“Okay, I’ll do that. Now, what is Plan C?” Lizzie pressed.
“It involves volunteering for jury duty in Dan’s courtroom,” Courtney said, hoping Elizabeth would reject the idea.
Instead, the hopeful expression returned to Lizzie’s face. “Let’s try that one next,” she said definitively.
Tiffany and Courtney looked at each other before both shrugging and giving in.
“Okay,” they all agreed and put their heads together to plot the new Plan C.
28
The night Tiffany and Courtney had explained their original Plan C, which I had bumped up to be the new Plan B, it had sounded genius and foolproof. Now it is Friday morning—a mere four days since the failed supermarket run into—and I’m dressing to go into the Beverly Hills courthouse and volunteer for jury duty. It sounds fairly insane. I mean, seriously, what kind of nut actually volunteers for jury duty? Most people try desperately to get out of it. Plus, on top of the very real risk of coming off like a crazy person, the “did you just call me?” call hadn’t gone very well.
First, I got Dan’s voice mail, panicked, and hung up. Then I realized that I should have left a message, so he could hear my voice and miss me, but when I called back he answered. When I said, “Did you just call me?” He said, “No, you just called me.” Which I had, but for some reason I decided to lie (badly) about it. “No, my caller ID says I missed a call from you,” I insisted. We went back and forth a few times in what I hoped he would consider adorable banter, but I’m quite certain Dan didn’t because finally he said, “Well, I didn’t call you. Good-bye,” and hung up.
“Tiffany!” I roar from in front of my open closet. “What’s a good jury duty outfit?” I ask as she walks into the room.
I have quickly gone from despising Tiffany’s existence to being grateful for her presence every single day. She is so much like her mom, except in the ways in which she was exactly like me.
“I need an outfit that is seductive enough to win Dan back but conservative enough that I can get on a jury,” I explain, aware that nothing in my closet is at all seductive. “And how dressed up am I supposed to be?” I ask, thinking about the beautiful Brooks Brothers suits Dan always wore to work.
I had gone shopping with him once, about eight months ago, for suits. I felt like we were playing pretend as I sat in a brocade wingback chair and watched as he modeled gorgeous cashmere suits in front of a three-way mirror. The suits were ridiculously expensive, but Dan had explained that when you’re an attorney you have to look a certain way to get a certain type of respect. I completely understood what he was talking about and helped him select one gray pinstriped and one navy blue suit. I wonder if he’ll be wearing one today? I especially love him in the navy blue.
“I don’t think people get very dressed up for jury duty,” Tiffany says, raising her eyebrows and scrunching her nose. She is thinking what I know—what everyone knows: most people don’t care how they look for jury duty because they’d rather be anywhere in the world but there. “Wear jeans,” she instructs.
I end up wearing my Seven jeans with a black sleeveless top from Ann Taylor and black wedge sandals. It’s casual without looking like I am dressed to clean out the garage, as my mother would say. The Queen of Keds and pedal pushers would frequently scowl at anyone dressed more casually than herself and hiss, “She looks like she’s dressed to clean out her garage.” I probably wouldn’t even wear the type of stuff my mom does while cleaning out my garage, but I don’t have a garage, so I guess I can’t say for sure. Plus, Keds are coming back with the whole Mischa Barton campaign thing. I should probably stop bad-mouthing them.
I put some work papers and the copy of Living History, Hillary Clinton’s autobiography, that Dan had given me but I had never even opened, in my bag and head out the door. I feel the kind of nervous excitement you feel on your first day of a new job. I know from a jury summons Courtney received and ignored that new jurors are supposed to arrive at the courthouse at 7:45 a.m., so that’s what I’m doing. At such an early hour there isn’t any traffic, and I arrive at the Beverly Hills courthouse at 7:35. I quickly apply a fresh coat from my Lancôme Juicy Tube and head toward the building. I figure the fewer people around to hear me explain that I haven’t been summoned but that I am volunteering to serve on jury duty the better.
I enter the building and am immediately sorry that I am wearing a sleeveless top and haven’t brought a sweater. The building is cooled to around the temperature of a refrigerator. I guess that’s how Dan can wear wool suits all day and be comfortable. I find my way through security and upstairs to the door marked “Jury Room.” There are a handful of people standing around in the long hallway. One man, in a shirt and tie, is yelling into his cell phone. People who yell into their cell phones are high on my list of pet peeves. A couple of other people are reading the newspaper, and one woman is just staring miserably out the window. I pause and wonder what they are here for. Are they criminals, attorneys, or have they been subpoenaed? Unfortunately, I don’t have time to think about it. I stride past them, careful not to make eye contact in case they are killers—although none of them looks particularly threatening—and reach for the handle to the jury room door. I pull and it doesn’t budge. It’s locked. I juggle it a little to no avail, and then I knock. At this point, the girl staring out the window speaks.
“I don’t know why they told us to get here at seven forty-five…nobody’s even here.”
Oh, she’s a fellow juror. “Nobody’s here?”
“Not a soul,” she says, turning back toward the window.
“Crap,” I think to myself as I lean against the wall and pull Hillary’s memoir out of my bag. I had really hoped to get myself signed up. Oh well. I look up and down the hallway. Maybe I’ll run into Dan, just standing here, and I won’t have to go through with the whole jury service thing anyway. I open the book about a quarter of the way through and pretend to read as I peer over the top at the people moving up and down the hall and those gathering in front of the sealed “Jury Room.”
Almost an hour later, a grouchy-looking woman opens the door to the jury room. She has a large, unattractive mole on her neck and I can’t help wondering why she never bothered to have it removed. Not only is it ugly, it looks possibly cancerous as well. The wait had gotten so long and boring that I had resorted to actually reading the former first lady’s life story and was legitimately a quarter of the way through when Neck Mole stood her squat frame on a chair and waved a flabby arm over her head.
“Attention, jurors! None of the following are acceptable reasons to be excused from jury service: work demands, transportation hardships, physical ailments—including hearing loss, vision loss, or overactive bladder—scheduled travel, or religious beliefs.”
The statement is met by groans from the crowd, which I join in on in an effort to fit in. I will definitely have to keep my volunteer status on the down low.
“If anybody has any issues they need to discuss above and beyond those I just listed, please form a single file line in front of me.”
This is my moment. I snap the page shut and hurry to the front of the line. Without looking down, Neck Mole says, “Last name?”
“Castle,” I reply.
She scans the long list attached to her crummy brown clipboard. It makes me think about my red clipboard at work and gives me a slight pang of guilt for missing yet another day on the job.
“With a C?” she asks.
“Yes, C-A-S-T-L-E,” I spell.
“I don’t have you here. Lemme see your summons,” she says holding out her hand. She still stands on the chair, but isn’t that much taller than I am.
“Oh, um, actually…I don’t have a summons…I’m here to volunteer,” I explain with a smile.
“VOLUNTEER?!?” she shouts loudly enough for everyone surrounding me to stop what they are doing and look in my direction.
“Yes, that’s right. Specifically, in whichever courtroom Daniel McCafferty is in today,�
�� I add in a whisper.
“You seriously want to volunteer for jury duty?” she asks again, looking at me like I’m crazy. It is a look I have prepared myself for.
I swallow, take a breath and nod.
She shrugs and climbs off the chair, “Lemme go see if we have a form for that.”
She waddles back into the jury room, and returns a short time later with a piece of paper.
“We don’t actually have volunteer forms. Write your name and address down here and I’ll get you in the system. I can’t promise you’ll be in your boyfriend’s court though…and anyway, if you were you’d probably get dismissed. I think there’s rules about that.”
“Oh, actually, he’s my ex-fiancé,” I explain with a meaningful look.
For a split second, Neck Mole and I connect. She gives me a tiny crack of a smile before saying, “Write down that info and I’ll get you in the system.”
“Thanks,” I say, heading back through the crowd to find something I can lean on.
I quickly jot down my information and turn to bring it back to Neck Mole, but I see that a long line has now formed in front of her. Not wanting to draw extra attention to myself, I go stand in the back of the line. It takes an eternity to make my way up to the front, but when I do, Neck Mole steps down off her chair to take my paper.
“Your boyfriend’s court is in session today,” she says with another tiny smile. “I don’t know if the judge will let you stay, but I’ll assign you to that room.”
“Oh my gosh, you are a doll,” I tell her gratefully and feel bad for having such nasty thoughts about her unfortunate growth.
“I was engaged once, too,” she tells me, sounding slightly wistful.
I can’t stop myself from wondering if the mole was what ended her relationship. I certainly wouldn’t want to roll over in bed and see that thing staring back at me for the rest of my life. She takes my paper and with an oof sound climbs back up on the chair.
“Okay, the following people will report to courtroom six today.” She starts calling names and each one is followed by a groan or a grunt. When she finally says “Elizabeth Castle,” I make a groaning sound just to fit in but give her a small, grateful wink as I turn and head in the direction of the courtroom.
“Oh, Ms. Castle,” Neck Mole calls after me. “Don’t forget your badge.” She hands me a small cardboard badge in a clear plastic holder with my newly appointed juror number handwritten with a black Sharpee.
“Thanks,” I say as I take the badge. As I walk away I try to figure out where to clip the thing on my tank top. Again, I am quite sorry I didn’t bring some sort of sweater. At last I decide to clip it to the bottom of my shirt at my hipbone. I follow my fellow jurors into the courtroom in a single-file line. As we enter, a bailiff directs us to fill a row of movie theater–style seats that make up the audience (is that what you call people watching a trial?) section of a courtroom.
I get a little wave of excitement because the room almost looks like a movie set. It’s exactly how courtrooms look on television: there is a high-countered desk for the judge at the front of the room, and a little desk for the court reporter on the floor in front of it. There is a table on either side of the room for the prosecutor and defender and their clients, and a box of more movie theater–style seats for the jury. My excitement grows, because seated at the table on the right side of the room is Dan! His back is to me, and my heart flutters at the sight of his cleanly shaved neck. He is dressed in the navy blue suit—suddenly I’m glad I’m wearing the tank top because the temperature in the room has suddenly gone up! He’s bent over a pile of papers and is furiously scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. I can tell just by looking what a good attorney he is, and I hope the others jurors see it, too.
I follow the leader down a row of seats and sit without taking my eyes off Dan. No sooner are we seated than the bailiff holds up a list and starts calling names.
“The following people should take the seat I assign to them in the jury box. Understood?” We all nod. “Carl Woods, take seat one.” We all watch as a middle-aged man stands up and makes his way to the jury box. The bailiff has the jury box about half full when he says, “Elizabeth Castle, take seat nine.” I had been gazing at Dan so intently that I jump at the sound of my own name. Dan also jumps at the sound of my name and turns around. Our eyes meet and I give him a little wave. He stands up and walks toward me. We meet right at the little gate that separates the audience area from the rest of the room.
“Hi,” I say quietly. I don’t want to make the others jealous that I know the district attorney.
“She can’t be on this case,” Dan says to the bailiff without looking at me.
“Take it up with the judge,” the bailiff replies without taking his eyes off his list of names. “Melissa Moonridge, take seat ten.”
I pause awkwardly for a second, thinking Dan is going to talk to me, but without a word he turns and storms back to his desk. After a beat, I hurry to seat nine. I guess he’s not allowed to talk to members of the jury.
Once all the seats in the jury box are full, and the remainder of our group stands in position to move in as people are dismissed during voir dire, the bailiff leaves the courtroom through a door at the opposite side of the room from the one we came in through. It really is like a set—and he’s just gone backstage. Tiffany would love this place, since she’s fascinated with anything at all “Hollywood.” The girl has come to so many tapings of The Renee Foster Show! in the short time she’s been here that I wonder how she doesn’t lose her mind.
I glance around at the other people seated in the jury box. Naturally, they all look unhappy to be there. Next I look out across the courtroom. Dan has returned to his desk and the pile of files he has on it. The defense attorney, a woman around my age, talks quietly to her client, an almost teenage-looking boy. She has her long blonde hair pulled back in a low French braid, and I don’t notice until she looks up to glance at the panel of jurors assembled how bright her green eyes are. She’s wearing a smart black suit with a knee-length skirt that looks like it came from Ann Taylor. She takes in the jury for another beat before putting her head back down next to her client again. A few seconds later she gets up and crosses to Dan’s side of the room. The defender leans against the side of Dan’s desk and he leans back, arms folded across his chest, and smiles at her.
Panic grips me and my chest feels tight. Aren’t the prosecutor and the defender supposed to be enemies? They’re on opposite sides! Dan can’t talk to a juror who is his fiancée (ex-fiancée), but he can mingle with the opposing counsel? A strange, sharp gasping noise escapes my throat when Dan laughs his full, open-mouthed laugh at something this attorney has said. I get a strange look from the juror to my left, and I try to mask my bizarre sound with a cough.
“Sorry, allergies,” I explain lamely.
The fellow juror tries to scoot away from me, but the chairs are fused together with a single, shared armrest between them. I’m too focused on what is happening in front of me to notice her attempt. The slutty prosecutor is now leaning over toward Dan, and if I’m not mistaken (which I’m not), he can easily see down the light blue silk blouse she is wearing. Where on earth is the judge? Shouldn’t he be in here to put an end to this fraternizing of enemies?
A higher power hears my pleas, and I am relieved to see the bailiff return through the door he exited. When the slut sees him, she puts her hand on Dan’s shoulder and they both smile, causing another gurgling gasp from me and another dirty look from my neighbor.
“Sorry, I think these seats are wool,” I whisper stupidly.
“All rise for the honorable Judge William Santos,” the bailiff commands the room. I rise, eagerly anticipating a man who in my mind looks like Judge Wapner from the People’s Court episodes of my youth. Instead, a much younger—probably in his ’40s—much sterner man with hair almost as dark as his billowy black robe enters and takes his seat behind the bench.
“Be seated,” he commands, and
everyone obeys.
He opens a folder on his desk and quickly glances over the documents inside.
“Okay, we have the people versus Gabe North. Mr. North is accused of check fraud. We have a panel of jurors—let’s get through voir dire before my tee time.”
“Your honor, may I approach the bench?”
The question came from Dan. I feel a surge of pride and excitement watching him at work. He’s so professional.
“Fine, Mr. McCafferty, let’s make it brief, though,” the judge says with a sigh of annoyance.
I am distracted by how rude Judge Santos was to Dan and don’t hear him when he says, “Juror number nine, please stand.”
The girl to my right, who had tried to get as far away from me as possible, pokes me in the elbow and hisses, “That’s you, stand up,” which snaps me back to reality.
“Number nine?” the judge repeats, obviously quickly losing his patience.
“Oh, uh, yes sir,” I say quickly jumping to my feet.
“Were you involved in a personal relationship with counsel?” he asks, nodding slightly in Dan’s direction.
“Yes, we’re engaged,” I answer, my cheeks suddenly flaming. “We were engaged,” I correct myself, generously peppering my voice with sadness.
“And would this relationship cause you to be biased in any way in regard to the case he will be presenting?” the judge asks sternly.
“Absolutely not,” I reply, suddenly feeling a little frightened by him.
“Then it’s fine. You may sit down, number nine.”
“Your Honor!” Dan protests as I take my seat. “She cannot stay on this jury. Let’s bring in one of the alternates.”
“She said she won’t be biased, all jurors take an oath, and I want to finish this case before my vacation,” Judge Santos says without even looking at Dan.
He sighs and returns to his seat. I silently cheer that I’ll be staying on the case. I can picture Dan and me getting lunch in the courthouse cafeteria (I wonder if there is one), or going for a drink after court at a bar like the one the people on Ally McBeal went to. By the time this guy goes to jail, or wherever people who commit check fraud go, Dan and I will be back together forever.
Not Quite A mom Page 14