“I can’t wait to see you this weekend. Is your family going to be there?” Henry asks.
“My dad and my brother Ian will be. I’m not sure about my other brother. What about you?”
“Yeah. Everybody, from my mom to my third cousin once removed. It just makes the pressure to win more intense.”
I sniff and wipe my running nose with my sleeve. “Don’t worry. I voted for you, and I’d bet money that Bailey did too. You only need three more votes to win.”
We wrap up our conversation as I enter my apartment.
“Take care of yourself, Robin. And try not to answer any calls from Alright Magazine.”
“That won’t be a problem. During deliberations I’m not even allowed to have my phone, so I’m missing any call that happens between nine and five o’clock.”
Henry and I have been in contact pretty regularly since the show ended. It keeps us both sane, being able to talk about what happened and project how the votes might go. But our conversations have expanded beyond The Holdout, so he knows all about jury duty and my “complicated” personal life.
“Okay, well good luck with deliberations. Don’t back down, because if anyone knows how to be a holdout, it’s you.”
It’s probably just that my eyes are watery from congestion, but Henry’s cheesy words of encouragement bring tears to my eyes.
“Bye, Henry.”
Deliberations ended this afternoon without any sort of a verdict, but on the upside I managed not to throw furniture or grab anyone by the lapels after I was accused of being overly emotional and prejudiced. The downside is that we’ll all be back at it tomorrow, and I feel like I’m getting Isobel’s cold. Maybe tomorrow I’ll grab Nick’s water bottle on the sly and sneeze into it.
I take off my coat and my boots, and collapse onto my couch. I rest my feet upon my milk crate coffee table, but just as I’ve gotten comfortable, I realize I need a Kleenex. I get up and grab the entire box, and then I sit back down again. Once I’ve blown my nose and adjusted myself to my satisfaction, I make my other call.
“Hello?”
“Lucy! Hi, it’s Robin.”
“Robin. Hey, thanks for calling me back. How are you? How’s jury duty?”
I cough away the tickle in my throat. “Okay. We’re into deliberations now, and I don’t agree with anyone except the foreman, but he’s half-asleep most of the time. Meanwhile, most of the people on the jury have been watching The Holdout and they’re accusing me of being irrational…” I pause to wipe my nose, and then I remember that during our last conversation I only talked about myself.
“…never mind,” I say. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. I’m afraid I don’t have anything nearly as interesting going on as you do though.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“Actually, it’s the reason I called. Hold on.” I hear a young voice in the background asking for a banana. “Okay, but throw the peel away yourself this time,” Then her voice comes back, full volume. “Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Umm…”
“Wait. Before you answer, just let me tell you what I was thinking.” I hear the sound of dishes being put away while she talks. “One of the classes I’m teaching is about the evolution of the American justice system. It occurred to me, what’s more American than reality television?” Silverware is clinking into its drawer. “Nothing, except maybe for jury duty. So here you are, having immediate experiences with both. Well, it’s fascinating.” Plates are being stacked on top of each other. “And I’m wondering, if I flew you out, would you be willing to speak to my class about it all? You could stay for a visit, and celebrate Thanksgiving with Monty and me, and we could show you around Seattle. It could be really great.”
In the distance a baby cries. “Hold on a minute,” Lucy says, and I can tell she’s holding the phone away. “What happened?”
“Nothing. He pinched me.”
“Abby, that doesn’t make it okay to pinch him back.”
“But it hurt!”
The crying becomes louder, probably because Lucy has picked up the source. “Sorry,” she says into the phone, loud enough that I can hear her over baby Noah. “So what do you think?”
“Umm…”
“I know it’s sudden. But I was thinking; you have your reunion show this Sunday. What if we try and book a flight from New York? There would probably still be flights available that early in the week.”
I cough again and look around my apartment, which seems dingy in the fading evening light. “I’d feel bad, having you pay for my ticket.”
“Oh! I forgot to say that part. I have a small university budget for speakers and special supplies. I wouldn’t be paying for it, the university would.”
Noah’s crying subsides as Lucy shushes him. I picture him in her arms, as she stands in their chaotic kitchen. It’s so different from my silent, solitary life.
“Sure, I’d love to.”
Lucy whoops. “Really? Oh, it’s going to be great! And Monty will be so excited that you’re coming.”
It’s hard to imagine he’ll care. There have always been many miles and years that separate us, so we’ve never been close. But I smile and tell her that I’m excited too.
§
The next morning I wake up feeling like I have an extra liter of snot backed up in my nose. The pressure is so intense that it hurts to stand. I take some Sudafed, which always makes me loopy, and I wear my warmest sweater to combat the chills that regularly wash over me.
On my way out I run into Isobel. “Hi,” I croak.
“Oh no,” she says. “It sounds like you got my cold.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the worst of it.” I take a big sniff. “Yesterday at deliberations, the jury accused me of being biased! They said I’m comparing Silas Smythe to Grant. Can you believe that? Now I have to go deal with them all again today.”
Isobel pushes the outside door open and we walk towards our cars. “But Robin, you said yourself that Silas reminds you of Grant.”
The fog in my head lifts for a moment as I realize she’s right. How could I forget that?
Isobel pats me on the arm before getting into her car. “Hang in there Robin. I know you’ll get through this, and I know you’ll do the right thing. And take care of that cold!”
I wave goodbye as she drives off, and it takes me a minute to realize I’m standing in the parking lot, dazed and high on cold medicine. I sigh and open my car door.
When I get to the courthouse I toss my phone into the security guard’s basket, enter our deliberation room, and take my seat without making eye contact with anyone. I hang my head in my hands until it’s time to resume our deliberations.
When everyone arrives, Four turns on her projector. “Shall we begin?” she asks. I lift my head as my sinuses silently scream in pain.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” Four says, “we’re still on the first item.” She rolls her eyes and huffs a little as she looks in my direction.
The words burst out of my mouth like hot coals. “And unless I’m mistaken, you’re not actually our foreman. You’re just pretending to be.” I barely realize what I am saying before all the heads in the room swivel in my direction and stare at me with stunned eyes. It’s like I showed up to Island Assembly naked. And it’s then that I realize: If this was The Holdout, I’m the one who would be voted out first. It would happen faster than a gust of wind could snuff out my torch.
Four arches an eyebrow and gestures over to One. “If he wants to sit at the projector, he can. Or for that matter,” her nostrils flare, “so can you. I’m just trying to be efficient. Some of us have real jobs we need to return to, and I’m hoping to speed things along.”
Four’s cutting remark sends me way past the commercial break of detesting her. “I thought you cared about doing things right,” I say, my voice hoarse and strained. “But now I feel pressured. I’m sure it would be easier for everyone if I caved and agreed that the boats
were damaged, but I’m not going to change my mind just to appease everyone.”
“Then you’re simply being stubborn,” remarks Nick.
My ears are clogged from all the congestion in my head, so maybe I didn’t hear him right. Yet when I turn towards Nick his chin is jutted out and aggression is leaking from his face, like sap from a pine tree. Getting close to him right now would be sticky.
I ignore my wounded emotions and barrel on. I recite the speech I rehearsed on my drive here, though it hurts to speak and I can hardly hear myself. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it.” I look over at Nick. “I get what you’re saying, about the boat that sank even though it was stored correctly. So I’ll concede my stance and agree that all the boats were damaged upon receipt.” I shudder a little, which always happens when I give in. I square my shoulders and raise my chin. “But I want to make two things clear: One, I don’t think Potenza should have to pay any damages other than the original cost of the boats, and two, if anyone brings up my actions on The Holdout again, I’m walking out of here and filing a complaint with the judge. Are we clear?”
People nod. Six murmurs, “You sound really sick.”
Two says nothing, and I deliberately keep my gaze from drifting in her direction. Four taps her pencil against the table and says, “Okay, so we can check the first item off as yes?”
Jurors two through eleven all murmur their assent, and then we all look to One. He pushes his glasses up on his nose as he opens his mouth to speak. “Fine,” he says. “I won’t fight common opinion.”
We make our way through the deliberations and things move fairly quickly. There is still some argument about how much Potenza ought to pay, and I fight the effects of cold medication as I struggle through this last challenge of speaking coherently.
“The Smythes are at fault too. They damaged the boats by not taking care of them. So Potenza will pay to get their boats back, but they’re getting back damaged goods that they’ll have to refurbish. I refuse to concede that they should have to pay more in addition to that.”
“Fine,” Nick says. “I agree. But I think we should include money for the shipyard that was attached to the Smythe’s claim.”
My chest tightens, as do my fists. “Why?”
Nick sighs. “Because they’re just a little shipyard, and they’re not millionaires like the Smythes are. The people who own it got screwed.”
I sneeze and it only makes my nose feel more clogged up. “But we don’t know that the Smythes would give the money to the shipyard.”
“It’s the gesture,” replies Nick.
“This shouldn’t be about gestures.”
“Wait, what are we talking about?” says One.
“We’re discussing whether or not the shipyard should receive damages,” says Four, pointing to some figures that are projected on the screen. She rolls her eyes at Two, and Two rolls her eyes back.
“Well, why would we do that?” One asks. “That makes no sense to me.”
Inwardly I groan. He has to be the worst jury foreman in the history of the world. I know I’m not the only one who thinks so; every time he speaks, the rest of jury looks like they have sand caught underneath their bathing suits. The only person I’ve ever met who has less to offer than One is Klemi, and even she could write a dissertation about sand, bathing suits, and the crevices we struggle to keep clean.
We go back and forth. Everyone agrees with Nick, except for One, but his abstract, unprompted questions only serve to annoy people. Meanwhile I’m feverish and worried that the rest of the jury will start to change their minds and argue for more money for the Smythes, just to contradict One.
My head is swimming in some choppy waves. I should be curled up underneath my covers in the fetal position, not arguing about a civil case between millionaires. “Okay, okay. If we add in the amount of the claim from the shipyard, plus the exact amount of the boats being sold back at cost, how much does that come to?”
Nick takes the court-sanctioned calculator and starts adding figures. “Nine million, two hundred thirty eight thousand, five hundred fifty eight dollars and 79 cents.”
That’s over nine times as much as I could have won on The Holdout, and it’s still only a drop in the bucket for both the Smythes and Potenza. Their lawyer fees alone were probably more. “Okay, can we all agree on that?”
Everyone is eager to be done, so even though other people thought the Smythes should get more and One and I thought they deserved less, we reach a consensus. Several minutes later One is reading out our verdict for the courtroom. Silas Smythe sits with his dad, and afterwards he stands and shakes hands with the generic, white-haired lawyer. Then, to my horror, Silas turns in my direction, looks straight at me, and winks.
My jaw drops as I look around. Did anyone see this? I don’t spend long analyzing it; Silas is not worth my time. As soon as I’m out of the courtroom I grab my stuff and go.
Some of the jurors stick around and exchange email addresses, but all I want right now is some hot tea and then a pillow beneath my head. I take the elevator down and I’m halfway through the lobby when I hear my name called out.
I stop and turn around. Nick is coming towards me. He’s smiling but his shoulders are tensed. “You left without saying goodbye?”
“I have nothing to say to those people,” I tell him. “Accusing me of being biased because of The Holdout hit below the belt.” Even if they were right.
He thinks for a moment. “I didn’t accuse you, though.”
“You didn’t defend me either.”
“So that’s it?” Nick’s eyebrows crease together. “I thought we were going to talk once the trial was over.”
I feel a big sneeze coming, but I try to sniff it away. My eyes water and I cough instead. “I figured that deal was off.”
“Why?”
“Because we argued so much during deliberations.”
“So? The wonderful part of jury duty is after it ends, you can forget all about it.” Nick narrows his eyes. “With three juries in two years, I should know.”
A chill washes over me and I tug my coat closed. “It’s like a game, then?”
He scratches the back of his neck and looks off to the side, out the window. “No. I don’t play games unless it’s Candy Land with my niece.” I give him a feeble smile and he peers at me. “I’m not the kind of guy who uses people, Robin.”
So now he’s comparing himself to Grant, though I’ve never mentioned him by name. Or maybe he’s implying that I’m the one who is playing games. Either way, he’s not being entirely straight with me. But instead of pressing the point I just nod my head.
He reaches out and gently taps my shoulder. It’s like I can feel his touch through my coat. “I’ll call you then?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m leaving town this weekend, first for New York and then Seattle. I won’t be back until the Monday after Thanksgiving.”
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Part of me wants to gush and get excited at the prospect of continuing this – whatever it is we have. But I hold myself back, neither confirming nor denying his statement. Fool me twice and yada, yada, yada. “Bye,” I say with a wave. Then I go home and bury myself under three different blankets in my bed.
§
I wake up several hours later to the vibrating of my phone. It’s 8:30 at night, and when I grab my cell I see it’s a number from yesterday’s missed call list. It has to be the seventh or eighth time this person has called. I decide to pick up, and if it’s a reporter I’m prepared to say “No comment, and don’t call me again.”
“Hello?” I croak.
“Robin? Is that you?”
I cough and wipe my nose. “Who is this?”
“It’s… it’s Grant. How have you been? I’ve missed you.”
Chapter 15
The next day Nick stops by with a container of chicken soup and a DVD of the original Twelve Angry Men. “I was thinking we could watch it, and recast all the role
s with members from our jury.”
I’m standing in the doorway, in a ratty old sweatshirt, pajama pants, and fleece socks. On Nick’s feet are thick-soled brown shoes, which make our height difference almost non-existent.
“I thought you were just dropping by to give me something,” I whisper. Talking at full volume feels like swallowing a golf ball.
“I was.” He holds out the soup container and the DVD, and I take them from him. “I don’t have to come in.” He looks over my shoulder, into my apartment, which is covered in stray Kleenexes, abandoned mugs of lukewarm tea, and discarded boxes of cold medication.
“My place is sort of a mess right now.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You could catch my cold.”
He shrugs. “I have an incredibly strong immune system.”
I laugh and cough simultaneously. “All week you’ve been acting like you don’t want to know me. Now you won’t take no for an answer. I don’t get it.”
He sticks his hands in jacket pockets and hunches up his shoulders. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll just say what I have to say out here.” An uneasy smile emphasizes the curves of his face, making his cheeks pinchable. “I like you. But I’m not good at starting relationships. Since I was eighteen I’ve had to be responsible, and Andrea has always been my first priority. So…” he shrugs. “I’m awkward. And, I know you have a lot going on, which makes me think it’s not a good idea, spending time with you. But I enjoy hanging out.” He looks away, around, down, and back at me. “When you get back, after your trip and your reunion show, will you call me?”
“Sure,” I say, with as much power as my disabled voice will allow.
His smile fades, and a look of concern replaces it. “You should go back to sleep. If you don’t get better, how are you going to answer Joe Pine’s questions on TV?”
“It won’t matter,” I say breathily. “Joe will mostly want to interview Grant and Henry.”
“I have a feeling he’ll want to interview you too.”
I bite my lip, not sure what to say next. “Thanks for the soup. And the movie.” I hold it up. “Maybe we can watch it after I get back?”
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