by Emily Giffin
As if reading my mind, Leo turned in his seat and shot me a wry, intelligent look that said, “I busted you,” or maybe just, “Jury duty sucks, doesn’t it?” He had deep-set eyes (so deep set that I couldn’t quite tell the color) that somehow managed to look mysterious under yellow fluorescent lights. I held his gaze for what felt like one dangerous beat before pretending to concentrate on the droning bureaucrat at the front of the room who was explaining what constituted a valid medical excuse for at least the fifth time.
Later Leo would tell me that I appeared flustered while I would vehemently deny it, insisting that I barely noticed him at all. Either way, we would agree that that was the moment jury duty no longer completely sucked.
For the next hour, I was acutely aware of Leo’s every small move. I watched him stretch and yawn. I watched him fold his newspaper and stow it under his chair. I watched him saunter out of the room and return with a pack of peanut butter crackers which he ate openly despite the No Food or Drink signs posted around the room. He never once looked back at me, but I had the feeling that he was aware of me watching him and this fact gave me a strange thrill. I wasn’t about to call it anything as crazy as love at first sight—I didn’t believe in things like that—but I knew that I was intrigued in an inexplicable, unprecedented way.
And then my jury-duty fairy godmother granted my wish. Our names were called, in a list of other names, and we ended up side by side in a jury box, mere inches apart. There was nothing grand or gilded or movie-set worthy about the small courtroom, yet there was still a sense that something somber and important was about to unfold, a tension that made sitting so close to Leo feel wildly intimate. From the corner of my eye, I could see his sturdy forearm crisscrossed by blue veins and was taken aback by a fluttery longing that was reminiscent of that high school crush I had on Matt, and my euphoria when he sat next to me one morning in our musty auditorium during a lackluster assembly about all the ways doing drugs could destroy our lives. I remember basking in Matt’s heavy application of Aramis cologne (which I can still sniff out in a crowd) and laughing at his wisecracks about all the ways that weed could actually improve your life. Come to think of it, Leo almost resembled an older-brother version of Matt, which made me wonder whether I actually did have a type, despite my protestations to Margot otherwise. If so, he was definitely it. And, with this observation, the DA directed his attention at Leo and said with false cheer, “Juror Number Nine. Good morning.”
Leo gave an aloof but respectful nod back.
“Where do you live, sir?” the DA asked.
I sat up straight in my chair, hoping that his voice would live up to his looks. There is nothing worse than a high, thin voice on a man, followed closely by delicate wrists, sloping shoulders, and a weak handshake.
Of course, Leo did not disappoint. He cleared his throat and out came his deep, self-assured voice with a New York accent. “Morningside Heights.”
“Did you grow up there?”
“No, I’m from Astoria,” Leo said. “Born and raised.”
Yes! Queens! I thought, as I had already begun to fall in love with the outer boroughs. Perhaps because Brooklyn and the Bronx and Queens reminded me of home—blue collar and authentic. Perhaps because my photos away from the heart of New York’s riches were always more compelling.
The DA continued, asking Leo what he did for a living, as I thought to myself that voir dire was better than a first date. Someone else asked the questions while you got to eavesdrop. And he had to tell the truth. Perfect.
“I’m a writer…A reporter,” Leo said. “I cover a few beats for a small newspaper.”
Perfect, I thought again. I pictured him roaming the streets with a spiral notepad and chatting up old guys in dark bars in the middle of the afternoon for a feature about how the city is losing all of its character and toughness.
And so it continued over the next few minutes as I swooned over Leo’s answers as much for the content as for his deadpan yet still colorful delivery. I learned that he went to college for three years and dropped out when he “ran out of funds.” That he didn’t know any lawyers—except a guy named Vern from elementary school “who was now an ambulance chaser, but a pretty decent guy in spite of his line of work. No offense.” That his brothers and father were firefighters, but that he never found the family profession “very compelling.” That he had never been married and had no children “that he knew of.” That he had never been a victim of violent crime, “unless you count being on the losing side of a couple fights.”
And with Leo’s last quip, my desire to get dismissed completely dissipated. Instead, I embraced my civic duty with a newfound fervor. When it was my turn to answer questions, I did everything Andy advised me not to do. I was friendly and eager to please. I flashed both lawyers my best school-crossing-guard smile, showing them what an ideal, open-minded juror I would make. I fleetingly considered my job and how much Quynh needed me at work, but then high-mindedly concluded that our criminal justice system and the Constitution upon which it was built were worth a sacrifice.
So when, several rounds of questioning later, Leo and I were selected as Jurors Nine and Ten, I was elated, a state that I intermittently returned to over the next six days of testimony despite graphic details of a brutal box-cutter stabbing in Spanish Harlem. A twenty-year-old kid was dead and another on trial for murder, and there I was hoping the evidence would take a good long while to shake out. I couldn’t help it. I craved more days beside Leo, the chance to talk to him. To know him in some small way. I needed to know whether my crush—although that term seemed to trivialize what I was feeling—was founded. All the while, Leo was friendly, but inaccessible. He kept his headphones on whenever possible, avoiding small talk in the hallway outside the courtroom where the rest of the jurors would chat about everything but the case, and he ate lunch alone every afternoon rather than joining us in the deli adjacent to the courthouse. His guardedness only made me like him more.
Then one morning, right before closing arguments, as we were settling in our jury-box seats, he turned and said to me, “This is it.” Then he smiled a genuine, slow smile—almost as if we were in on a secret together. My heart fluttered. And then, as if foreshadowed by that moment, we actually were in on a secret together.
It started during deliberations when it became clear that Leo and I shared the same view of the testimony. In short, we were both in favor of an outright acquittal. The actual killing wasn’t in issue—the defendant had confessed and the confession was unchallenged—so the sole debate was whether he had acted in self-defense. Leo and I thought he had. Or, to put it more accurately, we thought there was plenty of reasonable doubt that the defendant hadn’t acted in self-defense—a subtle distinction that, scarily enough, at least a half-dozen of our fellow jurors didn’t seem to grasp. We kept pointing to the fact that the defendant had no prior criminal record (a near miracle in his rough neighborhood), and that he was deathly afraid of the victim (who had been the toughest gang leader in Harlem and had been threatening the defendant for months—so much so that he had gone to the police for protection). And finally, that the defendant was carrying the box cutter in the normal course of his job with a moving company. All of which added up to our belief that the defendant had panicked when cornered by the victim and three of his gang-banger friends, and had lashed out in a state of panicked self-defense. It seemed like a plausible scenario—and definitely plausible enough to reach the benchmark of reasonable doubt.
After three long days of going around in aggravating circles, we were still in a gridlock with the rest of the panel, all of us miserably sequestered by night at a dreary Ramada Inn near JFK Airport. We were allowed to watch television—apparently the trial wasn’t newsworthy—but we weren’t allowed to make any outgoing phone calls, nor could we discuss the case with one another unless in the jury room during official deliberations.
So when my hotel room phone rang one night, I was startled, wondering who it could possibly be,
and secretly hoping that it was Leo. Perhaps he had taken note of my room number on our way back from our bailiff-supervised group dinner earlier that evening. I fumbled for the phone and whispered hello into the receiver.
Leo returned his own hushed hello. Then he said, as if there had been any confusion, “It’s Juror Number Nine. Leo.”
“I know,” I said, feeling blood rush from my head to my limbs.
“Look,” he said (after three days of deliberations, I knew that he started his sentences with “look,” a quirk I loved). “I know I’m not supposed to be calling you…but I’m going crazy over here…”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this—going crazy from being sequestered or going crazy because he was so into me. I figured it had to be the former. The latter was too impossibly good to be true.
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I just can’t stop thinking about the testimony. It’s all so frustrating.”
Leo exhaled into the phone and after a long silence said, “I mean, how bad would it suck to have a dozen morons deciding your fate?”
“A dozen morons?” I said, trying to be funny, cool. “Speak for yourself, pal.”
Leo laughed as I lay in bed, buzzing with excitement.
Then he said, “Okay. Ten morons. Or at least a good, solid eight.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
“I mean, seriously,” he continued. “Can you believe these people? Half of them don’t have an open mind at all—the other half are wishy-washy half-wits that blow with whatever their lunch buddies think.”
“I know,” I said again, feeling lightheaded. I couldn’t believe we were finally having a real conversation. And, while I lay in the dark, under the covers, no less. I closed my eyes, picturing him in his bed. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted a virtual stranger.
“I never thought this before,” Leo said, “but if I were on trial, I’d rather face a judge than a jury.”
I said I might have to agree with that.
“Hell. I’d rather have a corrupt judge taking bribes from my enemies than this loser crew.”
I laughed as he proceeded to joke about the more outrageously off-point anecdotes that a few of our jurors had shared. He was right. It was one tangent after another in that claustrophobic room—a free-for-all of life experience with no relevance to the deliberations whatsoever.
“Some people just love to hear themselves talk,” I said. And then added, “You don’t seem to be one of them, Mr. Aloof.”
“I’m not aloof,” Leo said unconvincingly.
“Are too,” I said. “Mr. Wear-Your-Headphones so you don’t have to talk to anyone.”
“I’m talking now,” Leo said.
“It’s about time,” I said, thinking that it was easy to be brave in the dark, on the phone.
A long stretch of silence followed which felt warm and forbidden. Then I stated the obvious—that we’d be in big trouble if Chester, our bailiff babysitter, busted us talking on the phone. And about the case, no less.
“Yes, we would,” Leo said. Then he added very slowly and deliberately, “And I guess we’d be in even more hot water if I paid you a visit right now, huh?”
“What’s that?” I said, even though I had heard him, loud and clear.
“Can I come see you?” he said again, his voice slightly suggestive.
I sat up abruptly, smoothing the sheets around me. “What about Chester?” I said, feeling the good kind of weak.
“He went to bed. The halls are clear. I already checked.”
“Really?” I said. I could think of nothing else to say.
“Yes. Really…So?”
“So?” I echoed.
“So can I come see you? I just…want to talk. Face to face. Alone.”
I didn’t really believe that was all he wanted—and a large measure of me hoped that it wasn’t. I thought of how much trouble we’d be in if we got caught together in a jury-duty booty call, and that we owed it to the defendant to follow the rules—that our reckless behavior could result in a mistrial. I thought of how unsexy my Steelers T-shirt and cotton panties were and that I had nothing nicer in my hastily packed suitcase. I thought about the conventional girly wisdom that if I said yes—and then something did happen—that Leo might lose respect for me and we’d be over before we could begin.
So I opened my mouth, poised to protest, or at the very least, deflect. But instead, I breathed a helpless yes into the phone. It would be the first of many times I couldn’t say no to Leo.
Five
It is completely dark by the time I turn onto our quiet, tree-lined block in Murray Hill. Andy won’t be home until much later, but for once, I don’t mind the hours he’s forced to bill at his white-shoe law firm. I will have time to shower, light a few candles, open a bottle of wine, and find the exact right soundtrack to purge the last traces of the past from my mind—something cheerful, with absolutely no Leo associations. “Dancing Queen” would fit the bill, I think, smiling to myself. There is absolutely nothing about ABBA that conjures Leo. In any event, I want the evening to be all about Andy and me. About us.
As I step out of the cold rain into the brownstone, I breathe a sigh of relief. There is nothing lavish about our building, but I love it that way. I love the shabby lobby with its creaky herringbone floors and brass chandelier in dire need of a good polish. I love the jewel-toned Oriental rug that gives off a subtle scent of mothballs. I even love the lumbering, claustrophobically small elevator that always seems on the brink of a breakdown. Most of all, I love that it is our first home together.
Tonight, I opt for the stairs, taking them two at a time while I imagine a day far into the future when Andy and I return to this spot with our yet-to-be-born children. Give them a grand tour of where “Mommy and Daddy first lived.” Tell them, “Yes, with Daddy’s family money we could have afforded a plush Upper East Side doorman building, but he picked this one, in this quiet neighborhood, because it had more character…Just as he chose me over all those blue-eyed Southern belles.”
I reach the fourth floor, find my key, and upon turning it, discover that Andy has beaten me home. A virtual first. I feel something between sheepish and shamefaced as I push open the door, glance through our galley kitchen into the living room, and find my husband sprawled on the couch, his head resting on an orange chenille pillow. He has already banished his jacket and tie to the floor and his blue dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. At first I think he is asleep, but then I see one of his bare feet moving in time to Ani DiFranco’s As Is. It is my CD—and so far afield from Andy’s usual happy Top Forty tunes (or his sappy country music) that I assume our stereo is on random-play. Andy makes no apologies for his taste in music, and while I’m listening to my favorites, stuff like Elliott Smith or Marianne Faithfull, he will roll his eyes at the more turbulent lyrics and make cracks like, “Excuse me while I go chug some poison under the sink.” But despite our different tastes, he never makes me turn my music off or down. Andy is the opposite of a control freak. A Manhattan litigator with a surfer boy, live-and-let-live, no worries mentality.
For a long moment, I watch Andy lying there in the soft amber glow of lamplight and am filled with what can only be described as relief. Relief that I got to this place, that this is my life. As I take another few steps toward the couch, Andy’s eyes snap open. He stretches, smiles and says, “Hey, honey.”
“Hi,” I say, beaming back at him as I drop my bag on our round retro dinette table that we found at a flea market in Chelsea. Margot and her mother hate it almost as much as they hate the kitschy knickknacks that congregate on every free surface in our apartment. A coconut monkey wearing wire-rim glasses perches on our windowsill. Beads from a recent Mardi Gras hang from our computer monitor. A collection of salt-and-pepper figurines parade across our countertop. I am much more neat and organized than Andy, but we are both pack rats at heart—which Margot jokes is the only dangerous part of our being together.
/> Andy sighs as he sits, swinging his long legs onto the floor. Then he glances at his watch and says, “You don’t call. You don’t write. Where’ve you been all day? I tried your cell a few times…”
His tone is easy—not at all accusatory—but I still feel a shiver of guilt as I say, “Here and there. Running around in the rain. My phone was off.”
All true statements, I think. But I still know that I’m keeping something from my husband, and I fleetingly consider revising my vow of secrecy and telling him the rest. What really happened today. He would most certainly be annoyed—and probably a little hurt that I let Leo come back to the diner to see me. The same way I would feel if Andy let an ex-girlfriend come share a coffee with him when he could have, nearly as easily, told her to kiss off. The truth might even start a small argument—our first married argument.
On the other hand, it’s not like Andy feels threatened by Leo or feels hostile toward him. He simply disdains him in the typical, offhanded way that nearly everyone disdains their significant other’s most-significant ex. With a mild mix of jealousy and competitiveness that recedes over time. In fact, Andy is so laidback that he probably wouldn’t feel either of those things at all if I hadn’t made the mistake of disclosing a little too much during one of our early-relationship, late-night conversations. Specifically, I had used the word intense to describe what Leo and I had shared. It didn’t seem like that much of a revelation as I had assumed that Margot had told him a thing or two about Leo and me, but I immediately knew it was news to him when Andy rolled over in bed to face me, his blue eyes flashing in a way I’d never seen before.