seat. With the house empty, returning the Grisham was easy. I slipped it into a bookshelf, between Hemingway and Updike. I’d read them both in college and retained nothing, but still I had to laugh: Grisham loitering in the literary district.

  Then I stood at the sliding door, watching the festivities on the patio, listening to the muted murmur of conversations punctuated by laughter. The sun was setting over the neighbor’s rooftop, illuminating the backyard. Long shadows from trees brindled the golden glow. Everyone looked vividly alive. Richard and Sammy were happily arguing about something, Lawson had a plate piled with food balanced in one hand, a big glass of red wine in the other, as he chatted with Cal or Rob or whoever it was, long-haired Jay posed for a photograph near the bubbling waterfall, his arms around two bubbling women, and moving through the midst of them all, reveling in her congregation, the amazing Sigrid, her blonde hair a sunlit halo, queen of salads and all she surveyed. And trailing in her royal wake, Marissa—the way the dying sun revealed the reddish hue of her hair and softened her face, I’d never seen her so beautiful. Or maybe I was a little bit buzzed from the wine. Either way, I was in no hurry to join them. From the safety of the house I could simply observe and not have to worry about where I fit in. Because I didn’t fit in. I realized that as I watched Lawson set down his wine glass and confidently shake hands with Sammy, as I saw Sigrid slip her arm around Richard and smile at something Sammy said. These were not my people. It was fascinating, though, like seeing animals in the wild, like paddling up near a mass of boisterous sea lions shifting about on an island of rock. They tolerate your presence, just don’t get too close, don’t stay too long. These were not Marissa’s people either, not really, too much smugness, too much unexamined extravagance, but she wanted to be part of it, wanted to wear the clothes and drink the wine, wanted to share the same pleasures, suffer the same angst. There must be no greater joy than having a maid to complain about. Maybe that’s Jay’s attraction. Maybe he’s her ticket to the desirable Laguna lifestyle.

  Turns out, no. Turns out, it was a surprise party. For me, anyway. Because the rest of the evening was one shocker after another. And it wasn’t my overwrought imagination, I promise. For example, after the sun went down, after the patio glow had shifted from California gold to Chinese lantern red, I stood eating—savoring one of Sigrid’s famous salads, enjoying her legendary breasts—while listening to her reflect on the glories of a certain Laguna painter.

  -It’s not just his art. He uses his fame, his wealth, to promote education, to save our oceans.

  A few women nodded their approval, but Jay, in a stunning turnaround, didn’t absolutely, totally concur.

  -Frankly, I wouldn’t call what he does art.

  Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Flip-Flops? Sigrid was quick to anticipate his critique.

  -Yes, he’s a muralist. Yes, he’s accessible. Yes, he’s commercially viable. But he really captures the gorgeous mystery of sea life. There’s no one else like him.

  -It’s taxonomic illustration—that’s what he does. I’m so over it.

  Jay is so over it. Who talks like that, besides sitcom characters and the teenagers who watch them? Marissa nudged me toward the hot tub, away from Sigrid’s audience. She had something she wanted to ask me.

  -What’s taxionic elevation?

  -I don’t know. Are you drunk?

  -No. Maybe a little.

  Uh-oh. Her tipsy giggle was starting.

  -We should go soon.

  Before I have to spend another night in your car.

  -Do you like Jay?

  -Jay? Sure. Is he gay?

  It just came out. I suppose I wanted to denigrate his masculinity.

  -Duh.

  -You’re kidding.

  -What’s the big deal? So’s your friend over there.

  She pointed across the swimming pool.

  -No. Lawson? The defense attorney?

  -That’s what Jay said. And I guess he would know. He also said you told him you were Sigrid’s lover. What’s that about?

&nbs
p; -Oh. That. I was just—

  I looked over her shoulder, out across the lawn, to the dark perimeter of the yard.

  -I mean, I know you have a crush on her. But anyone can see you’re not her type.

  Are you kidding me?

  -And besides, she already has a boyfriend. But you can’t tell Richard, okay?

  Is my imagination running away again? Or is there a man hiding in the bushes?

  -Fletcher, are you listening?

  -Sorry. Hey, let’s go inside, okay? Let’s find some dessert.

  I escorted her in and handed her off to Jay—hang out with the painter all you want, I think his friendship is good for you—then escaped unseen out the front door again. But instead of heading to my car, I crossed the driveway between the garage door and Sammy’s front bumper and found the side gate unlatched. I slowly, carefully, pushed it open and stepped into the darkness. I waited a moment until my eyes adjusted, then crept along the unlit walkway between the garage and the fence. When I reached the end, I poked my head around the corner. To my left: the crowded patio, glowing pool, Sigrid and her oasis. Straight ahead: the footlights at the lawn’s edge, the trees, and a familiar figure crouched in the shadows.

  -Pete?

  He heard my whisper and snuck back along the fence line to the cover of the walkway.

  -Dude.

  -What are you doing here? Are you nuts?

  -Backing you up. In case the mission goes bad. Did you see me wave?

  -They’re gonna think you’re the Peeping Tom.

  -No, they know me. Sigrid loves me.

  -Come on. You’ve got to get out of here.

  He followed me back through the gate and out to the street.

  -Shouldn’t we go inside?

  I was almost to the point of not caring what mayhem might ensue. Almost, but not quite.

  -No, we shouldn’t. I should. Before Marissa gets too drunk.

  -Okay, but sneak me some chow. That barbecue smells great.

  -Just wait here.

  -Dude, and something to drink.

  Pete leaned against my car while I went back through the house to the patio and filled a plate. There were lots of leftovers sitting around—charred steak, legendary chicken, green salad, fruit salad, three-bean salad, couscous salad—might as well feed the hungry.

  -Oh, I’m glad they’re finally letting you grab a bite.

  The skinny blonde facelift from the hallway—still assuming I’m the caterer.

  -No, I was getting this for you. You look malnourished.

  Apparently, I no longer cared what these people thought of me. I didn’t even try to disguise my inelegant exit. I could have wandered beyond the hot tub, faded into the shadows behind the garage, and used the hidden walkway, nobody would have noticed. Instead, I carried the heaping dinner plate and a glass of wine unapologetically through the sitting room, where half a dozen people were finishing dessert. Marissa giggled.

  -Honey, we could ask Sigrid for a doggy bag.

  Jay watched me with raised eyebrows.

  -Fletcher, didn’t they feed you on the jury?

  -Nothing but lies, man, nothing but lies.

  I could still hear them laughing when, managing plate and glass with one arm, I pulled the front door closed behind me. Pete was waiting for me in the front seat.

  -Sweet ride, dude, or what?

  The front seat of Sammy’s convertible.

  -Pete, no.

  -Don’t say it. Just hop in. Leather seats, baby. You’ll regret it if you don’t.

  He was leaning back, his left arm extended straight to the steering wheel, his right arm around an imaginary girlfriend in the passenger seat. And I was the drive-in waiter. I handed over the food. I pulled a napkin and fork from my pocket.

  -Just don’t spill anything.

  He tucked into his supper, and I climbed in on the passenger side. I mean, why not? I was going to have regrets either way.

  -Great food. Thanks, bro. How’s the party?

  -Not my crowd.

  -I hear ya. But they know how to live, don’t they? Red wine, red meat, red Mercedes. Living in the red. And look in the glove box. Living large and in charge.

  -No.

  -Just look.

  He reached over and flipped it open.

  -Holy shit.

  Sammy’s got a gun. Some kind of pistol.

  -Good thing I backed you up, huh? This could have gotten ugly. Take it out.

  -No.

  I shut the glove box, but couldn’t help laughing.

  -What?

  -Nothing.

  Nothing, except I’d been wrong about everything, about Marissa and her artist friend, about Sigrid and Lawson, about Richard and a secret plot. The only thing I could say for sure was my best friend is insane.

  -Did you complete the mission, soldier?

  And worse, he was the only one who made any sense to me.

  -It’s back on the shelf. They’ll find it a week from now and blame the maid.

  -Told you, dude, nothing to worry about.

  -But we’ve got a new one.

  -A new book? I hope it’s better than…what’s the guy’s name? Grisham.

  -No, a new mission.

  14

  Why would she do this? Why give a guy your phone number and then ignore his calls? The least she could do is call back and say sorry, I can’t go out with you. I mean, invent a lie if you have to—I’m Iranian and only date Muslims, I’m Persian and only date perverts—but give a guy a little closure, don’t leave him wondering how many times to phone before giving up. A quick return call, not even five minutes of your precious time, then he can quit agonizing and you’ll get no more pleading messages. But snubbing him altogether—that’s inconsiderate, coldhearted, downright rude.

  -Dude, just shoot yourself already.

  -One simple phone call.

  Like Fletcher, this is Roya, you’re a really nice guy, I’m sorry, I’m a lesbian.

  -You think you’re the first person to get the passive brush-off?

  Or Fletcher, this is Roya, you’re a really nice guy, I’m sorry I’m a lesbian.

  -Try having your wife go visit her parents for a week, and her cell phone’s turned off, and when you call her parents they say she can’t come to the phone right now, and when she finally comes home its like, oh, I needed space, I needed time to think. Yeah, okay, so why didn’t you just say so?

  I was driving, Pete was riding shotgun—two guys comparing scars, two dogs licking their wounds.

  -And she goes, ‘cause you wouldn’t understand. Like I’m so stupid I wouldn’t understand she needs a little time away from me. And then suddenly she’s a true believer.

  I tried tuning him out. I knew his angry divorcée routine by heart: everything was great until she started taking her church stuff seriously and her pastor told her the world was only a few thousand years old and anyone who said otherwise—biology teachers, for example—was doing the devil’s work.

  -She says, you would rather stick with your dinosaurs than with me.

  He put his feet up on the dashboard and leaned back. This was his favorite part, his triumphant moment.

  -And I told her, at least dinosaurs were rational creatures.

  His laughter almost covered the bitterness.

  -Not to mention they had nicer skin.

  He got the best line, she got the house.

  -She had this thing about her complexion.

  We were northbound on the 405, heading out of south county on a bright, sunny afternoon, the day after Sigrid’s party. Traffic was smooth through Irvine, but started bunching up when we reached Costa Mesa.

  Costa Mesa! I switched lanes and exited the freeway.

  -Dude?

  -Roya lives around here. We’re gonna find her.

  -At the mall?

  We were approaching South Coast Plaza, one-stop shopping and dining destination for folks with money and those who just pretend.

  -What else would she be doing on
a Saturday?

  -Going to the beach.

  -Not a beach girl.

  -Hanging out with friends.

  -Exactly. At the mall.

  -What about the mission?

  -The mission can wait.

  As we circled the parking lot, I started noticing license plate frames: University of Nordstrom’s and Follow me to South Coast Plaza and Warning: This Car Brakes for Mall Exits. It took ten minutes to find an open spot. If the Shoe Fits, Buy It. A summer afternoon and the mall is jam-packed. My Other Car is a Shopping Cart. Don’t these people have lives? So Many Malls, So Little Time.

  -You expect to just run into her? Talk about one in a million.

  -Happens all the time.

  Once inside, though, Pete’s skepticism gave way to thirst for adventure, like a hunting dog finally out of the kennel.

  -What’s she look like?

  -Persian. Dark eyes, long black curls.

  -Age?

  -Don’t know. Mid-twenties. Average height.

  With both hands he cupped the bill of his baseball cap, for him the equivalent of combing his hair or straightening his tie.

  -Okay, I’m on it. If she’s here, we’ll find her. Hey, look.

  An easily distracted hunting dog.

  -What?

  -Your favorite pajamas are on sale. Excuse me, sir?

  Here we go. Pete signaled a man with carefully parted, salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp three-piece suit—at first glance a corporate executive, not the menswear attendant in a department store.

  -Gentlemen. How are we this afternoon?

  I felt bad for him. How does a man in his fifties end up overdressed and working retail? He reeked of cologne.

  -My friend wants to try these on.

  Pete held up something dark purple and shiny.

  -No, I don’t.

  This was a mistake. I should have done this alone.

  -Perhaps there’s something else I can help you with.

  Pete put down the pajamas.

  -Yeah, actually, we’re looking for this Persian chick. We think she’s in the mall. Where do you suggest we try first?

  -Oh, I would have no idea. Try mall security.

  Sensing no sale to be made, he disappeared behind a row of sport coats. Pete mimicked his resigned tone.