Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -Try mall security. Like they’re going to help us stalk someone.

  -We’re not stalking her.

  We left menswear and found a shopping directory. No Persians, but lots of Italians—Salvatore Ferragamo, Emilio Pucci, Ermenegildo Zagna, Bottega Veneta. Is this the mall or the mafia? Lots of French, too—Vuitton, Piaget, Tourbillon, Chopard, Tourneau, Lacoste. Can a dental hygienist afford to shop here?

  -Victoria’s Secret. Second level. Dude, let’s go.

  As we continued through the mall and up the escalator, I felt a faint, creeping nausea, from the sterility of air conditioning, I think, and the blasts of artificial scent—fried food, perfume counters, new shoe rubber, plastic everything. Pretentious and high-end, it still smelled like a mall.

  -Hello!

  The lingerie store’s windows displayed larger-than-life photos of supermodels in skimpy underwear. Let’s hear it for soft porn in public spaces—we’ve come a long way, baby! The flawless, airbrushed girls summoned with come-hither eyes, but neither of us crossed the threshold, it was too daunting, even for the guy who dropped his shorts in the Montage hot tub in broad daylight.

  -Dude, she’s probably not in there.

  -Yeah, let’s just split. This is stupid.

  -Persians at two o’clock. Lock and load, soldier.

  I didn’t see them, but the hound was off leash and weaving through shoppers. He waited on point outside a clothing store, and I followed his gaze to two heads of long, dark curls. They were deep in the shop, partially hidden by racks of clothing, and facing away from us, but still….

  -That’s her!

  -For real?

  -Wait. Don’t go back there. Let her run into us.

  We started perusing shirts—Italian labels made in El Salvador and the Philippines. The prices were startling. I positioned myself to watch the back of the store. Either it was my imagination or I could detect Roya’s perfume. My thumping heart was trying to escape my chest. I spun around at a female voice behind me.

  -If I can help you guys find something, let me know.

  She was blonde and thin and, though nobody’s supermodel, proudly showing some cleavage. Once again, the dog quit the hunt.

  -He needs a birthday present for his girlfriend.

  -Well, maybe like a blouse would be cute. What size is she?

  They both looked at me.

  -I don’t know. She’s….

  -No problem. Guys never know. Is she like my size?

  -No, she’s big. Fletcher likes big girls.

  -So like an eight, maybe?

  Pete spread his arms wide.

  -Real big. She could eat you for lunch.

  -We don’t really have much in big sizes. You could try Sears, though.

  Here they come—the two raven-haired women. I could see their faces: definitely Persians, definitely not Roya, not nearly as pretty. I felt a wave of relief wash through me. My heart eased up. I shook my head no, but Pete stopped them anyway.

  -Excuse me, this is kinda random, do you know a woman named Roya?

  I expected them to keep walking, but they were friendly and tried to be helpful.

  -What’s her last name?

  Pete looked at me. I shrugged. I’d never thought to ask. How did I end up such a social dunce?

  -Tabatabai?

  -What?

  -I know a Roya Tabatabai. Does she work in a bank?

  -She works in a dental office.

  The other woman spoke up.

  -I know a Roya in a dental office. Roya Shahrokhshahi.

  -Gesundheit.

  The woman laughed at Pete’s tired joke.

  -I know, huh? Persian names sound funny.

  -No, they sound romantic.

  Pete was trying to be charming. I stayed on task.

  -A dental office in Costa Mesa?

  -No, down in Orange County.

  -Costa Mesa is Orange County.

  Always the teacher—I can’t help it.

  -I mean real Orange County, like Aliso. Or it might be Laguna Hills.

  You mean real white Orange County. I could hear Mr. Worster: Persians count as Caucasians.

  -So what’s the deal with this Roya anyhow?

  -We’re stalking her.

  -We’re not stalking her. We’re just….

  -He got stood up.

  The women cooed sympathetically.

  -Ohhh.

  -How sad.

  -Don’t worry, you’ll find someone else, I can tell. You have a good aura—it’s open and welcoming.

  I watched them walk away. They weren’t laughing, weren’t ridiculing the pathetic guy wandering the mall searching for a woman who probably wasn’t here. I liked how they were approachable, weren’t so guarded like Marissa, or shy like Roya. They were like Sharon, outgoing and confident, only gentler. Maybe I’ll find a woman like them. It’s funny how a few kind words from a stranger can feel so good.

  -Did you hear her? My aura is open and welcoming.

  -I think aura is Persian for anus. Seriously.

  The bookstore next door had a display of the top ten bestsellers. I took number two off the shelf and checked the publication date: brand new this year.

  -Grisham’s a machine.

  Numbers seven and nine were his also. Incredible. Three of the top ten. I turned to the back flap and looked at his picture. Not only rich and famous, but handsome too.

  Pete scoffed.

  -It’s all ghost writers. He just comes up with the idea to get them started and slaps on his name when they’re done. I need a gig like that—sitting on the beach, writing down story ideas. I could do it, you know. I got ideas out my ass.

  It was almost believable—Grisham subcontracting out concepts. It’s his setups that matter, the legal intricacies. And the formula. The writing style is forgettable.

  -Anything I can help you with?

  All the hair on the store clerk’s head was combed forward, like he walked to work with a stiff wind at his back. Which might also explain the need for the silver plugs that stretched gaping holes in his earlobes.

  -Yeah. Have you ever heard that Grisham doesn’t write his own books?

  His tongue, too, was pierced. Click-click. He played the silver ball against his teeth as he considered my question.

  -No, but it would make sense. He’s totally corporate.

  -Told you, dude. Totally.

  Pete reached out for a fist bump with the clerk, who motioned to a table stacked high with more number two’s.

  -They would publish his grocery list if that’s what he gave them. Capitalist greed—it’s so wrong.

  Without meaning to, I found myself defending Grisham.

  -His books criticize corporate greed.

  That was part of the formula, after all, the evil, unrepentant executives getting their comeuppance. Click-click. The clerk nodded his head like he’d heard my argument before.

  -Yeah, you read them and think there’s justice in the world. That’s why they’ve got it out front like this. Opium for the masses, man.

  -Well, since you put it that way.

  I returned the book to the shelf and wiped my hands on my shirt in mock disgust.

  -That’s right, bro. Don’t buy it. Just say no.

  How did this guy ever get hired? Pete picked up the book.

  -What if we stole it?

  The clerk looked back toward the checkout counter.

  -Right on. But wait till I’m on break, okay?

  -Dude, I’m kidding.

  And then it was an old-fashioned mall prank: Thrill-‘em Guillam standing calmly on a descending escalator, Spaghetti Repetti scrambling down its ascending partner. A race to the bottom. Holding a slight lead as we neared the finish, I watched Pete stumble and grab the rubber rails, watched his arms get pulled back and up while his head continued forward like a sprinter leaving the starting blocks. He released his grip, and, just before diving face first into the rising steel stairs, swung his knees out ahead of his chest and vaulted the
final ten feet to solid ground, landing knees bent and palms flat on the ground.

  -Let’s see Grisham do that!

  An impressive recovery, and Pete, like a pro golfer acknowledging the gallery, tipped his hat to the security guard who stood waiting, a radio wire curling down from his ear, another middle-aged man in a dead-end job. The guard shook his head in disapproval, but an upturned mouth betrayed a slight bemusement. He put a friendly hand on Pete’s shoulder.

  -Usually it’s the twelve-year-olds.

  -I’m big for my age.

  The guard allowed himself a full-on grin.

  -Usually we page their mother.

  -Mine can’t hear anymore.

  I gave Pete a shove to shut him up and get him moving.

  -Sir, we’re on our way out.

  Leave ‘em laughing, right? Quit while you’re ahead. The guard pointed at Pete.

  -Don’t let your young friend there drive.

  -Never. Are you kidding?

  A little ways down the mall, Pete looked back over his shoulder.

  -He’s not even watching us. Where’s the fun in breaking the law if nobody cares? And now my shoulder hurts again.

  His right hand was carefully cradling his left elbow, just like when we fled Sigrid’s backyard.

  -You still up for the mission?

  -You think I did all that research for nothing?

  All that research meant running a few internet searches. I had arrived at The Cave with Mexican takeout at noon, let myself in, and found Pete splayed on the couch, the stereo blasting, the muted tv replaying baseball highlights, homerun after identical homerun. I turned down the music and tossed him a foil-wrapped burrito.

  -You ready to play private dick?

  -That’s all I ever play.

  -I know the feeling.

  Marissa had kissed me when I drove her home from Sigrid’s party—kissed me goodnight and didn’t invite me in. She was inebriated, Bud Jack was acquitted, and—forget homeruns—I still couldn’t get past first base. Never mind. Doesn’t matter. At least she had exited the car under her own power, and I enjoyed a decent night’s sleep in my bed.

  -Okay, let’s track this guy down.

  Pete fired up his laptop, and by one p.m. we had what we needed. With a computer and credit card, you can find anybody, there’s no privacy left on the planet. A newspaper obituary gave us a date of birth and a former employer. A credit report gave us a street address. Operation Hijack was off to a roaring start.

  The quixotic side trip to the mall cost us some time—we got back to my car in the parking lot a little before four—but Pete was pleased, he had a new adventure tale.

  -Your escalator was too fast. I knew I had to go airborne.

  -You were falling over.

  -No way. I stuck the landing.

  I opened the car door and went straight for my cell phone. Nothing. No messages, no missed calls.

  -Would I be stupid to call her again?

  -No. Tell her you’re in Costa Mesa and you went to the mall looking for her. She’ll like that.

  -Yeah, okay. You’re right.

  I put the away the phone and started the car.

  -No, seriously. Tell her about your open aura.

  Something about the clerk in the bookstore was still gnawing at me. Not the piercings and silly hair—if a guy wants to look like a freakshow, what do I care? I always have a few students like that, it’s just their way of rejecting social norms—though rebellion through self-mutilation, besides suggesting some deep self-hatred, has itself become a cliché. What bugged me was the patronizing way he had nodded, like he thought I really believed Grisham was offering a profound critique of society, like he recognized me as just another Orange County suburbanite, Saturday at the mega-mall, Sunday at the mega-church. No, worse, I was one of Sigrid’s crowd, arguing for social justice but living like a king. But I don’t own a house or drive a big gas-guzzler with a smug license plate frame, I’m not like that. And you should have seen me in the jury room, Mr. Retail-Store Radical, I turned those people around, I actually made a difference, and the only reason I’ve read a few Grishams…I caught myself. Marissa says if your mind goes back and tries to change what already happened, you’re not living in the now. And who cares what some long-eared mall punk thinks about me anyhow?

  I returned my attention to the northbound 405—probably a good idea since we’d left the parking lot fifteen minutes ago and I was the one driving. Pete was still back on the escalator, still crafting the legend.

  -If you think about it, I broad-jumped at least twenty feet. Off a moving platform. And walked away like no big deal. That’s why the security guard didn’t do anything. He was awestruck.

  -Don’t forget how you jumped over that kid.

  -I could’ve. I had the vertical.

  -You’re right, you are good at fiction.

  He tapped his temple with his index finger.

  -I’m telling you, chock full of bestsellers.

  -Let’s hear one.

  -Right now? You want to hear one right now?

  While he tried to come up with something, I took the exit for 710 South and got stuck behind a semi truck doing twenty on the tightly curved transition ramp. The truck’s mud flaps flaunted the familiar chrome silhouette of a reclining woman. The shape of her hair, flowing back from her uptilted head, reminded me of Roya. Everything reminded me of Roya.

  -Okay, so a semi gets pulled over by the cops.

  I should call her one last time—after a few more days, after maybe a week. Because maybe she went out of town for the weekend and couldn’t call me. Or maybe she caught the flu.

  -No, it stops at the INS checkpoint in San Onofre. And when they open the trailer, there’s two hundred illegal immigrants packed inside. And one of them escapes.

  And call her from a different phone, so she doesn’t recognize the number and has to pick up.

  -You listening?

  -An illegal immigrant on the loose in California. Catchy.

  -I’m not finished. He ran away from the checkpoint, so…so now he’s on Camp Pendleton. So they send out the troops.

  -Come on. The Marines?

  I could see it—all those trucks and tanks rumbling around the dusty hills, tearing up vegetation, trying to find a migrant worker before he gets to San Clemente and starts mowing people’s lawns.

  -Yeah, they’ve got to stop him.

  -What exit are we looking for?

  We had an address, we had driving directions, we didn’t have the navigator’s full attention.

  -No, dude, he’s headed for the nuclear reactors. He’s got explosives.

  -Oh, that’s more believable. He’s like give me citizenship, or I’m blowing it up. Give me a job picking strawberries, or Orange County is toast.

  -How about this one: a biology teacher’s smart-ass friend, maybe a fellow teacher, gets brutally murdered.

  I could call her from school. Hi, Roya, this is Fletcher, I don’t know if you ever got a chance to call me back because I lost my cell phone, how are you doing?

  -No, it’s his ex-wife. Chopped into little pieces.

  -Pete, you should seek help, you know that?

  -No, no, one of his students. A cheerleader. And the police think it’s suicide. Yeah, so the teacher starts investigating, using the biology lab to examine evidence from the crime scene. And right before he solves the case, the teacher gets suspended, put on leave, locked out of the lab.

  -Ooo! The principal is the killer.

  Maybe that’s why people write novels—so they can kill off an ex-wife, so they can convict the boss.

  -No, the school board’s a bunch of right-wingers who want to fire the guy for teaching evolution. Including—wait—the dead girl’s mom.

  -The mom’s on the school board?

  -Pretty good, huh? I’m copyrighting it, so don’t even think about plagiarizing.

  I didn’t say so, but anyone can come up with ideas. That’s the easy part. Like the screenplay
I started—the courtroom drama. I wrote half a page and gave up.

  -Dude, I got it. The school board lady wants to fire him for teaching evolution, and then his evolutionary argument proves her daughter was murdered. Something to do with the rate of bacteria reproduction, which can show exactly when the girl was killed. And that proves somebody was lying about when they last saw her.

  -The principal—I’m telling you. No, her boyfriend—he killed her. Ex-boyfriend. Because she wouldn’t return his phone calls.

  -Whatever. The ghost writer can figure that out. I just provide the hook.

  We took what proved to be the wrong exit and drove in circles for a while, so it must have been around five p.m. when we finally located the property—a little clapboard house with a half-dead lawn, once owned by a city bus driver named Jeffers, and presumably still the home of his churchgoing widow and her devoted, car-washing grandson. The house was dark.

  -Dude, this neighborhood looks sketchy.

  -Why, because there’s black people?

  The street was empty, but we’d passed some rough-looking kids a few blocks over. Pete brushed aside my accusation.

  -No, because there’s bars on all the windows.

  And, he might have added, no late-model SUVs in the driveways, no look-a-like stucco houses, no red tile roofs. South Orange County this was not.

  -I’m gonna go knock.

  I opened the car door.

  -Dude, you’re gonna get shot.

  I couldn’t actually knock—there was a heavy metal screen with iron bars, and it was locked tight. Rich people live in gated communities, the middle class settles for fences around their yards, poor folk put fences on their doors. I pressed the doorbell button and listened—the chime worked, but no footsteps, no barking dog. All quiet on the Wilkeses’ front. Back in the car, Pete was glancing around nervously.

  -We can’t sit here waiting for him to get home. We’ll look like cops.

  I suggested we go eat dinner and then come back. But if staking out a low-income neighborhood made Pete anxious, driving around Long Beach almost did me in. While I dodged buses and swerved around parked cars and swore at jaywalkers—the little shits—and slammed on the brakes to spare the life of a scraggly drunk on a bicycle, nearly losing my own due to cardiac arrest, Pete called out restaurants.

  -Mexican. Mexican. Salvadoran. Mexican. I’m sensing a theme here.