There are sixteen of us who had our numbers called. The judge looks down at us from her perch. She’s got to be approaching sixty, but with her grey-streaked, thick dark hair coiled into a bun atop her head, the robe she’s wearing looks like a smart fashion choice.
“Good morning,” she says, in a commanding voice. “I’m Judge Sanchez. Thank you for being here today. To get started I need you to all say your names, age, marital status, and your job.” Then her clerk hands a portable microphone to the first guy sitting in the booth. He does as the judge instructed, then hands the microphone to the next person.
This is worse than a citizenship test would be. Do I mention The Holdout? That sort of counts as a job, and it’s a large reason for why I’m not currently employed. But if I admit to it, than I might not get picked. Would a quasi-celebrity be distracting as a juror? I don’t want to risk it.
I decide to tell the truth, but not the whole truth. When it’s my turn I say, “My name is Robin Bricker. I’m thirty-one years old, unemployed, and single.”
Ouch. Not fun to say that out loud.
The judge nods her head. If she thinks I’m pathetic, she doesn’t show it. “Robin,” she asks, “Would serving on a jury at this time present you with any sort of hardship?”
“No.”
She nods again. “Do you believe you could be a fair and impartial member of the jury?”
“Yes!” I say, perhaps a little too vigorously.
Judge Sanchez seems to swallow a laugh, and moves on to the person next to me. After several people are excused due to potential hardship or conflict of interest, people whose numbers weren’t originally called now must come and sit in the jury box.
Finally, the lawyers ask us questions. Have any of us heard of this guy, Mark Smythe? One person has and I wonder who Mark Smythe is. Do any of us work in retail? If so, have we ever had a bad experience with returning damaged goods? One lady raises her hand. What do we know about yachts?
For this one I’m compelled to speak.
“I was on one recently,” I say.
The lawyer turns to me. “Oh. Where?”
“It was in the Philippines.” I inhale deeply, hoping he won’t ask for further details.
He just chuckles. “Lucky you.”
Soon the interviews are over. I don’t know if it’s my darker hair and nerdy glasses, or that nobody here watches the show, but there has been no spark of recognition from anyone. Maybe since nobody is expecting to see me here, nobody has.
The lawyers on both sides write down names, and pass a sheet of paper back and forth. After a couple of minutes or so, one of them hands the piece of paper to the clerk, who hands it to the judge, who hands it back to the clerk after looking it over and nodding.
Judge Sanchez speaks. “Tommy, our clerk, is going to read off the names of those who have been selected. If your name is not read, you are free to go.”
I can hear my pulse inside my head. This is like my college theater days, when I would wait for a cast list to go up and pray that my name was on it. Tommy reads off the first name; it’s not mine. The thin, suited guy from the elevator moves down to the first seat. The second name belongs to a young woman with bright red hair, and she takes her place next to juror number one.
Then, miraculously, my name is third to be read. “Robin Bricker,” he says, clear as day. Woo hoo! Feeling like I won something, I move down to the third seat. I guess that makes me juror number three.
After the other nine people have their names called, and the rest of the people leave, we’re immediately sworn in. We all have to raise our right hands simultaneously and repeat after Tommy, as he leads us through our oath. I swear to be fair and impartial, to the best of my abilities.
My raised hand is shaking, out of excitement and nerves.
I’m a member of the jury.
Chapter 5
The trial begins immediately and it all goes by in a blur. I take notes on the little notepads they supply for us because it helps me stay focused. The case is about yachts. One guy says he got poorly-made yachts and he wants his money back, plus restitution, and the other guy says the yachts he made weren’t cared for, and he wants the rest of the money he’s owed, plus restitution.
During breaks I subtly study the faces of the other jurors, and I try to attach identities to them. This time I’m going to pay attention to everyone. This time I won’t let myself be blinded. I realize I’m on a jury now and not a reality show, but group dynamics are group dynamics, and when it comes down to it I want pull. I want to have my say.
So I make idle chitchat with everyone, ask their opinions in ways that don’t break the rules, and memorize details for later. I’m already thinking long term and this time I’m not going to let a random group of people get the better of me.
The day goes like this: opening statements, lunch in the cafeteria where I sit with the other jurors, the first witness, afternoon break, more testimony, and then evening recess at 5:00 p.m. By that time I’m ready to go home. I check my cell phone on my way out because I wasn’t allowed to have it in the courtroom, and I see that Jack left me a message. We don’t talk super often, especially since he left Petra to move in with his girlfriend earlier this fall. But I expected him to call today, because tonight the episode of The Holdout that he’s in will be aired. I dial his number.
“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”
Jack says nothing about the show. Instead he pauses before answering, and his silence is like that sinking moment when you realize you’ve gotten an unwanted surprise party. “I need a favor,” he replies. “Jessie and I sort of had a falling out, and I need a place to stay.”
I raise my eyebrows and feel my jaw drop. “Oh. You want to stay with me?” I’m sure he can hear my shock.
“All my friends are on Petra’s side,” he says. “And Ian doesn’t have room with their new baby, and so, yeah…”
“So you’re desperate,” I respond. He would have to be to want to sleep on my couch.
“Do you mind?” he says. “It will only be a couple of nights.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “It will be fun to have some company.” And I mean it; after all, even reality TV stars get lonely. The elevator I’ve been waiting for dings and the doors open. “I have to go, Jack. But I should be home in around twenty minutes. Come by any time after that.”
§
It takes me longer than I thought it would to find my car in the underground garage, and then to navigate my way home during rush-hour traffic in downtown Des Moines. I walk into my apartment and barely have time to pick up the stray pairs of underwear off my bathroom floor before the doorbell rings. When I open it I find a very haggard-looking version of my cousin Jack. Pale blondish gray stubble covers his chin and cheeks. His hair is darker than usual, like it’s stained with dirt and grease, and it’s sticking out in short clumps. There are gloomy circles under his eyes, and his eyes themselves are pinkish and squinty, probably the result of a headache.
“You look like you either want to crawl into a hole, or like you’ve just crawled out of one. I can’t decide which.”
He shrugs his shoulders like they each weigh fifteen pounds. “Same difference, right?” Clutching his overnight bag, he shuffles inside, drops his bag by the coat rack, removes his scuffed-up loafers and hangs his parka vest among my many “vintage” thrift-store jackets. Then he moves slowly, laboriously towards my couch. Once there he sags until he’s sitting, leans his head back, closes his eyes, and rubs his temples.
“My life has imploded,” he says. He’s speaking to the ceiling, eyes still closed, as if he’s talking to God. Am I supposed to respond, or should I wait for some divine intervention?
I take a seat across from him, on my green floral print armchair. I wait for a moment before I say anything. He’s like he’s a cat I’ve just brought home from the pound, and I don’t want to spook and cause him to hide under the bed. But after it becomes clear that God isn’t going to contribute to this conve
rsation, I decide it’s time that I do.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He opens his eyes and tilts his chin down, so he can look at me. “I’m a terrible person and I’ve managed to alienate everyone who has ever been important to me.”
“You haven’t alienated me,” I tell him.
He closes his eyes again, laughs a little, and shakes his head.
“Oh,” I say. “You mean really important, don’t you? Top-tier important, like your son, wife, and girlfriend?”
Now he sits up, places his elbows on his knees, and puts his head in his hands. “It sounds even worse when you say it like that.”
I look down at my hands. “Well, yeah, I suppose it does.” With a sigh I get up. “Come on; wining and moping isn’t going to do you any good.” I walk around my coffee table (which is actually a bunch of orange crates nailed together, sanded down, and stained blue) and I stand over him with my arms crossed. “Jack, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. But you have to pull yourself together. Why don’t you start by taking a shower, and I’ll order us some dinner, and then we can eat and you’ll tell me what’s going on.”
Jack lifts his head from his hands and looks at me like I’m a stranger. “How old are you now, Robin?”
“Thirty-one. Why?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t believe that. In my mind, you stopped aging at twenty-three. I always think of you as being twenty-three.”
“Does that mean you’re still only thirty-three?”
“I only wish.” He stands. “Thanks for letting me stay. I’ll try to snap out of this funk.”
I give him a smile and a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll find you a clean towel.” I walk over to my linen drawer and grab one. “Lucky for you I’ve matured a little in the last eight years, because back when I was twenty-three not only would I not have an extra clean towel, I wouldn’t have had an extra towel, period. And the one towel that I did have wouldn’t have been washed in the last two months.” I laugh a little and hand him the towel, and he takes it.
“I suppose learning that stuff didn’t come easy, given the circumstances.”
I cock my head in question. “What do you mean? What circumstances?” I ask this, stupidly, when I know what the answer will be, and I also know I don’t want to hear it.
“You know,” Jack responds. “Growing up surrounded only by males. I’m sure there’s all sorts of stuff you missed out on.”
I inhale sharply through my nose. “Like learning to do laundry? Because only women can do laundry, right?” My voice stiffens. “Ted and Ian lost their mother too, and they’re both capable of having clean linens. They have been for years. It just so happens that my father did a fine job at all that stuff.”
“Calm down, Robin.” He moves past me and into the bathroom. “Boy. I really have a talent for saying the wrong thing lately.” He closes the door behind him and it’s the end to that conversation.
It’s probably for the best.
I find my takeout menus in the cubby by the phone, and I peruse them all, trying to figure out if I’m in the mood for Mexican, Asian, or Italian. But I can’t focus. What is wrong with me?
I should welcome the excuse to play the “dead mom” card every time some flaw in my personality is betrayed. Instead I always insist that my many downfalls and foibles have nothing to do with growing up without her. And the worst part is I don’t know why I do this.
After a few moments the water stops running. “Robin!” I hear Jack call. “Can you do me a favor, and place my bag by the bathroom door?”
I get up and grab his bag, which is heavier than it looks, and put it outside the bathroom. “Done,” I tell him.
I walk away and hear the bathroom door open then close again. I sit on my gray, sagging couch and read the latest issue of In Touch Weekly, hoping there will be no mention of The Holdout or of me. I’ve gotten to the last page and I’m breathing a sigh of relief when a freshly clean, livelier cousin Jack emerges from the bathroom.
“I ordered a pizza,” I say. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Sounds great.” Jack smiles and sits across from me in the chair, our positions now reversed from how they were before. “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said. I know you don’t like talking about your mom.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, not to forgive but to intimidate. If I squint at him hard enough and make my voice sound cold enough, maybe he won’t bring up my mother, or my lack of one, again.
Jack scratches behind his ear. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday,” I murmur and look away.
“Isn’t today the day?” Jack’s eyes widen in anticipation. “I almost forgot.” He looks past me, at the blinking clock on my cable box. “Isn’t your show on in like, two minutes?”
“Huh. Wow. I guess I forgot.”
Jack smirks at me. “You’re such a bad liar. Take it from one bad liar to another: don’t lie if you don’t know how.”
“I know how to lie,” I say, my defenses going up for the umpteenth time in the forty minutes or so since he’s been here. “I lied all the time on The Holdout.”
“Apparently not enough.” Jack laughs and starts looking around. “Where’s your remote?”
I get up and power on the television old-school style, sans remote. “I have no idea. I lost it around a month ago. I’ve looked everywhere, and it’s just gone. I think it’s the universe’s way of telling me that I shouldn’t watch TV until this stupid show is over.”
“Too late.” Jack sits back on the couch and pats the spot next to him. I sit down, and we settle in. I have to admit, watching the show actually feels more appealing than hearing about Jack’s messed up personal life. Jack must agree, because he is smiling and he looks way happier than he did when he first walked through my door.
I understand. There’s no better way to forget about how damaged your own life is than by watching someone else’s stupid, even more damaged life on television.
No wonder reality television is so popular.
The episode starts with a testimonial by Grant. He sat on the beach; the sun was bright and the ocean filled the frame behind him. Grant’s curly hair had grown into a white-man-fro and he had three-day beard growth. But his eyes twinkled with joy and the elements had done little to diminish his natural beauty. Even knowing what I now know, I still feel myself responding to him. He must have learned long ago that he’s appealing enough to get away with whatever he wants. Because, so far, he has. He faced the camera and spoke without regret.
“I’ve been playing this game for almost a month. Before I left all I heard was how hard it is to be on The Holdout, but it’s not hard. It’s easy. All you have to do is appeal to their emotions. If I make them think I’m attached to them, they’ll become attached to me. I give them a reason to be sentimental so they’ll stop using strategy. And every few days I wave goodbye when somebody else gets voted out.” He held his hand up, and waved with a smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled with charm. He’s a piranha disguised as a lovable puppy dog.
Jack and I watch and the loud shimmer of the television hypnotizes and renders us mute. By the time the reward challenge is shown, the pizza is here and we stuff our faces as we relive our victory.
“Wow,” says Jack. “We rocked that ropes course. Maybe I missed my calling.”
“Mmmm,” is all I say as I lick the pizza sauce from the corners of my mouth. I can’t tear my eyes from the screen. In a moment Joe Pine is going to ask me to pick someone to come with us on the reward challenge. “Pick Beth,” I say to myself. “Don’t be an idiot, Robin. Pick Beth pick Beth pick Beth pick Beth.”
But no. On screen I started talking, and I said exactly what I remember saying several months ago. “…since Grant was playing by himself, against impossible odds, I am picking him to come with us today.”
Uhgg! I see that Beth’s face fell as she had to tear herself away from her husband. Even as she cried she shot me the death stare. I see that
Grant barely contained his gloating. I see that Klemi met eyes with Grant for a mere second or two, but it’s long enough to suggest the intimacy between them that I had missed before.
They say hindsight is twenty/twenty. No. Not when hindsight is aired every week on broadcast TV. Then it’s beyond twenty/twenty. Hindsight is Superman, x-ray vision with psychic powers built in.
“You know,” says Jack, “I still don’t get why you chose Grant to come with you. He didn’t even have a loved one.”
“Not a visiting one, anyway.”
“Huh?”
I wave my hand dismissively at him, telling him to back off. “I’m not allowed to reveal any secrets until after they’ve been aired and they’re no longer secrets. Just watch the show.”
Jack looks back towards the TV and watches the commercial for Drama, the nighttime soap that comes on after The Holdout. Somebody is about to betray someone who’s been in a terrible accident after having an affair with a government official who might be a traitor but is definitely hiding a covert identity. “Your show’s not back on yet,” Jack says. “What secrets?”
I get up to avoid further interrogation, and move to the kitchen to refill my glass with water. We already emptied a leftover half-bottle of wine while we watched the first part, and I’m cursing myself for not buying straight-up, hard liquor in anticipation of tonight’s episode. I know what’s coming and I should have known I’d need it.
I sit on the couch as the show comes back on, and I bring my knees to my chin. “Are you okay?” Jack asks me.
I nod my head as much as I can, as my chin is resting on my knees.
Jack and I see ourselves on the boat. We listen to ourselves having a heart-to-heart about what I really wanted. We see me smile as Grant took my hand and led me into the ocean and I swam away with him.
Then they cut to the other contestants back at camp. Henry was taking a nap. Beth was tending the fire and doing dishes, muttering to herself. Then she had a testimonial to the camera.
“I never liked Robin,” Beth said. “She’s a spoiled princess type, and she thinks she’s entitled to whatever she wants just because she’s tall, skinny, and blonde.” I’m so tense that as I hear this, I bite my lip and contract every muscle that was formerly relaxed. Her words are as grating as laughter from a party I wasn’t invited to. “I was only in an alliance with her for strategy.” Beth grimaced at the camera. “That girl thinks way too much of herself.”
The Holdout Page 6