We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

I fiddle with my hearing aid and cup my hand behind my left ear. “Texting instant what?”

  “You can use a phone for texting friends, Instagram, setting alarms to wake up to,” she says slowly and loudly.

  “Oh, yes. I have a clock radio for that. You sound like my daughter. She’s been trying to get me to replace my old flip phone with one of those newfangled phones with a touch screen.”

  “Smartphones aren’t that new anymore.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve resisted. Too many people in restaurants, on buses, walking on the streets—all these people have their eyes on their smartphones and not on what’s around them. The Housewife and the Jury Consultant and the Express Messenger grab their cell phones the moment they’re able. How do I explain it? Addiction. You know, several months ago, I went to dinner with my daughter, my son-in-law, and my adorable five-year-old granddaughter—the light of my life, by the way. Do you know that my daughter and son-in-law had their heads buried in their phones? It sounds nuts, but I suspect they were texting messages to each other.”

  “That actually happens. Two friends sitting at the same table and Snapchatting.”

  “I just don’t understand. I get the sense that with all this cell phone use, people are invading their own privacy.”

  “I feel like technology really has advanced our lives.”

  “Children used to play. Did you play, or are you too young?”

  “I played. Also watched too many DVDs.”

  “When I went to dinner with my family, my granddaughter had some sort of device that resembled a cell phone. They don’t give cell phones to five-year-olds, do they?”

  “Not yet. But there are gadgets for kids.”

  “Yes, she was playing a game on it while her parents texted. I finally banged my hand on the table to get everyone’s attention—an old technique I used when I taught school. Abrupt, but effective. The adults both apologized … and stuck their noses back in their phones five minutes later.”

  The wind picks up. The poor girl is wearing only a light sweater.

  “You go on home,” I say. “I’m keeping you.”

  “No, you’re good.”

  It’s nice to know someone thinks I’m good. “Do the Uber drivers take both cash and credit cards?” I ask.

  “They just charge my credit card when I use the app … well, my father’s credit card. Already taken care of.”

  I reach into my purse and offer her a twenty-dollar bill.

  “No, no, my father would insist that I treat you.”

  “Well, I also insist, and I’m a grandmother, so I outrank him.” I can’t let her pay for this. I still have my pride.

  We stare at each other in one of those awkward impasses where each party is trying to be so polite and helpful that both parties might end up insulted.

  “You’re so sweet,” she says. “How about this? You can buy me lunch at the break tomorrow. The ride won’t cost twenty dollars. Probably half that.”

  “If we’re still deliberating by lunchtime, it’s a bargain.”

  “Well, if we’re not, you can buy me a farewell coffee.”

  “It’s still a bargain.”

  “Awesome.” She inhales. “Do you actually think we’ll be done by lunch? Because I’m worried that … Oh, don’t answer that.”

  I’m not sure of the rules, either.

  “It’s just that I saw the ESPN documentary on the O. J. Simpson trial, and then I watched the series from the guy who made the Glee TV show. African Americans on that jury got such a bad name for rushing to judgment. To be honest, it kind of embarrassed me.”

  “A different time,” I say, though I don’t disagree with her. In fact, I agree with her wholeheartedly about the Simpson jury. He was acquitted because of reverse racism.

  The Uber arrives quickly. Bravo technology, because it’s chilly outside. The Student helps me into the car while the driver puts my cane in the trunk. She looks at me as if she’s about to cry, then gives me a gentle hug.

  “Maybe you can visit me after it’s over,” I say.

  “Absolutely.”

  We both know we’ll never intentionally see each other again, and that’s too bad. I suspect it’s like a close-knit group of soldiers after the war ends.

  I can’t really explain it, but it’s odd how, of all the jurors, the Student is closest to me. She seems the least likely of allies. She’s the youngest on the jury, while I’m the eldest. She’s black, while I’m a WASP through and through. She’s a technological whiz, while I’m a Luddite. I know who Rosalind Russell is, and she doesn’t. On the surface, the other jurors are more like me. The Clergyman is younger than I, but closest in age and also apparently reserved and proper. Yet the man has the personality of a poached salmon. The Jury Consultant, Architect, and Housewife all have backgrounds much more similar to mine, yet we seem to have nothing in common. I’m neither a divorced professional woman on the prowl nor a mother with mewling little kids. The Express Messenger hasn’t matured a whit since he was a student at my high school. The Foreperson … Let me amend what I said. I have more in common with the Student than I have with the Foreperson, who got chosen for that job out of pity.

  The Student and I do have something in common. We’re both minorities. I’ve only lately become such—I’ve gotten old. It’s the qualitative, not the chronological, aging that matters. I have the ills of a woman ten years my senior. The hearing loss, the arthritis in the hips and knees. Not all seventy-eight-year-old women become afflicted with such ailments, but I’m one of the unlucky ones. My son-in-law’s mother is eighty-two, and she’s complaining that her tennis game has suffered because she got shin splints from jogging.

  The Uber driver drops me in front of my house. The moment I walk inside, my husband’s attendant, a sweet Filipina, says, “He wants to dance.”

  “I’m sorry, Ligaya,” I say. I’m sorry because my husband wants to dance with me, but when I’m not around, any woman will do. A moment later, he comes out of the bedroom wearing a big smile and waltzes with an invisible partner, his eyes twinkling like a bewildered toddler’s. But unlike a toddler, whose bewilderment is the precursor to clarity, my husband will never see anything clearly again.

  Now he starts humming “Moon River” and beckons me over. We had our troubles, but one step in healing our marriage was a ballroom dancing class he insisted we take—which amused me, because before then, he had two left feet. We both loved to dance. I can barely manage it these days with my aches and pains, but he still moves nimbly. This love of the dance is an artifact of who he was, a reminder that elements of his essential personality endure for now. We’re quite a complementary pair. At eighty-one, he remains physically strong, while at seventy-eight, my body is failing. His mind has deteriorated into dementia’s dross, while mine sees our tragedy in cruel clarity. Still humming, he approaches me and bows. I curtsy, and he takes me in his arms, the part of his brain that remembers gentleness still intact. We dance.

  JUROR NO. 1

  THE FOREPERSON

  Sinatra jumps in my lap, making me make a typo.

  “Oooh, you naughty boy, Sin-Sin! Ooh, you naughty kitty!”

  Sinatra meows. I named him Sinatra because he’s part Siamese and he has blue eyes. He was five when I got him—old—so he’s Old Blue Eyes, meaning Sinatra, get it? Everything was wrong with him when I got him: a UTI, fleas, worms—yuck!—you name it, but I nursed him back to health. My tabby, Melody, loves him. My black kitten, Teddy, doesn’t like Sin-Sin. It’s Teddy’s fault. He’s an adolescent, annoying, always wanting to play, and Sinatra has no patience for it.

  Phew. Tomorrow morning, it’ll all be over. Phew! Hard to believe. Phew. Why am I feeling sad? But it’s kind of sad. I’ve done public service, done good. Day after tomorrow, it’s back to work at the insurance agency. Not much public service in the records department. Maybe I’ll look for a
nother job in an animal shelter or something. I could start that pet-sitting business I’ve always talked about. The problem with that is, I doubt I can get the permits, and my son says no, the house already stinks of cat pee. He doesn’t live here, so what business is it of his? It’ll be tough. Real tough. Who wants to hire a fifty-six-year-old with only two years of community college? It won’t be enough that I’m good with animals. Maybe I should learn QuickBooks. I’ll learn QuickBooks and work as a bookkeeper, maybe for a vet or in a shelter. If I had the money to quit my job and go back to school, I could become an architect. I have a better eye than her.

  The folks at work are going to want to hear all about it. I’ll be a rock star. I’m the jury foreperson in the Sullinger case. If any of the guys get into the sex part, I won’t tolerate it. I’ll report them to HR.

  Are we doing right by Amanda? The trial lasted so long, and to only be out a day, less than a day? Us jurors must take the process seriously. That’s what the judge instructed. Are we doing that? I hope so. Maybe this isn’t a hard case. Two words make this an easy case: Lacey Sullinger.

  “You be a good boy,” I say to Sinatra, who starts purring. I hit the backspace key, delete Sinatra’s typo, and retype my name in the search box. I’m curious about my brother and sister jurors. Yeah, the judge said to stay off the internet, but we’re human, right? Anyway, I’m not looking at articles about the case or anything, just stuff about the other jurors.

  The results come up. I don’t have more than a page of search results about me, and they just mention my address, age, relatives. Phone book stuff. I guess that’s because us jurors are anonymous and our names aren’t linked with the trial yet. I’m Juror No. 1. You’d think the reporters would discover our names. But maybe they don’t print our info out of ethics. After the trial, I’ll give some interviews and let them use my name; then I bet I’ll have thousands of Google hits. What’s the harm in giving the reporters my name? We’re letting David go free, so he’s not going to come and kill me, right? Then again, his crazy son, Dillon … I’ll cross that bridge tomorrow.

  Nothing much comes up about the Grandmother except, a long time ago, she won some awards for teaching. The Architect doesn’t have that many more hits than me, just testimony in front of planning commissions of small cities and towns. Most of them I haven’t heard of. There’s a reference to her ex-husband, who’s a real famous architect, not like her. The Housewife has quite a few hits, believe it or not, like alumni events for her college and volunteering for her kids’ preschool and some charity stuff for soldiers overseas. Her husband is a computer software developer or something. The Student has her school events and social media page listed, but that’s it. From reading this stuff, she’s just a kid. Sexy pictures of her friends, big group hugs with others in her dorm, all the boring stuff that college kids do. But how would I know, because I didn’t do them and my son refuses to try college.

  The Jury Consultant has the most Google hits, because she’s dealt with a ton of trials. Not much about her personally, except on her web page. PhD, the most educated of the bunch.

  The search of the Express Messenger returns the phone book info plus his two movie appearances on IMDB, but other than that, he’s like me, nothing special.

  Last, I search the Clergyman. Everyone introduced themselves with first and last names when we were first empaneled, so finding out stuff about them was easy. The Clergyman only gave his first name. But I’m a creative girl, so I type in his first name and “Methodist minister” and “Sepulveda County” in the search box, scan the results, and voila! as the French say. He had a big fight with the Methodist hierarchy over gay rights. He’s pro same-sex marriage. Good for him. I would’ve thought the opposite just by looking at him.

  “Wowie, Sin-Sin, the Clergyman’s Google presence beats everyone! Hundreds of hits. Who knew, big old, sweet old kitty cat?”

  Sinatra shuts his eyes for a moment and purrs again.

  “I hope nobody catches Mama doing this. I don’t think it’s illegal, because Mama is an honest foreperson.”

  Sinatra looks up at me, demanding a caress. “You’re such a needy kitty,” I say as I stroke his cheek.

  “Why didn’t this stuff about the minister come out in voir dire, Sinatra?”

  My kitty has no better answer than I do. I guess, the lawyers didn’t ask the right questions, though they did with the rest of us.

  “He’s quite the political activist,” I say. “Environment, children’s rights, interracial harmony, charities, and the pro-gay stuff. Why didn’t that come out? Maybe it did and I wasn’t paying attention at that moment. But I was paying attention, because I wanted to get on the jury, and good jurors pay attention. I had to sweat it out because I was first in the box. Juror number one.” I stroke the cat behind the ear. “Just like you’re kitty number one.”

  There are quite a few photos of the Clergyman doing his thing. Planting trees in a new park in the inner city. Schmoozing at some fund-raisers. Flashing broad smiles, which he hasn’t done once as a juror.

  “Is this the same guy, Sinatra? Or did we get his evil twin?”

  Then I see the next image and want to pee my pants. I zoom in to make the photo bigger. Do the lawyers know about this? Does the judge? They can’t know, or …

  I hit the print button and hop out of my chair. Poor Sinatra flies into the air and onto the floor. He looks at me like I betrayed him.

  I pick him up and rub my face against his. “I’m so sorry, Sinny. Mama just discovered something important. At least, I think so.” Carrying him in my arms, I go over to the printer and grab the page. The photo is just as unbelievable in hard copy as it is on the screen. More so. I’m hit with a weird feeling in my chest, and I know why. There’s something about holding the truth in your hands, actually touching it.

  THE PARALEGAL

  SAUL MEADE

  Jenna and I don’t speak on the ride back to the Sepulveda Deluxe Suites, a three-diamond-rated hotel, best in the county. Always put on a good face for the limo driver to keep those passenger ratings up. The nonpartner-partner and the associate are staying at a two-diamond downtown near the courthouse, where we also rented a suite we use for a war room. The area is an unnerving combination of rundown and deserted, with a high crime rate. Every time they go back there late at night, I worry about them. Not that I feel much safer in our area, with all the kooks who stalk Jenna, but at least we have a river view.

  As soon as we get inside the room, Jenna says, “I’m going to pack.”

  She’s probably making the right decision. A defense verdict, and we’re out of here tomorrow.

  Jenna likes to pack in private, so I go into the living area and mindlessly check the national news on my cell phone. Nothing encouraging there.

  One reason I stopped pursuing my PhD was how it was affecting my worldview. I love literature, and yet, the theory in which I was steeped started from the premise that there is no literature but only the reader’s interpretation of it, which is unstable. If that’s true, then there’s no Holy Bible, no Constitution—in other words, no fixed laws of God or man. Those conclusions were fine with me; they reflected my progressive view of the world and politics. But then I came to a troubling realization: if our interpretation of texts is subjective, maybe our impressions of other people are as well. Which would mean that “real” human beings are no more real than characters in books. Look at David and Amanda Sullinger. Their public lives were interpreted one way and their private lives quite another. Which was true? Both? Neither? Even their children don’t agree. Which leads me to ask, Did I make up Jenna Blaylock, or at least the Jenna Blaylock that I loved? Did she make me up? Do our separate stories no longer converge?

  I don’t want the people I love to be stories, dammit. I don’t want my life to be nothing more than theory.

  Jenna comes into the room. She’s dressed in her designer cotton blouse from court, her bra,
and nothing at all from the waist down. After so many years of marriage, this doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just the way she feels comfortable. In the early days, I found the contrast between the fully clothed top and the nude bottom raw and enticing. These days, I can’t allow that, because she doesn’t allow it. Another reinterpretation of each other.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Looking at my cell phone.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Why would I be?” This answer is, in a nutshell, indicative of one of our problems: Jenna uses questions to attack; I use them to deflect.

  “I’m sorry I treated you that way, Saul. I don’t know why I do it. It’s just that all the pressure, all the obligations, too much to drink … I’ve got to stop drinking so much. You know I couldn’t have done it without you. I can’t do any of it without you, you’re so brilliant. I need you, Saul.”

  My ego is still big enough to believe the last part. I want to ask, Is that why you keep me around? Because I’m good at legal research and writing? I’ve asked as much in my more vulnerable moments. At this moment, I’m not feeling vulnerable.

  She leans back on the doorsill and crosses her private-trainer-shapely legs, and I try not to stare. Jesus, she’s been my wife for years, and I try not to stare.

  “Do you truly believe the jury could convict?” she asks. Her eyes are half shut, her lips pressed together in what might be a tight smile or a mild grimace, or a pensive look, as if she’s seriously considering the possibility of losing.

  “I think you have it won,” I say truthfully. “Ninety-nine point nine-nine percent. Sorry I spoiled our dinner.”

  “Just ninety-nine point nine-nine percent? Not a hundred?” The sly smile and the melodious lilt convey that I gave the right answer. Then “Are you staring at my pussy?”

  These words could be an observation, an accusation, or an invitation. So here it is: My abandoned field of endeavor practically applied in all its Derridean, Foucauldian, Kristevaean glory to whether I should make a move. My half-nude wife is an ambiguous text whose meaning depends on the listener’s (meaning my) subjective response. In recent years, I haven’t been very good at making meaning between Jenna and me. I decide on “I’m looking at every bit of you. A man would be a fool not to.”