Ten’s a real-estate agent; I remember that from yesterday. This is his third jury duty in two years. One was for state court, and the other was for county. So now he’s doing federal. It’s rare that each type of court would contact someone in such a short amount of time but he’s living proof that it can happen. The system just really likes him, I guess. Now he stares at me with squinted eyes and I pretend not to notice. Maybe he watches The Holdout. Maybe he knows who I am. But that doesn’t mean I have to give him an opening.
Finally Tommy the clerk, as cute and bright as a candy apple, comes to get us.
“Good morning, everyone! Your presence has been requested.”
We put our phones down. I grab my court-sanctioned notebook and my bottle of water. We make our way into the hallway, and get in numerical order.
Tommy the clerk goes inside first.
“All rise for the jury!”
And everybody stands up. I should enjoy this. It will probably be the only time in my entire life that a room full of people will rise just because I’m entering it.
The trial certainly isn’t as interesting as the ones I watch on TV, like on The Good Wife. There’s no Josh Charles-type lawyer, the handsome bad-boy in good-boy clothes, who comes in to plead the innocence of the mentally ill woman accused of murdering her philandering husband because a drug company gave her harmful medication and her swimming pool was emitting poisonous insecticides, which proves negligence by the neighborhood association.
No, this case is about yachts.
Here’s what I’ve learned so far: One of Iowa’s multi-millionaires, Mark Smythe, has a son, Silas, who is fascinated with yachts. Several years ago, before the recession, Silas decided he wanted to buy and sell high-end, wooden yachts. He hired a company in Greece to craft the yachts for him. He found a shipyard in Florida to which the yachts could be shipped. From Florida he transported the yachts all around the country to boat shows. He sold several yachts that way, but he was unable to sell all of the original hundred that he had ordered. These yachts went for a million dollars each. Then some of them started to show flaws, specifically cracks in the hull, which is the foundation of the boat. One sank (nobody was on it when that happened.)
Mark Smythe is suing the Greek company, Potenza, for the cost of all the boats, plus lost wages and expenses from marketing them. Potenza is countersuing, saying that the Smythes didn’t store the boats correctly, and they’re making all this up because the real reason the boats didn’t sell was that the recession hit. They say the Smythes owe them for several boats for which they have not been paid.
Yesterday Mark Smythe testified. Today it’s Silas’s turn.
He’s sworn in and he sits down in the witness box. The Smythes' lawyer, a generic white-haired expensive-suit sort of guy, questions him.
Silas’s testimony begins with questions from his lawyer about his age, his background, and his personal life. The lawyers ask all the witnesses these questions, as if they were a candidate for Match.com rather than part of a multi-million dollar civil suit. Silas is thirty-two, majored in Peace Studies at Grinnell (the Ivy League of the Midwest), and he’s worked for his dad ever since graduation. Oh, and he’s single. Now he sits with excellent posture and answers all the questions with rosy, dimpled cheek eagerness.
“Selling yachts from Iowa, that’s sort of unusual, is it not?” asks the lawyer.
“Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve been fascinated with water and maritime activities.” Silas’s voice reminds me of caramel and pretzels, sweet yet salty, smooth yet sticky. Like every word he says is infused with entitlement, but he’s packaging it all in self-deprecation and handsome good humor.
“And you’re lucky to have a father who can subsidize your interests, are you not?”
Silas brushes his dark bangs out of his eyes. “I won’t pretend to be something I’m not. I realize people resent guys like me, a trust-fund kid who’s never had to hold down a real job. Boating is my passion but it isn’t just a hobby. I was pursuing a legitimate business venture and I cared deeply about the integrity of those yachts. I’m not here for the money as much as I am for justice.”
I look down and write in notebook: Pretty boy rich kid used dad’s money to fund yachts. Pissy because it wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be to sell them.
Then I read what I wrote and cross it out. The judge asked me if I could be fair and impartial, and I said yes. So instead I write: Wealthy son who likes yachts is upset when he can’t sell them because they were damaged.
The lawyer scratches his forehead, as if he’s just now thinking up his next question. “What about the claim that you stored the yachts incorrectly?”
Silas sighs as if he’s spent his whole life rehearsing for this moment. “These yachts were selling for a million dollars each. They should be able to withstand the elements. I can’t fathom how a little bit of sun, or a few weeks in the water, justifies cracks in the hull. We’re not talking about cosmetic damage! The flaws in these boats were both structural and dangerous.”
The lawyer nods gravely. To my left, Four scribbles fervently in her notebook. I’m tempted to look over and see what it is that she’s writing, but I don’t want to mooch off the smart kid’s notes.
The testimony goes on. They show us pictures of yachts—how they looked when they were new, and how they looked once they were damaged. The cool part is there is a screen in front of each juror’s chair, like we’re all flying first class. The lawyers have some electronic port where they can put the pictures up, and display them on all our screens. We see beautiful, golden brown yachts glistening with fresh varnish. We also see cracked, damaged yachts. They’re broken and ugly, past redemption, a cautionary tale of great boat potential gone wrong.
After a couple of hours worth of testimony about hull cracks and damning emails on how badly the boats were selling, the judge tells us to go to lunch.
Back in the break room, the jurors grab their phones and bags as they prepare to leave.
“Okay, we’re all still here, so I can say this,” Four declares. “Silas Smythe is kind of hot!”
Two giggles and Twelve laughs her loud, braying guffaw.
“I agree!” says Six. “He reminds me of a younger, American, Pierce Brosnan.”
“Totally!” Two grabs her purse and puts on her jacket “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty magnetic.” I say this not so much because I think it’s true, but because I’m trying to be “one of the girls”. However, the only response I get for my comment is a raised eyebrow and smirk from Ten.
“Where are we going for lunch today?” Asks Twelve.
All the female jurors, except for Seven, who brought her lunch, decide to walk a couple of blocks to an Asian restaurant.
“Are you coming?” Six asks me.
“You all go ahead,” I say. “With all the treats we’ve been served, I’m not really hungry.”
The ladies shrug and exit toward the elevators, rice, and overpriced pot-stickers. I use the bathroom, pretend to make a phone call, and wait for the break room to clear out so I can raid whatever is left of the treat table. They’ll put something new out in the afternoon anyway, so it’s not like I’m committing a crime.
But when I reenter, Ten is still sitting there, reading a copy of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.
“A little light reading?” I ask.
“My boss is requiring it,” he responds, without looking up.
“Oh.” I grab a water, an apple, and another breakfast pastry. Not the best lunch ever, but it will do.
Ten raises one eye from his reading and without judgment, observes my pillage of the treat table. “I thought you said you weren’t hungry,” he says in a gravelly voice.
I toss a diplomatic smile towards Ten, but he doesn’t notice because he’s back to looking at his book. “I was just embarrassed,” I say. “Money’s been tight lately, so if I can score some free food, all the better.”
Ten uses both
his eyes to look up at me now. His mouth twitches and he subtly tips his head.
I bite my apple and juice drips down my chin. “What?” I demand.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” His tone, his face, and everything about him suggest that he’s indifferent to me, which makes it tempting to tell him who I am.
But I don’t confess. I give him a close look even though I know we’ve never met. The collar of his tan oxford shirt is so tidy against his tan skin, like they were color-coordinated to go with each other. His light brown hair is short, like a shorn animal, and his eyes are neither small nor large, just medium-sized brown dots that never rest in a face that is otherwise still. Then he smiles and I remember why yesterday he struck me as semi-interesting. It’s the sort of smile you could use for a flashlight, were the power to suddenly go out.
“I don’t think so,” I reply, making my tenor soft, like yogurt.
“You seem really familiar.”
I could say something about The Holdout, and I would if I was an idiot and I wanted everyone on the jury to know about me. Instead, I wrap a napkin around my muffin and put it in my purse. With my water bottle in one hand and my partially eaten apple in another, I raise both arms in a sort of goodbye gesture.
“Wow,” I say. “Sitting so long in one spot turns my legs into a pair of temperamental toddlers.” I kick and twitch my legs a little to reinforce my point. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Ten looks outside the large picture window. “It looks kind of cold and rainy for a walk.”
“I’ll be fine! Enjoy your lunch.”
He smiles and thanks me, even though he obviously isn’t eating a lunch, and I make my smooth, stupid exit into the sleeting November afternoon.
§
After lunch the defense finishes their cross-examination of Silas. Then it’s time for Robert McDougal, the business manager of Smythe Company, to testify. Although I’m sitting too far away to know, he looks like the kind of guy who wears too much cologne and spends his secret alone time in his own tanning bed. But he’s good looking and polished enough that he could be in politics if he wasn’t the human version of Guy Smiley, that game-show host Muppet on Sesame Street.
His testimony reveals that he’s married to Mark Smythe’s daughter, so he’s not just the business manager, he’s also the son-in-law.
McDougal is asked questions about the pricing and selling of the boats. Both sides ask him how the recession affected business.
“Our decision to return these boats to the manufacturer has nothing to do with the recession,” McDougal says through twinkling teeth. He tilts his head, but his hair remains perfectly coifed, and not a single strand breaks away from its wind-swept mold. “We were promised a certain product, and we were excited about the beauty of the yachts. So were our customers. But when a product is defective, you return it. End of story.”
A couple of time my eyelids start to droop when I’m forced to look at the same email between McDougal and Mark Smythe that I’ve seen four times already, or I’m presented with the same ad in Yachting Magazine, or I hear another explanation of what a hull crack is. Yet all the while Four scribbles away in her notebook, and the competitive part of me feels compelled to keep up. So I take a lot of notes too. Then, finally, it’s 5:00, and we’re all done for the day.
§
Later when I’m home my friend Isobel, who lives in my building, stops by.
“Can you hem this for me?” She holds up a Tiffany-blue chiffon dress that’s as wispy as a cloud. “The last time I wore it the stitching came loose. Now I have a wedding next weekend, and this is my only dress that’s formal enough.”
I take the dress from her and look at the hem. “Yeah,” I say. “If I have the right color thread, it should be no problem.”
I go over to my ironing board, which is set up by my living room window, and turn it on. I let the iron heat to steaming before I start pressing. My favorite smell in the world just might be a steaming iron against cotton; it’s like fresh candy that won’t ever get stale or gritty.
As the iron hisses and wheezes Isobel stands over my sewing table. She picks up my latest creation, a dyed and distressed long-sleeve t-shirt with an embroidered collar and paisley cuffs. “I love this!” she cries. “Can I buy it from you?”
I smile. “It’s already spoken for. I just sold it a few minutes ago on eBay. But I can make you another one that’s like it.”
Isobel puts the shirt down and leans against my couch. “You really should have a website. It sounds like you’re selling these shirts faster than you can make them.”
“That’s almost true. But that’s also sort of the reason I don’t feel like I need a website.”
Once I got back from filming The Holdout I slipped into a bit of a funk. Unemployed, I tried temping for a while, but the stale-coffee, mindless work, and colorless cubicles depressed me even more. Luckily, a friend from my college theater days hired me to do costume construction for his theater company, but the hours are irregular and the pay is pretty bad. So mostly I stay home and live off my show stipend from The Holdout while I try to figure out my next step, whether it's grad school or a job search. I do take advantage of the many free online college courses there are available, especially the ones in entrepreneurship and design.
But to supplement my income I often comb thrift stores for interesting cast-offs, rework them ala’ Pretty in Pink, and post/sell them on eBay. My theater major in college included hours spent in the costume shop and I picked up a thing or two when it came to clothing design.
It’s been something to do and it keeps me from wallowing in self-pity. Plus, business hasn’t been half-bad.
“Of course you need a website,” Isobel says. “Think of how much more you could accomplish if you had one.”
“Ummm…” is all I say. I know she's right, but I've learned a thing or two from my online courses. If I'm really going to launch my own business, complete with a website, I need to be ready and I need to do it right. I don't bother to explain this now. Isobel speaks with such authority but it’s hard to take her seriously sometimes. It’s no wonder. I’ve sung karaoke with her when she was drunk off Bacardi & Diet Cokes and belting out the lyrics to “I Will Survive.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it once my jury duty is over.” The iron has heated up, so it’s ‘full steam ahead.’ I place the dress along the edge of the ironing board and start pressing the hem, careful not to singe the delicate fabric.
“Jury duty. That’s right.” Isobel raises her well-tweezed eyebrows. “How was your day in court?”
“Well, obviously I can’t talk about the details. But it’s about yachts.”
Isobel crosses her arms and crinkles her forehead. “Yachts? Why is there a case about yachts in Iowa?”
I wave my free hand up in the air. “I can’t go into that. But today, the son testified. And you know who he reminded me of?” I pause dramatically. “Grant. He reminded me of Grant.”
“How does he remind you of Grant?” She scrunches up her tiny, animated nose. Isobel is always self-conscious about her weight, but she has these amazingly high cheekbones and the sort of nose most of women would pay for. Combine that with her pixie haircut and huge blue eyes, and Isobel would look beautiful in a Bill Cosby sweater and Zumba pants.
I keep my gaze down as I press the thin blue dress beneath the steaming iron. “Same entitled attitude.” I struggle for more words. “You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I have no idea what you mean,” says Isobel. “I have no idea who this ‘son’ guy is, or why he is into yachts. I also have no idea what happened between you and Grant, because you won’t tell me.”
“You know I’m not allowed to!” I pick the iron up, scoot the fabric down, and place the iron back down with firm pressure. Steam rises up into my face.
The hardest thing, hands down, about being back from the show is I can’t tell anyone what happened. And here I am, a virtual treasure chest full of secrets, j
uicy details, and angst. Sometimes I feel like I need to duct tape my mouth shut just so I won’t leak out classified information. Now I’m in another situation that I can’t talk about.
My life is a situation I can’t talk about.
“So is the son a womanizer? Is he good looking? Was he making eyes at you?”
I finish pressing the dress and unplug the iron. Then I move over, sit down at my sewing table, and start searching for the right color of blue thread.
“Of course he wasn’t making eyes at me,” I murmur with a straight pin in between my teeth. “That would be completely inappropriate.”
“Well, then what? Give me something.”
“I can’t.” I look up from pinning the hem and embrace my sanctimoniousness. “I’m not allowed. Talking about the case might prejudice me in some way.”
“It sounds like you already are prejudiced!”
“Never mind,” I say, and the whirring of my sewing machines effectively ends our conversation.
But an hour later we’re sitting on my couch and talking about Isobel’s life, which usually includes spats with her identical twin sister, her ongoing divorce, and her dating misadventures.
“How did the date go with the guy you met online?” I ask.
She shakes her head and sighs. “The evening had been going great. We went to that new steak place downtown, and he seemed normal and fun, and even sort of good looking. Then, after his second scotch, he started talking like a chipmunk.”
I squish my eyebrows together. “Huh?”
Isobel blinks and laughs. “You know, like Alvin and the Chipmunks? He spoke in one of those fast, high-pitched voices. And I thought, ‘Okay, it’s sort of funny. I can work with this.’ But then we went back to his place and we were making out, and he was still using his Alvin voice, saying things like ‘Ooh, baby, you feel so good,’ and I had to run out of there. Thank God we drove separately.”
Laughter fizzes out of me and the knots in my shoulders relax. “Oh, Isobel. I’m so sorry.”
Then Jack comes in.
After I reintroduce him to Isobel, he sits down and shares the bag of food from his restaurant. As Isobel and I dive into the jalapeno bacon crab-cakes, he leans back and rubs his temples.
The Holdout Page 8