Richard handed me the tongs, then guided Sammy out onto the lawn for a private conversation. Was he showing him the tree with the broken branch, maybe pointing out the spot where they’d found a discarded beer bottle? Or were they discussing Richard’s hot new idea for reality tv?—Desperate Chefs of Orange County. I lifted the lid and flames shot up around a dozen slabs of sizzling beef. Are they done? How does one know? A few more people, drinks in hand, wandered onto the patio and admired the feng shui waterfall. Not wanting to appear awkward or strange, standing alone while everyone else huddled, I opted for busy. I turned down the gas to reduce the flames, then started flipping the steaks and rearranging them on the grill, randomly, this one here, that one there, move this one over two—twelve-steak monte. I didn’t notice Sigrid until she was right next to me.
-Look at you, Fletcher. The grillmaster.
-No, I—
-Can you make room for these breasts?
I wasn’t quick enough to catch myself—my eyes went straight to her insistent cleavage. Actually, I think I stared. I think my jaw dropped. I think the neighbor’s dog barked—woof, woof, pervert alert!
-No, these.
She was carrying a platter of chicken. When I took it from her, she kissed me on the cheek.
-Sweet of you to help.
-I…I don’t really know how to do this.
I could feel my face turning red.
-Just keep your fire hot.
Here we go again: the double entendre, the ambiguous innuendo spoken for my ears only, throwing me off balance and leaving me dizzy. I watched her go back inside. She has to know what she’s saying, has to know what those disproportionates can do. But is it 1a) playful dalliance, or does she 1b) want my meat?
-Hey, Cal, Greg, we need you guys. You too, Rob. We need one more.
Richard was setting up some kind of lawn bowling and summoning participants. I like playing games at parties, it gives you something to do, something to talk about, a reason to interact, but Richard wasn’t calling me over, and if I abandoned the grill, dinner gets ruined. I watched with a slight sense of jealousy. Richard was dressed head to toe in black, Hollywood standard, and his friends about the same. In their slacks and long sleeves, strutting about on the grass, they looked like an ad for designer menswear. Standing at the grill in jeans and sneakers, what did I look like? A beer commercial. Only I was the one gazing into the distance, and the fashion models were the ones laughing, slapping hands, enjoying the high life. The guys were communing—the male sports bond—and I was stuck holding the baby. Fine. If Richard wants to play with the boys, I’ll work on his wife—who, I reminded myself, had greeted me with an enthusiastic hug when Marissa and I first arrived at the party.
-Fletcher, I’m so proud of you. We all are. This was like the first win for Public Defense since we came on board.
An enthusiastic hug and a quick explanation: it’s a nonprofit organization for helping poor defendants.
-I mean, innocent people go to prison all the time because they can’t afford a lawyer. Or they get twenty years, thirty years, for stealing a bicycle or smoking a little pot. I told Richard, write a check, save some lives.
And when Sigrid wants something—a painting, a party, disproportionates—Richard provides. Though, at the moment, I was the one meeting her needs. I added her chicken to the fiery grill and tried to come up with a good line for when she returned. Sigrid, this meat’s ready, where should I put it? Sigrid, anything else I can warm up for you? Sigrid, should I rub more sauce on those breasts?
-Guillam.
At first it didn’t quite register. Did I hear right? Is there another Guillam here?
-Guillam Fletcher, isn’t it?
A big hand extended. A round, pink face.
-Russell Lawson.
Attorney for the defense.
-Hey, I know you.
-Nice to finally meet you, Guillam. I didn’t expect to see a juror here.
-They needed someone to convict these steaks.
A pathetic attempt at a joke. I was thinking gas grill, death sentence, never mind. Lawson was polite enough to pretend he hadn’t heard.
-You disappeared so fast the other day. Didn’t get a chance to ask what you thought.
-Not guilty, all the way.
He grinned.
-Thank goodness. I was nervous. Honestly, I thought I could lose this one.
-It was contentious in there, believe me.
-I heard. The jurors I spoke to said it was you who convinced them. So I’m curious, what convinced you?
-Pretty simple. My girlfriend threatened to dump me.
He chuckled, then noticed I was keeping a straight face.
-Really?
-No. She’s not my girlfriend. Not full on.
-Oh. Okay.
He turned away from me, probably looking for a way to escape. I’m such a dork.
-No, I thought the prosecution didn’t make its case, like you said at the end. The gang stuff was weak. You took that guy apart—the expert. That was good.
-Yeah?
-And it seemed like the police pressured that Ruiz guy, telling him Bud Jack was dangerous. I thought you’d emphasize that more.
-Well, see, I couldn’t prove the police misled him, and Judge Silverson can be hostile to that degree of speculation. I could only imply it and hope you guys caught on.
Turns out, Lawson was neither brilliantly incompetent or incompetently brilliant, just a decent lawyer who, with a little luck, with the right jurors, found a way to win his case.
-And what about the timeline error? You never even mentioned that.
-Timeline error?
I recounted the confusion over the police lineup and the supposed confession. Turns out, Lawson hadn’t noticed the discrepancy over which came first. Turns out, only Guillam Fletcher, paddling with half-sleeping dolphins at sunrise, had seen the light. Lawson thought about it for a second.
-That’s fantastic. You’re absolutely right, Guillam. Can’t believe I missed it.
Like I said, I should have been a lawyer.
More people were showing up on the patio, people I’d never met, people who wouldn’t be overly interested in meeting a high school teacher, I could tell just by looking. But engaged in serious, sober conversation with Lawson, I felt confident and important, like how I felt when The Sophist shook my hand outside the courthouse. I felt adult. And besides, the hostess had the hots for me—that’s a pretty good raison d’être. I set down the tongs and folded my arms across my chest.
-I wanted to ask you, why did you keep me for the jury? I mean, after I said I thought he was guilty.
-You said that?
-You don’t remember? During jury selection.
-Jurors say lots of things. I don’t worry about that too much.
-Oh, I thought you would, like, profile the jurors. I read—
-Yeah, that’s big money trials, not little stuff like this.
Sigrid emerged from the house and headed toward me, a smile on her face. I smiled back.
-Russ, sweetheart, when did you sneak in here?
Sigrid didn’t kiss Lawson on the cheek and make a suggestive comment. No, Lawson got a kiss on the mouth and a straightforward invitation to help the hostess mix the salads in the kitchen. Which he accepted.
-I guess I’m needed elsewhere, Guillam. Sigrid’s the salad queen. And her chicken is legendary. We’ll talk more later.
That settles it: Lawson was here that night, it was his Lexus in the driveway, his large frame in the front doorway, case closed, jury dismissed. The mystery was pretty much solved. Sigrid tells Richard to support Public Defense, Public Defense hires Lawson to defend Bud Jack, and Juror Number One just happens to be involved, sort of, with Sigrid’s masseuse. A huge coincidence, yes, one in a million, but not a conspiracy. Lawson knows Richard and Sigrid, and stops by their house the same night Juror Number One and his irresponsible friend sneak into their backyard. A twist, a surprise perhaps, not exactly bestse
lling suspense. No death threats, no bribes, no suffering and redemption. This was no Grisham.
-Aren’t those steaks ready yet?
Richard was back, and with his usual charm.
-Here, I better take over. See, these look too done. Damn it. This is expensive beef.
I didn’t apologize, I didn’t say anything, I hadn’t volunteered to cook.
-Hey, don’t worry about it, Fletcher. Way I hear, we wouldn’t be having this little fiesta without you. You turned the jury, right?
-I wanted to ask you about that. About Public Defense. How did you guys choose this particular case?
-Good question. I’m not involved in day-to-day. They stuck me on the board because I give a little money. Cal over there—he’s the guy to talk to. It’s his deal. Do me a favor, will ya? Go ask Sigrid for another platter. We gotta put these steaks somewhere. And pour yourself more wine. Don’t be shy now.
No Grisham, indeed. More like a gossipy television series. And now, in the not quite breathtaking ending, we all end up in the backyard together for a victory party, everyone but the irresponsible friend. I should call him. I had told him where I was going, and he’d insisted on an update if there was any breaking news. Yo, Pete, I’m with Sigrid in the kitchen, and her husband’s outside with his meat getting cold.
Actually, Sigrid wasn’t in the kitchen. Neither was Lawson. The salads had been a pretext. They weren’t in the sitting room, either, where Marissa was talking and laughing with two women I didn’t recognize. Marissa smiled at me, but didn’t invite me over. No need to introduce ol’ Fletch, he won’t be around much longer anyway. I checked the entryway, where a new bouquet of cut flowers graced the antique table. Had the Wilhites noticed the hardcover Grisham was missing? How could they not? The doorbell rang. After a moment, after nobody came rushing to answer it, I opened the front door.
-Hi, I’m Jay.
He looked old enough for Richard’s crowd, but no designer labels, just jeans and flip-flops and shoulder-length blonde hair going to gray. Could be a guest, could be swimming pool maintenance.
-Hi, Jay. Come on in.
He shook my hand and held out a bottle of wine.
-I brought this. Are you Sigrid’s husband?
-No. Her lover.
It just came out.
-Oh.
He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or not. I didn’t intend to make him uncomfortable, I liked how he wasn’t so pretentious, but for some reason I didn’t tell him I was joking. Instead, I directed him toward the sitting room.
-Everyone’s back that way.
-Thanks. Nice meeting you, uh….
-Yeah, likewise.
Why didn’t I tell him my name? Why am I always such a dork? Do I really look old enough to be Sigrid’s husband? I walked down a hallway and met a woman emerging from a bathroom.
-Hi. Have you seen Sigrid?
-She’s not in the kitchen?
As she eased by me, I noticed the south county look: a little too blonde, a little too thin, and the skin on her jaw a little too tight.
-Wait, forgive me, I’m Fletcher.
That’s better. More charm, less dork.
-You’re the caterer, right? Those steaks smell great.
She hurried away. Yeah, I’m the caterer, and you must be Sigrid’s mother, nice facelift.
I was standing in front of a staircase. Sigrid and Lawson were somewhere upstairs—where else could they be? I guess my prefrontal cortex was still functioning at that point, because I didn’t go up. Instead, I returned to the sitting room just in time to watch Marissa squeal with delight and throw her arms wide for a big hug. Physiological certainty: Mr. Flip-Flops paints seascapes. She was kissing him when she caught my eye, kissing him on the mouth.
-Fletcher, come meet my friend Jay. He’s the artist I told you about.
Bingo.
-We’ve already met, actually.
-You’re Fletcher? I’ve heard a lot about you. Dana Hills High, right?
-Yeah.
I turned to check the expression on Marissa’s face. She had already slipped back to the safety of the two women, pretending it was no big deal—her sort of boyfriend meets her sort of guy-friend.
-That’s got to be challenging. But rewarding too, I bet. What do you have, algebra? Geometry?
-Algebra mostly.
-Gotta love it. How’s your summer vacation?
-I just finished up some jury duty.
-That’s right. I heard about that.
-Are you involved in Public Defense?
-No. What’s that?
-It’s not important. So…did you see the sunset last night?
I was hoping he would clue me in—yeah, I was walking on the beach last night, with Marissa actually, or, no, I had an art opening, Marissa was there—but he didn’t oblige.
-I bet it was awesome. We have great sunsets here. This is a great place to live.
-Jay, I’m glad you made it.
The hostess had descended.
-Sigrid, you look terrific.
Another kiss on the mouth. Everyone but me. I interrupted their mash-up.
-Sigrid, Richard asked me to ask you for another platter. I looked in the kitchen.
-Below the microwave. Thanks, sweetheart.
Jay noticed the painting of Seal Rock.
-Sigrid, that’s the piece you were telling me about. Terrell Hirst.
She took him by the arm.
-Isn’t it amazing? Come on, I’ll show you around.
She takes Lawson upstairs, she offers Jay a tour of the house, and all I get is a quick peck on the cheek. Maybe she’s only 1a with me after all. Hell, what do I care anyway? An older woman with a fake body—she’s all yours, Flip-Flops, just leave me Marissa.
I delivered the platter to Richard. At least it gave me something to do.
-Thanks, Fletcher. Thought I’d lost you. Say, how ‘bout Sam—what kind of car does he drive?
-Sorry?
-Hey, Sammy, come here a sec.
Sammy had his sunglasses over his eyes now. The sweater was still neatly in place. He held a glass of wine in one hand and a lawn bowling ball in the other.
-Are you ready, Richard? Championship of the free world.
-Fletcher here can look at you and guess your car.
-No, I can’t. That was—
-Like a bar bet kinda thing?
-No, we’re gonna turn it into a show. Go ahead, Fletcher.
I didn’t know what to say. Sammy laughed loudly.
-Scintillating television, Richard. You’ve been in Laguna too long.
-Just give him a moment. Come on, Fletch, you’re the man.
-Think of something. Hurry.
-Tell him he drives an assholemobile, with extra head room.
-What about the car in the driveway?
-A Mercedes convertible. Two-seater.
It just came out—to my immediate regret. I didn’t want to be part of this. Sammy pointed an accusatory finger at Richard.
-You told him.
Richard whooped triumphantly and raised his right hand.
-Swear to God.
-Well, he saw me drive up or something.
-The man’s got skills, Sammy. He guessed my Lexus first time we met.
Sammy winked at me again.
-That’s pretty obvious, Richard. You’re a Lexus kind of guy. Which is why you’re about to lose the championship. On your home court too.
-Hundred bucks.
-It’s a bet. You hear that, guys?
Sammy headed back to the lawn.
-Is he involved in Public Defense?
-Sammy? Are you kidding? I just invite him to take his money.
-Will Bud Jack be here?
-Who?
-The defendant.
-Oh, right. Bud Jack. I doubt it.
That would be something, though, meeting the defendant. What would I ask him? First thing would be what he was doing on the street that night in Huntington. No, that would be n
osy. I’d ask how his grandmother is doing, and how’s the car-washing, you must have lost some business when they had you locked up. Maybe I would buy him lunch, get to know him, Marissa would like that. I wonder who she’s kissing now.
I went back inside, to the sitting room, where Sigrid was holding court.
-We’ve talked about putting in native vegetation for drought resistance, but you need a lawn for garden parties, you really do.
Marissa was on the couch next to Jay. No kissing, though—they were too busy seconding whatever Sigrid was saying.
-Absolutely.
Jay absolutely agreed about the lawn. Sigrid held up her wine glass.
-Isn’t this white fantastic? It’s so summery, like sitting on the boat at sunset.
-I totally get that.
Marissa totally gets that—she spends so much time on the boat at sunset.
There was a little room on the couch next to her, opposite Jay, so I squeezed in. She held out her glass, offering me a sip of nautical twilight.
-No, thanks. Someone has to get you into the backseat.
She laughed and stuck an elbow into my ribs.
-Yeah, you’d like to get me in the backseat.
-I’d like to get you anywhere.
Marissa put her arm around me and kissed me on the neck. Are you catching this, Flip-Flops?
Sigrid was becoming more animated.
-I had wildflowers, but the gardeners thought they were weeds. And the maid—don’t get me started on the maid. But they need the work, don’t they?
-Absolutely.
Sounds like a yes.
-And try making a living in a foreign country, a foreign language, that can’t be easy.
-It’s not. I lived in Provence.
-I love Provence. Isn’t the light amazing?
If Jay had lived in Provence, and Sigrid loved Provence, what about Marissa?
-I’ve heard it’s wonderful. I really need to go soon.
I noticed Lawson standing alone, checking out Sigrid’s art collection. When he got to the big-breasted mermaid painting, I uncoupled from Marissa and joined him.
-Nice fins, huh?
-Guillam. I was just remembering I saw a manatee one time. Down in Belize.
Strange, but I didn’t mind him calling me Guillam.
-A manatee?
-They’re supposedly where the idea for mermaids came from.
-I wanted to ask you—how did Public Defense choose this case?
Grisham's Juror Page 27