The Housewife glares contemptuously at the Express Messenger. “You realize you just agreed with my original point and contradicted what you said a few seconds ago, right?”
He thinks for a moment. “I didn’t contradict … It’s not inconsistent if you’re talking about … A seventeen-year-old is just a tick of the second hand away from being an adult, but a sixteen-year-old is just a … Anyway.”
The Housewife flutters her hand at him. “For your information, the two-minute difference between the seventeen-year-old and the eighteen-year-old matters not because it says something about the kid, but because it says something about the lack of judgment and warped moral compass of the adult who abuses him. Amanda raped a minor.”
“I get it, but chill out,” the Express Messenger says. “We just got in here. Jesus.”
“I’m perfectly calm,” the Housewife says, and she does sound calm. Overly assertive, but calm.
“We’re off the point,” the Architect says. “Can we get back on the point? Nothing I’ve heard changes the fact that Amanda was abusive. It’s not just having sex with David when he was underage. That’s just background showing how perverted she was.”
The Student raises her hand tentatively.
“Yes!” the Foreperson says, apparently delighted to have a chance to exercise the power of her exalted office.
The Student pushes her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose and says, “Does anyone believe Amanda’s mother?”
Amanda Sullinger’s mother, the prosecution’s very first witness, testified that her daughter never seduced David, that David was a stalker. Supposedly, Amanda was insecure with men, was still a virgin at twenty-five, and, worn down and psychologically vulnerable, finally mistook David’s insanity for romance. I did not believe the testimony and am surprised that the Student raised the issue. Perhaps she is acting only out of a sense of fairness. Perhaps she just believes she needs to participate.
“Do any of you think the mother was credible?” the Housewife asks.
“Sort of,” the Student says.
No one else thinks the mother credible or, at least, confesses to thinking so. The Foreperson rises from her seat and pours herself another cup of coffee. The woman should not consume another drop of caffeine. She is as fidgety as a feral cat trapped in a one-car garage. We wait. She returns to her seat, sets her coffee cup down, picks up the pencil, and starts drumming it on the table. I do wish she would stop that. She looks up, sees me staring at her, and puts the pencil down. She’s afraid of me. Good. That might come in handy later.
“I’d like to hear why you all don’t think Amanda’s mother was credible,” the Student says. “Because I kind of feel sorry for her. I feel like she believed what she was saying.”
“She not only lacked credibility, she was a brazen liar,” the Housewife says, and though I concur, the undercurrent of stridency in her tone will not serve her well if these deliberations happen to continue for any length or deteriorate into controversy. “Why would Amanda let a kid stalk her through a year and a half of high school and for another year after that and then hook up with him? Amanda Sullinger was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a fool. Which is exactly what Blaylock brought out on cross-examination when she ripped the mother to shreds. I was surprised at the DA. Calling the mother to the stand and encouraging her to spout such bullsh—” She glances at the Grandmother and then at me, as if I had not heard the word bullshit before. I have uttered the word countless times. “… I mean, such drivel proves what a bad case the prosecution has. The mother was a liar, arrogant. Both of her grandchildren hate her—maybe the only thing those kids agree on. No wonder her daughter turned out the way she did.”
Several of the others nod.
This last I do not agree with, but I do not say it. I will not say it. Deuteronomy 24:16 says, “Fathers shall not be put to death for their sons, nor shall sons be put to death for their fathers; everyone shall be put to death for his own sin.” You cannot blame the mother for who the daughter was. Amanda’s mother lacks credibility because, like most loving parents in her position, she refuses to believe that her daughter was a demon. I do not say this, will not say this, to my sister and brother jurors. I will not say anything in this room unless I must. For I do not belong on this jury. My presence here is a sin of which I do not repent.
JUROR NO. 33
THE GRANDMOTHER
The heating system buzzes on, the first time in days. The heater whirs and rattles, like an inanimate object come to life but then immediately sent into its death throes. I adjust my hearing aids but can’t shut out the ambient whine of that old machine. Oh, drat! I can’t quite follow what the others are saying. The Housewife is doing most of the talking. She’s a very bright girl, far brighter than I realized. I lean forward to read her lips, but …
“She … with her financial … David’s power …” Beyond that, I comprehend not another word after she turns her head and addresses her friend, the Architect, and I can’t read her lips.
The Housewife must have said that Amanda used her unequal financial status to dominate David. Or is she saying David used his less favorable status passive-aggressively to dominate Amanda, as the prosecution argued? I should ask. I would ask. But I see how they look at me. I don’t know how to explain it. If they find out how severe my hearing loss is, they might remove me from the jury as incompetent, and I don’t want to be removed from this jury. I don’t want to be incompetent. My husband’s incompetence impels me to stay, to make a difference, maybe for the last time in my life. Yes. The Housewife must be saying that Amanda used her economic powers as a psychological bludgeon against David. He couldn’t have left her if he’d wanted to. He had no safety net. The defense attorney established that his parents had disowned him when he married Amanda, because they despised her. They both passed before there could be any reconciliation. His brother won’t talk to him—didn’t even bother to come to the trial, as far as I know. David depended on Amanda for his beer and butter.
But why couldn’t David get a job of his own? That’s what the prosecution kept hammering at. Why couldn’t David get a job? I’ve asked myself that question many a time, and then I ask, does it matter?
The others must think I’m a horrible, uncaring person, abandoning my husband for so long. I’m the only living soul he still recognizes. He doesn’t know the name or face of our daughter, the joy of his life, the object of my jealousy at times when I thought he put her needs over mine. The worst was when he bought her a brand-new Mini Cooper for her sixteenth birthday without consulting me, and there I was, driving that twenty-year-old Mercedes-Benz that had 188,000-some-odd miles on it. Great car in its day, but by then it was falling apart. Oh, I didn’t speak to him for three weeks after and didn’t have intimate relations with him for eight months. When my next birthday rolled around, I withdrew some of our retirement savings and bought myself a new Mercedes SUV the first year the model came out. I don’t know how to explain it; it was an impulsive, imprudent thing to do, but it felt grand at the time. The car turned out to be a lemon. We sure could use that retirement money plus interest these days. Maybe I should have been more understanding. My husband has a daughter by a previous marriage that lasted less than a year. He and his first wife were nineteen years old, and he got her in trouble and did the right thing. He moved to Minneapolis, where she’d been reared, and took a job working for his new father-in-law, who was an electrical contractor. His ex-wife cheated on him three months after they relocated, and when he found out about it, he left and came back to Sepulveda County. Though he never missed a child-support payment, he had nothing to do with his first child. She’s a woman now, must be close to fifty, and still they have no relationship—all his fault. She has two kids and a good job. I wish it had been different for him. He must have felt so guilty about abandoning his first daughter that he compensated by becoming too infatuated with our daughter. I should have understood
, shown more patience. Now, with his muddled, dying brain, he doesn’t even recognize our daughter. He recognizes me.
He and I repaired things after our daughter moved out. Repaired is never as good as undamaged, but repaired is better than Sullinger.
“Do you want …?” the Student asks.
“Sorry, dear, say again?” I say.
“You’re cold, aren’t you. You can borrow my sweater.”
The delightful girl pulls one arm out of her knit sweater, but I hold up a hand. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart. The heat just came on. You’re so considerate.” I’ve read articles about millennials being unthinking and self-absorbed. Not this girl. I do worry that this trial will be traumatic for her. She’s innocent at twenty—a trusting ingenue in the truest sense. Or she was when this trial started. Listening to the sordid testimony would take away anyone’s innocence.
I watch my fellow jurors’ mouths, strain to hear, turn my better ear toward the person speaking, but I miss most of it. Then, mercifully, the heater shuts down. The absence of ambient noise will allow me to hear what people are saying.
“At any hint of defiance, Amanda would become angry,” the Housewife says. “Amanda used their children as leverage against David. Classic abuser.”
“Blaylock used that word, leverage, all right,” the Express Messenger says. “But what does it mean?” He tugs at the sleeve of his sport shirt. Although it sounds as if he’s leaning toward conviction, I don’t think the fellow has a point of view. I just think he likes to be the center of attention, just as he did in high school. Take this acting business. He announced to the jury panel that he was an actor, and at first Judge Quinn-Gilbert seemed very interested in his career, a wee bit starstruck, which surprised me because she’s a judge—an esteemed position. But we’re also small-town folks in this county, and she’s lived here many years. Well, it turned out the Express Messenger’s “acting” career amounts to working as an extra in two pictures and speaking three words in a Clint Eastwood movie seven years ago. He says he works as an express messenger only to fill the time while he’s on “hiatus.” He lives with his mother. I know I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for a thirty-one-year-old man to be living with his mother. Why the lawyers left him on the jury, I don’t know. This is an educated jury except for him and the Foreperson. Maybe they think him a cipher who won’t influence us other jurors one way or another. Well, if he’s a cipher, he’s certainly an opinionated one.
“Let me be …”
Garbled. I missed it. The Housewife’s eyes are gleeful. Why would they be gleeful? Perhaps I’m misreading her eyes. Glee, intensity, fear—how do the eyes show these in my world of muffled sounds?
“We heard Lacey testify that Amanda hit him with a coffeepot and broke his nose—in front of the children,” the Housewife says. “Another time, Amanda got upset that her hamburger was underdone, accused him of trying to poison her, and pushed his hand down on the grill—in front of the children, who were what, eleven and ten at the time? She threw a steak knife at him once during dinner and claimed it was just a bad joke. And, of course, there’s the tuna casserole incident.”
I have the impression this is the first time in years that the Housewife has had the chance to speak to adults about adult matters and that she’s not about to squander the opportunity. Raising three little ones, all under five, must be difficult. My husband and I had only the one girl, and that was hard enough.
“The tuna casserole,” the Student says, “Do we really believe—?”
“Oh, we believe it,” the Architect says. “David and Lacey—”
“Gave contradictory testimony,” I say.
“Not contradictory,” the Architect says. “Maybe …”
“Inconsistent,” I say. “That’s a better word to explain it.”
“The son denied it ever happened,” the Foreperson says. “Of course, he’s a liar.”
“We should put a pin in that one,” the Jury Consultant says. She’s obviously holding back. It’s quite apparent she doesn’t want to be accused of manipulating this jury. Good for her. I do wonder what she’s thinking. The most effective advocates talk—how do I explain it?—don’t speak until after everyone else has. When I was younger, I followed that rule, but it’s harder to do that now. Age is supposed to bring wisdom, but more often it brings impatience.
The Express Messenger turns and touches the Clergyman’s shoulder as if they were long-lost pals, and says, “What do you think?”
The Clergyman tenses up. I tend to look at people’s mouths because of my hearing loss, and I see the older man’s jaw clench, as if he wants to smack the Express Messenger.
“I will give my opinion when and if I decide to do so,” the Clergyman says. “Thank you for thinking of me.” He speaks in a tone so soft and smooth that it’s more intimidating than if he’d shouted. Even I heard him clearly. If there’s such power in his whisper, how much more does he have in reserve? Although the Clergyman is at least twenty years older than the Express Messenger, he’s also a much larger man. The Express Messenger raises a palm in surrender.
“David and Lacey’s testimony about the tuna casserole incident is different, but it’s not inconsistent,” the Housewife says. “Not in a way that would undermine their credibility.” When she begins talking about the specifics of that revolting incident, I’m tempted to take my hearing aids out.
CHRISTINA KELLEHER, CSR
Oh, how I wanted on Sullinger. Oh, I wanted on that case bad. If the cases aren’t interesting, a court-reporting job sucks big-time. I used to work in LA and did some entertainment lawsuits, a bank-robbery trial in federal court, and a murder case involving two Persian cousins who hated each other—awesome. Nothing much happens here in Sepulveda County, and less happens in the courts—DUIs, landlord-tenant disputes, car repos gone wrong, scattered employment-discrimination cases, drug possession, personal injury, and more personal injury. Sometimes, rival motorcycle gangs get into it with each other, and that can heat things up, but mostly it’s boredom. It’s picturesque in these parts, sure. The high desert meets the lush foothills, all by a scenic river. I moved here four years ago, followed a guy who was sick of the LA traffic. We’re no longer together. He’s back in LA, working a good-paying job as a general contractor, which means he can now afford the exorbitant rent increases that happened soon after we left the city. I can barely make my rent here.
Boring days, boring nights. I just want to save up enough money to get out of this town. When the possibility of a big-news, four-week trial came up, I saw the chance to make quite a bit of gwap. I lobbied hard to get on the case. I wish I hadn’t. The nightmares aren’t worth it. Oh, it wasn’t the gore and violence—I’d seen stuff like that in other cases. It was all just so sad.
SUPERIOR COURT FOR THE COUNTY OF SEPULVEDA
--------------------------------------------------X
PEOPLE
v.
DAVID BENNETT SULLINGER
--------------------------------------------------X
JURY TRIAL—DAY 22
Case No. 16-382
BEFORE: Hon. Natalie Quinn-Gilbert, Superior Court Judge
APPEARANCES:
JOHN Y. CRANSTON, ESQ.
Assistant District Attorney,
Sepulveda County
On behalf of the People
JENNA MARIE BLAYLOCK, ESQ.
On behalf of the Defendant
TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS
Reported by Christina Kelleher
Certified Shorthand Reporter
Direct examination of David Sullinger by Jenna Blaylock, counsel for the Defendant (excerpt):
Q. Mr. Sullinger, we’ve been talking about why, on the day of Amanda’s death, you believed the use of force against her was necessary.
A. [The witness nods.]
Q. Is that a yes
?
A. Yes.
Q. Was there an incident involving a tuna casserole?
A. Yeah, but Amanda wanted me to call it “tuna à la king.” She thinks … thought it sounded classier.
[Laughter in the courtroom]
THE COURT: There will be no laughter, no reactions whatsoever from the spectators. Fair warning.
Q. What would have happened if you’d called the dish a tuna casserole?
A. She … she’d say things like I had no class, that I was born in a barn, that I was a pig. She’d say my fat gut proved I was a fat pig.
Q. At some time, did you have a confrontation about the tuna dish?
A. Yeah.
Q. A violent confrontation?
MR. CRANSTON: Objection. Argumentative.
MR. CRANSTON: Your Honor?
THE COURT: What is it, counsel?
MS. BLAYLOCK: Judge, are you—?
MR. CRANSTON: My objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.
THE COURT: Oh. Yes. The objection is overruled.
By Ms. Blaylock:
Q. At some point, when the kids were young, did you have a violent confrontation with Amanda over a tuna casserole?
A. [The witness nods.]
Q. You’ll have to answer out loud, Mr. Sullinger.
A. Oh, sorry. I did it again. Yeah, it was violent. Very violent.
Q. When did this occur?
A. I don’t exactly remember. I think Lacey was nine or ten and Dillon was seven or eight.
Q. About ten, eleven years ago?
A. [The witness nods.]
Q. Do you remember the confrontation well despite the passage of time?
A. Absolutely.
Q. Why?
A. Because it was horrible, painful, excruciating. But mostly, because my kids were in jeopardy.
We, the Jury Page 5
