Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  -Just pick one.

  -We had Mexican for lunch.

  I stopped for a yellow light I normally would have ignored, and hoped for a long red, just to catch my breath and get my bearings. It was all street lights, sidewalks, billboards in Spanish advertising bail bonds and liquor, and one dismal strip mall after another. A red lantern in a storefront window caught my eye.

  -How about the Hong Kong Palace?

  -There’s no parking.

  -We’ll go down a side street and find something.

  -You kidding? Hondas are the number one stolen vehicle in California, you know that? Let’s just bolt.

  -You mean abort the mission?

  Usually I was the one suggesting an expedient retreat.

  -We did what we could. And it’s Saturday night—he might not be home for hours.

  -I’m not giving up. We came all this way.

  -Yeah, that’s what Custer said.

  I looked over at Pete. He had his hat pulled low over his forehead.

  -I can’t believe it—Pete Repetti’s scared of Long Beach.

  -I’m not scared, okay? Custer wasn’t scared either. Custer was stupid.

  I thought of Professor Hanson. The way his lisp intensified, you could tell The Penguin loved recounting the Little Bighorn: The Thioux Indianth were led by Thitting Bull. Ththitting there waiting. And then came Cuthter, the real thththavage. People, Cuthter died for our thinth.

  -Dude, we’re like the only white guys for five miles. It’s gang-banger heaven.

  -That guy on the bike was white.

  -Barely.

  We finally found an Indian restaurant—India Indian, not the Custer-killing kind— where we could sit by the window and keep an eye on the car, though it was hard to imagine a thief taking an interest in my old beater. The waiter nodded a welcome, slid menus onto the table, and walked away without a word.

  -Wonder what part of the subcontinent he’s from.

  -The Mexican part. Same as the cook.

  -He probably is the cook.

  The room was dimly lit. There were no other diners.

  -You get the feeling we shouldn’t be here?

  A health inspection notice in the window gave Bombay Feast a big fat A, but the sticky seats and faded travel posters didn’t inspire confidence, and the name on the menus was Bombay Buffet.

  -It’s still a little early.

  -Dude, if we left right now, we could be eating Thai food in Dana Point by seven o’clock. With an extra spicy waitress. And clean silverware.

  -The lamb curry sounds good.

  When Pete turns cynical, my tendency is to counterbalance with optimism, and anyhow I wasn’t seeking a gourmet experience, I just wanted a place to relax for a few minutes while giving Bud Jack a chance to return home.

  -Why do you want to find this guy anyhow?

  -I don’t know. I mean, I sat there looking at him for five days. The guy never spoke a word. Hardly even moved. And then I had to decide if I thought he was guilty.

  -I got it. I know what your problem is.

  -It’s not a problem. I just—

  -Your problem is…you don’t know jack.

  -No, that’s it exactly. If I can say hi to him, that will make him more real. If we just acknowledge each other.

  -He’ll probably tell you get lost, white boy.

  -That’s fine. But if I’m going to judge the guy, I should at least find out who he is. At least try. I mean, I practically held his life in my hands.

  -Invite him out for a beer.

  -Maybe I will.

  -Invite him to school. Class, this is how I spent my summer vacation. Couldn’t make it with the Persian chick, so I tracked down a black man.

  Neither of us cleaned our plates. I paid the bill and we hurried out the door of Bombay Feast aka Bombay Buffet aka twelve-dollar death. The evening sky was slipping toward night and, to be honest, I was relieved to be back in my unstolen Honda with the doors locked. Custer should have been so lucky.

  -Exquisite choice, dude. Thanks.

  -I wanted Chinese.

  -A nice taste of Long Beach. And we’ve seen where he lives. Whata you say we call it a night?

  To be honest, my enthusiasm for Operation Hijack was on the wane. I was tired, my stomach was objecting to the curry, and I could hear Rex Ruffman, the expert witness: Lots of gangs in Long Beach—Insane Crips, Original Hood Crips. It would be pathetic, though, to suffer that meal and then not finish the job. You can’t go all the way to LA County just for the salmonella.

  -We’ll drive by the house. If it’s still dark, we’re outta here.

  Except when we got back to the ‘hood, when we pulled up to the Wilkes home—what I assumed was the Wilkes home—the front window was giving off light. I circled the block, then parked across the street. My mind was on high alert. Why is the street so quiet? Is this Crip territory? Are Insane Crips literally insane, or just a little nutty? I took a deep breath and opened the car door.

  -Dude, you’re asking for trouble.

  -If I don’t make it back, you can have my paddleboard.

  -Awesome. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

  -And tell Roya I loved her from afar.

  -I think she knows.

  15

  It didn’t seem real, it was dream-like, like I was there, in it, and at the same time I was watching from the outside—watching myself walk up the driveway in the twilight, watching myself ring the doorbell and listen for footsteps and look back across the street at Pete crouched low in the car, no doubt with the doors locked tight. It was the strangeness of the situation, my sense of being out of place, so out of place it didn’t feel like me, and wondering what I looked like to whoever might be spying from behind drawn curtains and iron window bars on this oddly quiet street. One thing I knew for sure: I looked white. Conspicuously white. A skinny white guy from Laguna, not even a decent tan, thanks to a week of jury duty. I thought of Custer riding into the Indians’ camp and what it must be like when suddenly someone is shooting at you. In the movies there’s usually a dramatic build, you see it coming, you see a car creeping by, you see a shotgun swung out the window, it happens in slow motion. I caught myself. In the next yard over, a squirrel was scratching its way down a tree. When its bushy tail disappeared behind some hedges, I turned back to the screen door. I touched the rough metal with my fingers and was happy to see the three familiar tendons, if that’s what they are, forming an elongated W on the back of my hand. This was still the real world. It was still me. I laughed at my hyperactive imagination and rang the doorbell a second time. A shout came from inside the house.

  -He ain’t here!

  -Mrs. Wilkes? Hello? Mrs. Wilkes?

  Did I have the right address? No garage, just like Mrs. Wilkes had told the court, and no car out front—she’d said she didn’t drive. I rang again. I didn’t come all this way to be so easily rebuffed.

  -I told you, he ain’t here!

  The shout was closer this time, from right behind the door.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, I was on the jury. For Bud’s trial. Rudy’s. You called him Rudy—that’s what you told us. Short for Durand. Mrs. Wilkes?

  A deadbolt turned and the door opened a few inches, as much as the security chain allowed.

  -Mrs. Wilkes? My name is Fletcher. Guillam Fletcher. I’m not a cop or anything.

  -What are you?

  -A math teacher, actually. But I was on the jury when you were a witness. Do you recognize me?

  There was a pause. She was looking me over through the screen door, looking at the white guy.

  -So?

  -So I was hoping to meet Bud.

  -He ain’t here.

  I guess I’d expected that. Double E Reed had testified that he and Bud drove around in a little pickup truck filled with car-washing supplies, and I’d seen no such vehicle in the neighborhood.

  -I was also hoping to meet you. I wanted to introduce myself. I really admired what you said in the witness stand, the way you stood u
p to those lawyers, you didn’t let them put words in your mouth.

  I was talking fast, trying to make a connection before she slammed the door.

  -I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you in front of all those…all those people.

  I was going to say all those white people.

  -The other witnesses—you could tell they were repeating what they’d been told to say. That’s why I didn’t trust them. I knew I could trust you.

  I paused, hoping she would respond, but she didn’t feel a need to fill the silence, same as in the courtroom.

  -I guess that’s what I wanted to say, that I really respect how you carried yourself.

  Again, no response. But the door stayed open.

  -Do you know when he’ll be back?

  -No.

  A quick, matter-of-fact no, without hint of apology or encouragement. A conversation stopper.

  -Could you tell him I came by? Guillam Fletcher. Juror Number One.

  I’m sure he’ll be as pleased as you are.

  -I’ll tell him.

  I thought I detected a slight softening in her voice, but the door went shut before I could say thank you. Well, at least I’d tried. I’d done the right thing. I turned to watch a car go by—no shotgun barrel, no slow motion—and then saw Pete’s head pop back up. He must have ducked out of view when the car approached.

  -Hey, you said you was a math teacher?

  The door was open wider. She’d undone the chain. Still safe, though, behind the heavy screen door.

  -That’s right. Dana Hills High School. In Dana Point.

  -You must be good at numbers.

  -Not like a genius or anything.

  She was smaller than I remembered. She was leaning on her walker.

  -Some of the Social Security don’t make sense to me.

  -Yeah, I bet that stuff is confusing.

  -Gives me a headache.

  I almost told her I get confused by the teachers’ pension program—trying to calculate how many years you need to work and what percent of your salary you’ll still get paid after you retire—but then, duh, she’s not making small talk, she’s asking for help.

  -Is there something I could look at for you?

  -It’s just a few papers. I got them laid out in the dining room.

  The air inside was stale, smelling of cigarettes and something that had cooked in a frying pan, but the house was neat and tidy. I guess it was true what she’d said in court—Bud cleans everything. The front door opened onto a small living room with worn green carpet and an angular green couch, like nothing had changed since the 1970s, except for the flat-screen television, turned on too loud. Hobbling along on her walker, she led me down a short hallway and through a cramped kitchen to the dining room. Among the family photos hanging in the hallway was a large one that looked like Bud, the same steely eyes giving nothing away, but a sturdy, rawboned face that suggested a bigger man. It was hard to reconcile, I had to think it through carefully—Bud Jack’s deceased father, Durand—because the picture was taken when he was younger than Bud was now. I wondered if Bud found it equally confusing, his father frozen in youth.

  -Usually they just send the check the first of the month and Rudy takes it to the bank for me, but now they asking for more information. One letter—I think this one here—no, that’s not it. Somewhere here they asking if I’m alive or dead. I ain’t been dead for a long time.

  It wasn’t just a few papers, it was several stacks of letters, some in unopened envelopes.

  -This looks like a lot of work. I’m not sure I have time to—

  -You got to go already?

  -It’s just that my friend is out in the car waiting.

  -He a teacher?

  -Yes. Science. But—

  -Might go faster with two.

  I was back in the dream and floating above it, watching myself walk to the car to ask Pete to come into this uninviting house in this ominous neighborhood and assist an old woman we didn’t know with some vague paperwork.

  -You’re shitting me.

  -Thirty minutes, tops. You wanna wait out here?

  -Just get in the car and quit playing.

  When he finally realized I was serious, he got out of the car with a show of reluctance and exasperation.

  -If I get killed, it’s on you, man. And this time I want a real funeral. I want the whole damn school. The marching band. I want you bawling your eyes out, wracked with guilt. ‘Cause this is royally fucked up.

  The screen door had locked behind me, so Mrs. Wilkes had to let us in.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, this is Pete Repetti.

  He followed me in and shook her hand.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, a pleasure to meet you. What a lovely home.

  -Been here thirty-two years.

  -Wow. Is it a good neighborhood?

  What he meant was is it safe? For two white guys?

  -People come and go. The Hastings been here longer than me. Three houses down.

  Again, she led the way through the kitchen, not much wider than Pete’s one-man galley, to the dining room. This time I noticed the postings on the refrigerator door—a yellow flyer announcing a church rummage sale, an obituary clipped from a newspaper, two coupons for pizza delivery. Comfortingly normal. I also observed that while I’d been outside recruiting Pete, another thick stack of mail had made it to the dining room table.

  -Mrs. Wilkes, what exactly do you want us to do here?

  -Just tell me what they want. My husband, Jeffers Wilkes—he always took care of it.

  The doorbell rang. Pete and I shared a look of concern, like maybe it was Insane Crips coming to find out who had parked on their street. Mrs. Wilkes hobbled out of the room. The doorbell sounded again. Impatient Insane Crips.

  -He ain’t here!

  That seemed to be the end of it. People come and go.

  Pete and I took seats at the little round table and began unfolding letters. Behind me, an old grandfather clock, shaped like a skinny wooden coffin standing on end, went tick-tick, tick-tick. I tried not imagining who might be prowling around outside. Mrs. Wilkes, I knew, wouldn’t put up with any nonsense in her house, but she could hardly prevent angry gang-bangers—Incensed Impatient Insane Crips—from torching my car. Incendiary Incensed Impatient Insane Crips. Was my car insured for arson? Stop it—focus on the work. Tucked among the Social Security notices sent to Wanda Wilkes were several windowed envelopes from the City of Long Beach addressed to Jeffers Wilkes and various junk-mail alluvia—credit card offers, discount carpet cleaning—targeting Current Resident.

  Alluvia—that was Sharon’s word for our more listless students, devoid of self-awareness, sleepwalking through their teens.

  -Suburban alluvia is what they are, the poor dears, swept along by a culture of conformity in a land of comfort, south county is one broad alluvial plain.

  Now, I wondered if Mrs. Wilkes felt like alluvium, dropped by the stream of life into this cubbyhole to live out her years connected to the outer world only by form letters she couldn’t follow. Is this her reward for perseverance? And what about her grandson, every day out washing cars so they can pay the mortgage on time—will Bud Jack grow old in the same dreary house, the doors locked tight, the television on? Is this how society deposits its dregs? A desire to be helpful, to show her someone cared, kept me scanning Mrs. Wilkes’s mail, but none of it appeared to require a response on her part. Maybe she invited us in simply to have company on a Saturday night.

  -Dude, this is fucking ridiculous.

  -Shh. She can hear. So can he.

  I pointed to a cheaply framed picture on the wall behind Pete. Kindly brown eyes, neatly trimmed beard, shiny blonde locks radiating a warm glow. Sunday school Jesus.

  -Good. At least we’re not the only white people.

  He pushed away a stack of letters—Pete, not Jesus—and stood up. He was getting antsy, which usually means trouble. He peered out a back window into the darkness.

  -See anything?

  -Dirt.<
br />
  -No hot tub?

  What a trip—last night at Sigrid’s pleasure palace and tonight with gentle Jesus in this humble abode.

  -Let’s get outta here. This place stinks.

  -Let me just finish this stack. Hey, here’s one from the office of Russell Lawson, the defense attorney. It’s a bill—are you kidding me?—for twenty-one thousand dollars.

  -I shoulda been a lawyer.

  -This is weird, because I thought Public Defense was covering the expenses.

  -Maybe the lawyer jacked up his fees. Get it? Jacked. You think she’s got beer?

  He disappeared into the kitchen. I heard him open the refrigerator door, and a light went on. In my head, I mean. The whole story of Richard and company randomly selecting an accused murderer and funding his defense had never made total sense to me, and now this new piece to the puzzle. Okay, assuming Bud Jack had retained Lawson on his own, how was he planning to come up with that kind of cash? Not from washing cars. Did he inherit some money? Was there a life insurance policy? That was another thing: if his paternal grandparents were Wanda and the late Jeffers Wilkes, how did Bud end up with a different last name? How did he get Jack-ed? That one could have an easy explanation. Occam’s Razor: Bud’s parents never married, Bud uses his mother’s last name, and when his father died, leaving an insurance claim to his only son, Bud banked the payout, saved it for a rainy day. Then the police came knocking with an arrest warrant, and for a black man in sunny southern California, it doesn’t get much rainier than that. Or was it something more fraudulent? Grisham’s Razor: when Lawson or some other compromised attorney gets a paying customer from the low-income community, Public Defense writes a fat check on the defendant’s behalf, the conniving attorney takes his cut, then funnels the rest back to the phony charity crew. That was the best money trail I could come up with. For a math teacher, I admit, I don’t really understand finance. But if I was right, Bud Jack might have never even heard of Public Defense, they just used his name. To what end? Does Public Defense exist so Richard and his fellow donors can pad their deductibles column, or are they laundering some illicit income?

  Pete returned, empty-handed.

  -No beer?

  -She’s sitting there watching a cop show.