“Want to know what you’re playing for?” Joe asks.
We all nod our heads in excitement. “You and your loved one will be whisked away to a private yacht, where you will enjoy a lunch of hamburgers, beer, and brownies for dessert. Afterwards you will receive a once in a lifetime chance to swim with dolphins. Losers will say goodbye to their loved ones immediately. Worth playing for?”
Beth is already crying. She must know she doesn’t stand a chance. Henry shouts “Yes!” and crouches before he’s even standing at the start line. Bailey and Klemi play it cool, but Bailey’s eyes are darting around and Klemi’s hands are clenched into fists. Of course they all really want this.
I turn to Jack. “I am so hungry that I would eat you if you were cooked right, and served with a little garlic butter. We have to win. I need a burger.”
“No problem,” he says. “I was all-conference in ropes courses in high school and I even played intramural ropes courses in college.”
“Really?”
Jack is deadpan. “No. That was a joke. But I still think we can win.”
I blink a few times and shake my head out. A sense of non-reality settles over me. It’s a shock to my system to have Jack here. Combine that shock with the fatigue, thirst, hunger, and emotional exhaustion I’m experiencing, and I’ve lost my ability to separate logic from emotion.
“Then let’s win,” I say. “If we don’t, not only will I go hungry another day, we’ll never hear the end of it at Christmas.”
“Castaways, take your place at the starting line.” Joe Pine orders us, and we fall into place. “Ready, set, go!”
Jack and I quickly drop into an easy rhythm, where he carries the water behind me while I maneuver my way through the ropes. Every time I climb over or under, he reaches his long arms out, and my long arms receive the jug of water. Then once he’s through, he takes the water back.
I become focused on my goal of winning and nothing else. I shut out my competition, and I don’t even notice how the others are progressing through the course. I don’t hear Joe’s running commentary. At one point I hear him say, “Grant is still in this, even though he’s competing on his own,” but that’s all I hear. And all I see are the ropes, the water, and Jack.
I don’t know if it’s our third or fourth trip, but when I pour the jug of water into our tank, our flag pops up.
“And Robin wins reward!” Joe shouts.
I squeal and jump up and down. Jack whoops, and we give each other a triumphant high five. The other contestants stoop in defeat.
After we’re ordered to line up again so the cameras can catch us at a good angle, Joe speaks to us. “Okay, Robin, you and your cousin will be treated to a cruise on a private yacht, complete with lunch and a chance to swim with dolphins. Sound good?”
“Oh, yeah!” I say. Then I look around, and see how sad and dejected everyone else is. They will have to say goodbye to their loved ones momentarily.
Joe addresses me. “There’s just one thing. A reward isn’t complete if you can’t share it. For that reason, you get to pick one castaway and their loved one to join you this afternoon.”
This is not good news. If I have to pick someone, then everyone else will be mad for not getting chosen. I feel like hitting myself. Moments ago I was focused only on the idea of success, a cheeseburger, and time with my cousin Jack. Now that I’m the winner, victory is not so sweet.
They’re all throwing their desperation at me, and the injustice of the situation darkens my mood. Beth is obviously much more attached to her husband than I am to Jack, and she probably needs this visit the way a skydiver needs a parachute. She already looks like she’s curling up to break her fall.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t need it. And it doesn’t mean that Bailey, Klemi, and Henry don’t need it either.
Okay. There’s no way I’m picking Klemi. And I’m not picking Bailey either. Henry is a possibility, because I could use his vote if I make it to the final three and he’s on the jury. Then I see Grant, standing by himself. He lost because he was playing alone. And I never have seen anyone look so alone in all my life.
This could literally be a million dollar decision. I know that on past episodes, while the winning contestants are experiencing their rewards, the other contestants back at camp plot against them. All I could think of before was the chance to eat a real lunch, but now I have to remain clear. Who is the person with the most influence? That is the person I have to choose.
“Joe,” I say. “This is an impossible decision. I know how much everyone wants a chance to spend time with their loved one, but for that reason, I can’t pick one team over another. And since Grant was playing by himself, against impossible odds, I am picking him to come with us today.”
Grant’s face changes in that instant. He goes from being the sad, lonely child to the one who was just awarded the biggest ice cream cone in the history of the world. He runs over to join Jack and me, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Then our eyes meet, and he mouths a silent “thank you.” My breathing turns to liquid, warm delight, spreading from the top of my skull all the way down to each pinkie toe.
I shake myself a little. “Snap out of it, Robin,” I whisper to myself.
“Robin?” Joe says. “Did you say something?”
I look up at Joe, aware of all the cameras pointed in my direction. Falling for someone is risky enough under normal circumstances, doing it with millions of people watching and a million dollars at stake is beyond insane. I inhale sharply and square my shoulders. “I’m ready to go,” I reply.
§
Later, on the yacht, Jack and I lounge in the sun while Grant swims. My belly is full of beef, beer, and chocolate. I’m surrounded by a sparkling ocean and deep blue sky. A warm ocean breeze teases my skin and hair. There’s even a real chair with a soft cushion to sit on. Forget about swimming with dolphins. Right now I could go for the once in a lifetime opportunity to take a nap.
“So, tell me how it’s going.” Jack says. “You’re in the top six. That’s pretty impressive. Do you think you’ll win?”
I sigh. “I try not to let my mind go there. Then I tell myself I have to. But I’m at the point now where I probably can’t win unless I start backstabbing people. Do I want to be that person? Is it worth a million dollars to be a jerk on national television?”
Jack grins and looks out into the horizon. “Very few people get through life without some backstabbing here and there.”
“Yeah, but usually it’s done with a little more privacy.”
Jack squints and bites his lip. There’s a wrinkle across his brow that I can sort of see, but he won’t meet my eye. “This is what you signed up for Robin. I say get the job done.”
“Really? That surprises me. You always seemed like the nice one.”
“I am nice. But there comes a time when you say ‘screw it’ and start going after what you want.”
The image of Jack in a lip-lock with that waitress crashes into my mind. “Are you speaking from experience here, Jack?”
Now our eyes meet, but only for a moment. Then he looks at all the cameras and he looks back at me, like he’s issuing a silent warning to keep my mouth shut. As if I would out him in front of a camera crew.
Jack scoots closer to me, and places a fraternal hand on my shoulder. He speaks softly. “You need to ask yourself what you want. Why are you here? Is it to win a million dollars or is there something else that you’re after?”
I contemplate this and try to form an answer. Of course I want the money, but it’s more complicated than that. I open my mouth to explain, but at that moment Grant appears, climbing the ladder up and over the side of the boat.
“The water is amazing!” he says. “And I came this close to touching a dolphin before it swam away.” He holds out his hands to indicate the space of about a foot. “I’m not exaggerating. Seriously, Robin. You have to go in.”
He holds out his dripping arm. I place my dry hand in his wet one, and
he pulls me up from my comfy chair. But his smile is as warm and infectious as a hot rash and if I’m itchy now, so be it.
I turn towards Jack. “You coming?”
“Go ahead. I need to change into my suit, but I’ll be there in a minute.”
I grab a snorkel and a scuba mask. Then Grant tugs me toward the edge of the boat. We both climb up, but I dive in a split second before he does. Once we’re in the water he swims towards me and takes my hand again.
“Let me show you, Robin. Trust me, it really is amazing.”
So I swim with him and I trust him, even though right here, right now, trusting anyone is the last thing I should do.
Chapter 4: November 2012
Back home in Iowa I am still under water. Only I’ve lost my snorkel, and instead of chasing after dolphins I’m swimming away from sharks. Every week a new episode of The Holdout airs, and every week I dread feeling exposed, icky and vulnerable, like it’s time for my yearly gynecologist exam. I sit on my couch, knees drawn to chin, arms hugging ankles, and I stay like that, a tall little ball of tension, until scenes for next week fade to commercial. And before I have time to ruminate on all the crap that went on behind my dense, closed eyes (and it turns out a buttload of crap went on) my family and friends inevitably call, wanting to know how I could have been so blind.
But family and friends are the least of it. I disabled my Twitter account because I was getting, like, a thousand messages a day from people who watch the show. Some were from fans, but a lot more were from critics, and I was stunned by how harsh people could be in 140 characters. But even on the days when I can forget that Twitter exists, I’m still left with a dilemma: do I go on the message boards, or not? If I was strong and smart, like the Robin I thought I was being on the show, I would stay away. But now I realize that ignorance is not bliss. The more I know, the better, even if the truth stings like salt and vinegar in a paper cut. So I read the comments, and I am privy to America’s opinion about how dim-witted I am.
“Lol! Robin is so stupid! I stopped being fooled by guys like Grant in middle school.”
Remarks like that are of the kinder variety.
“Robin thinks she’s hot shit, but she’s as dumb as a brick. I guess her last name fits her. I can’t wait for her to get voted off so I don’t have to see her ugly face pouting every time some ‘injustice’ is done to her. What a loser.”
So when I get my jury summons, I’m relieved. Maybe I can be an anonymous face, a number sitting on a bench, an audience member for someone else’s drama. Maybe I can have something other than my own stupid life to worry about, to think about, to obsess over. Maybe I’ll have somewhere to be for a week or two, where I am both unimportant and instrumental: A cog in a wheel that turns in the machine of justice. And maybe this time, justice will make sense. Justice will be what is supposed to happen.
§
By 9:00 a.m. the conference room has filled with what must be thirty to forty people. There’s a pretty even distribution of males to females, and there’s a variety of ages present, but mostly I see white faces. On The Holdout they made sure to represent different ethnicities, but this is real-life jury duty in Des Moines, Iowa, and old demographics die hard.
The perky brunette who checked me in earlier this morning walks to the front of the room, turns on a microphone, and addresses us all.
“Hello and good morning! My name is Madison, and I’m the jury clerk for federal court here in Des Moines.” People around me put away their cell phones or reading material and direct their attention toward her. “Thank you all for performing your civic duty by showing up today. This is an age-old process, and the justice system needs you. It may seem like a pain, but jury duty is actually one of the most sacred foundations of our democracy!”
The guy to the left of me snorts in exasperation. How charming. Luckily our speaker doesn’t notice. I would hate for Madison to pick up on the cynicism; she seems so committed to what she’s saying.
“I hope all of you had a chance to help yourself to breakfast treats. If you are selected for a jury, please feel free to use this room during your downtime. You are welcome to use the microwave, televisions, and Wi-Fi. There will be refreshments put out twice daily as well. We want jury duty to be pleasurable, so if there’s anything we can do to improve your experience, please let us know.”
Wow. Treats twice a day, and free Wi-Fi! To get that on The Holdout I would have had to jump over hurdles, or dive for bottles, or put together some impossible puzzle after lifting twice my body weight while balancing on a board half the size of my feet, and I would have had to do it better than everyone else, and even still, the treats would have come at the cost of the jealousy of all the other contestants. Here, I can just go up to the table and grab whatever I want, and unless I take it all, nobody is going to care. I never knew jury duty could be so plush.
Maybe it’s just a federal court thing. I bet county court juries don’t have it so good.
Madison’s smile gleams as she continues to speak. “Right now Judge Sanchez and the lawyers for both sides are upstairs, preparing for trial. In a few minutes you all will be led upstairs for what we call “voir dire.’” She pauses after she says this unfamiliar term, as if she’s just disclosed a juicy secret. “But first we watch our orientation film, Jury Duty and Me.”
She dims the lights and lowers the screen, and moments later the film starts. A woman stands outside the court building in a wide shouldered, bright blue suit and a Katie Couric haircut, circa 1994. She speaks to the audience in a grave yet confident tone. Katie Couric would be proud.
“We’ve all heard about jury duty. But what exactly is your responsibility, as a juror, and as a citizen? And how can you get the most out of jury duty?”
The scene switches to a doctor's office. A nurse is taking a child’s temperature, but she looks up from what she’s doing and speaks to the camera. “I never thought I’d be selected. Once I was, I had questions. Are there rules I’m supposed to follow? And what about work? A lot of people rely on me.”
The woman in the blue suit comes back, nodding her head with downright solemnity. I haven’t seen such focus from anyone since Ms. McCarthy, my middle school gym teacher, explained tampons to a room full of thirteen-year-old girls during Sex-Ed class. “Many people feel anxious about jury duty,” says the fake Katie Couric, “and they’re nervous about the time they’ll be spending away from their work and families. But if you follow these simple guidelines, being on a jury just might turn out to be a fun, rewarding experience.”
The guy next to me snorts again as the peppy elevator music swells and the title screen appears. Then a farmer, standing with some cows against a fence, faces out and talks.
“I really liked that I got a say. Nobody ever listened to me about important stuff before. And on juries, everybody has an equal voice.”
The film continues, and it keeps switching back and forth between blue-suited “Katie”, and “citizens” describing their jury experience. In the midst of it all, some useful information is imparted:
Voir dire is when the jury members are interviewed by the judge and lawyers. We’ll be doing that next.
If you’re on a jury, and you eat lunch or go on a break with someone else from the jury, you’re not allowed to talk about the case unless everyone else on the jury is around to hear you.
You’re not permitted to do outside research on the case. This has to include Google searches, but the blue-suited lady doesn’t mention the internet since this prehistoric film was obviously made before the web had invaded our lives.
Talking about the case is a no-no, because somebody might say something that will sway your opinion. Only the lawyers are allowed to do that.
§
When the lights come back up, Madison announces that it’s time to go upstairs to the twelfth floor for voir dire. My stomach flips a little. I wonder what the lawyers and the judge will ask us. Whatever it is, I hope I have a good answer. I hate feeling stupid. Hopef
ully this won’t be like a citizen test or something. I scan my brain for leftover information from my high school civics class. Who came up with the jury system anyway? Was it Thomas Jefferson? That information should have been included in the film we just watched.
I’m walking towards the elevator when a curvy lady in her late fifties catches up with me. “Do you think they’ll notice if we make a run for it? We could just say we got lost on the way up.” She laughs, and I laugh back.
“Yeah,” I say. “Great idea. But I don’t want to get busted.” I walk past her as I push down my true desires. Hiding what’s inside of me should come naturally at this point. Nobody can know I’m a weirdo who actually wants to get picked.
I make it to the elevator, packed tightly with other potential jurors, and ride up to the twelfth floor. On the way up other people make comments.
A skinny guy wearing a suit and glasses says, “So I counted. There are 43 of us. Assuming they pick twelve, that means we each have roughly a 28% chance of being selected.”
A woman wearing a bright pink blouse groans. “That high? Oh God help me.”
Everyone laughs and I pretend to laugh along. But on the inside I’m making calculations. Surely some people will be excused, right? They’ll act crazy or say they have some conflict of interest, which could raise my chances to around 35%, if not higher. That’s not too bad. My chances for getting picked to be on The Holdout were much smaller, and for better or for worse I was, after all, picked.
We reach the twelfth floor and shuffle out of the elevator and into the courtroom. We’re escorted towards some plush seats in the back. The judge, clerks, and lawyers for both sides are milling around. Once the last elevator load of jurors arrives and everyone sits down, we’re all given a number. Then they start randomly calling our numbers out. I feel like I’m a bingo hall.
When the clerk calmly and clearly announces “fifteen,” I resist the urge to shout and wave my card in victory. Instead I walk towards the jury box as if I’m actually sane, and I have a seat. So far, so good.
The Holdout Page 5