I picked the right book. Helena has already fallen in love with Giovanni within her first week studying abroad. She had no clue that the new money of her working-class family would stand between her and the love of her life. But Giovanni had just renounced his long lineage of wealth and privileged circumstance upon the throne, when I felt the weight of someone’s eyes upon me.
They were only on the Ms, so I hadn’t missed my name. A once-over around the room revealed nothing. Then, a sophisticated young woman in the corner caught my eye. There was something familiar about her, though I couldn’t quite place her. Not wanting to be obvious, I glanced back down at my book and then peered up slightly. Her vision was locked on me. Glancing side to side, neither person beside me was aware or looking back at her. Balling up the gumption, I decided to ante up for the staring game—as did she.
Dramatically, I closed my book for added effect to make sure she knew I was ready to take her on with undivided attention. Eyebrow raised, questioning her, now what? In response, not one blink. She’s good.
At first I thought I might be overreacting, she could be blind. But the reading glasses daintily hanging from her pale pink cashmere cardigan beneath freshwater pearls, gave her away. Since we were staring, I figured I might as well take note. She’s pretty, but in an understated, refined way. Very much concerned with being prim and classy. Her decadent chocolate brown locks were evenly cut at the shoulder and neatly tucked behind her ears, which were adorned with matching pearl studs. A smile had yet to cross her face, though she exuded a sort of confidence that indicated she was well-kept. Beneath her delicate wrist, an Italian leather handbag likely from some highly sought-after designer.
As well-kept as she appeared, something didn’t fit. There should’ve been a rock on her finger that could illuminate the entire room, instead there was only the light tan strip where one used to be.
As I was, I knew she too was taking notes. Still, the way she stared at me was a searching look of recognition. She knew me, but I didn’t know her. But how? For the next few minutes, our stares were filled with intent. Then she mouthed something to me.
For the life of me, I couldn’t unscramble the words. From the distance across the room, it looked as if she was saying, “who can react now.” As if I knew what that was supposed to mean. Still, I just stared back at her with upturned eyebrows.
Again, she mouthed the same thing, but in trying to decipher her gibberish, the bigmouthed bailiff called out a few more names to be questioned for the selection process, including me. Apparently, following the alphabet was no longer an issue, as they’re all over the place with the names. The bailiff kept calling names. At the sound of the name to which she stood, the same sting of recognition went off in me. Catherine Hutchins.
I didn’t know the face, but the name I’d know anywhere. Catherine Hutchins, the woman—or rather gold digging home-wrecker who pickpocketed my fiancé. Walking toward me audaciously leering, she reminded me of Charlotte from Sex and the City, pre-Harry. Hopeful and eager to marry some diluted version of the perfect man.
The confusion that colored my face was replaced by a steely façade. Now standing beside me, she repeated the words that she’d mouthed.
“You can have him back now.”
These fools don’t know whether they’re coming or going. First they’re engaged, now she’s trying to unload him back on me. Figures he got dumped by the same person he dumped me for. Karma’s a bitch. My first inclination was to deck her in the gut and make her take it back, but the fact that we were in a courthouse filled with officers, made me think better of it. Instead, I conjured up the comeback of a worthy adversary. I zinged her, “Oh, so now I see you’re done rummaging through my leftovers. Take your doggy bag and go bark up another tree.”
The words fluttered from my mouth before I could ponder long enough to consider taking them back. Almost immediately after, remorse filtered through me and I wanted to shrivel and weasel away. Somehow, my pride got the better of me and I solidly stood my ground.
“Ahem,” the bailiff cleared her raspy old throat, reeling us in. Catherine’s reaction made me think she was military or raised within a military family, the way she jolted to attention, ready for orders. On cue, she broke eye contact first and I was crowned victorious.
Next thing I knew, the two of us were being escorted down the hall. At first, I thought we were going to be reprimanded for behaving impishly. But, as we rounded the corner, that notion went out the window. They shuffled us into two adjacent rooms for interrogation and selection. Just that fast, Catherine was the least of my worries.
Serving my civic duty should’ve been my top priority, followed by my grand opening at a close second, but neither made the top three that day. Every boring question left me daydreaming about the following day. Sure, someone’s fate was in my hands, but selfishly I was worried about my own. What was I going to wear? How was I going to act? My thoughts were squarely focused on getting out of duty.
Please lord, deliver me from this evil that is jury duty, I prayed. If you get me out of this, so I can enjoy my date, I mean meeting, with Myles, I will go to church every Sunday, even when I’m too tired…
“I’m sorry. What was the question?”
In the midst of my prayer and daftly important thoughts, I’d forgotten where I was. There were few certainties in life including death, paying taxes, and serving jury duty when called upon. I realized, there was no sense in bargaining with God. Quickly, I shifted my thoughts to all those stories I’d heard time and again from friends, who swore there were foolproof ways to get out of grown-up detention.
There’s the irritable bowel syndrome excuse. Apparently, interrupting a trial for potty breaks was frowned upon. Then the “I can tell by looking at them that they’re guilty” method, that just about everyone vows would work. Because I was fresh out of medical reasons not to serve, I’d strongly considered claiming to be a mythomaniac. What possible good could come from having a compulsive liar on the jury?
Just as in Murphy’s Law, anything that could go wrong would. Answering the questions according to my mythomaniac theory was just what the jury needed to add balance. No, no I could never win tickets on the radio, or win a raffle drawing. But, wouldn’t you know it, I was the chosen one when it came to jury duty. The unlucky cream of the crop, slated to be one of the dirtiest dozen.
As the other elite eleven begin to trickle into the room, I got a glimpse of what it was like when the tables have turned. One by one, I sized each of them up. A construction worker trekking mud through the corridor entered quietly and took the seat closest to the door. Surprisingly, not the type to whistle at women passing his worksite. As rough, filthy, and callous as his hands were, it was easy to see that the sparkling clean gold band on his finger kept his manual labor squarely focused on the big picture. Walking past, a lawyerly looking suit with breakfast smeared on his tie, eyed the rest us. The memo must not have gone out that businessmen should be exempt from civil duties. Disdain colored his face at the thought that he must share a room with us lowly peons. He offered no eye contact or friendly smile as the construction worker did. Instead he inched by, careful not to let us rub off on him. Finally, he selected the seat on my right. At first, I thought that I must be the least repugnant, but his audible sigh of relief at the electrical outlet behind me, helped me see otherwise. Heaven forbid this prominent man whose presence with which we have been graced, be forced to exchange words with our kind or go milliseconds without his cyber-leash on life.
The weight of his stare fell upon me, but rather than give him the satisfaction, I decided I’d rather catch up on Giovanni and Helena’s forbidden love. Just as I found the page that I’d dog-eared, the suit felt chatty.
“What book are you reading?”
“Uh. Giovanni and Helena.” Purposely short with him. It never failed. On airplanes, in jury duty, didn’t matter. People never got the clue that reading a book was a solo activity. Entertain yourself and leave me alone.
He didn’t get the hint.
“You know who it is?” I thought he was still talking about the book, but when I looked up at him, his eyes were directed across the table.
“I heard we were getting Earl Grimes,” a lady two seats down chimed in with all the drama of a tabloid and the twang of the South. “They say he’s been abducting and molesting kids for years off some hiking trail out at Red Rock.”
The name was familiar, but I never really got into to tabloids or watched Nancy Grace that much. I might’ve guessed based on their line of questioning, but I was hopeful that it would be about some dumb idiot who evaded taxes, some War of the Roses divorce dispute over child custody, or a drunk driver. But, a pedophile did not cross my mind once. Just the thought of some perverted loser forcing himself on a defenseless child boiled my blood. “This is supposed to be a jury of the defendant’s peers,” I interjected in utter disgust, “but excuse me if I don’t want to claim myself to be a peer to a molesting kidnapper.”
The room rumbled with chatter in every corner. I was enraged, but I tried to find the bright side. “Well, at least this ought to be over real soon. There’s really nothing to debate,” I said, leaning back in my chair.
“So, you’re ready to convict him? Before hearing all the facts, is that right?” By the door, the construction worker who I pegged a loyal spouse and family man, now seemed more like a bossy militant shouting orders at me. I cowered in silence. What did I just get us all into?
Rising from his chair, he closed the door until it was just slightly ajar. Then, he turned to us, seething with venom. “I want you all to take a minute to think about the Sixth Amendment that is afforded to all of us as citizens.” Walking slowly around the table away from me, he addressed each one of us as he spoke. “We all have the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury. So, if you are not going to listen to all the facts and be fair before casting your judgment, then you need to make that known now,” he said as he stopped directly behind my chair.
Every eye in the room landed on me. I caused this outburst. I wished I would’ve ignored the nosy suit and kept reading my book, but suddenly I was the troublemaking biased juror. More to avoid their accusing eyes than anything else, I turned to him. Big mistake.
He continued, “Now take this lady. Either still in college or barely out, if she graduated. I could look at her and judge her, but I don’t propose to know the first thing about her. But, I know she doesn’t know what it feels like to be falsely accused of anything and be forced to prove her own innocence. Unfortunately, I do know what that’s like. So, I for one am proud to be part of this process to ensure others don’t have to endure what I’ve already suffered through.” With the footsteps in the hall nearing the room, he closed his speech. “I pray that none of you ever have to.”
In walked the bailiff, an older woman just about a rent-a-cop on the totem pole. Super serious about her work. She looked around, tallying up jurors. “This door stays open, unless I close it,” she stated firmly and loud enough to vibrate the walls. “There are eleven of you so far and Ms. Hutchins will be our twelfth.” Gliding into the room from behind the bailiff, she took the seat directly across from me.
thirteen
It was school all over again. When the minute hand on the clock finally hit twelve, signaling five o’clock, I was practically buoyant as I bounced out of the seat and through the door. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Really, there was only so much one person can take, and dodging the firing squad of the Nazi construction worker and Catherine, was not one that anyone should have to endure.
By the following day, I was willing to leave all that behind and start fresh. I woke up early enough to drive leisurely and stop for a tall white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, possibly the only positive thing about being up before the sun. The fact that I found an available legal parking spot, I just figured was an omen that the day would take a turn for the better.
But we all know what happens to the best-laid plans. As my luck would have it, it was Saturday. Hence, the reason the courthouse doors wouldn’t budge. Drivers were nice. Someone actually let me get over without flipping me off or honking with bubbled rage. I knew it was Saturday because I’d been looking forward to meeting Myles, but it hadn’t registered that there wouldn’t be jury duty on a weekend. Still, just to be certain, I sat in my parked car with the phone pressed to my ear and my jury duty notice in hand. I couldn’t take the chance. Digit by digit, I entered my access code. The court operator confirmed my code, then my name. “Yes. Yes. I’m over eighteen and a resident. Keep it moving.” Then the polite automated lady said something I hadn’t been expecting. My service was no longer needed. The whole civic duty was over.
Immediately, I scrolled through my phone for a local news app. Sure enough. It was the first headline on the page. “Grimes Does the Crimes,” spanned the entire width of the screen in bold red letters. All the air inside me deflated in one fluid gasp. “What happened?” I said aloud, knowing no one could hear me.
As soon as I clicked on the link, I had my answer. The anchor sat behind the desk in a garish yellow blazer with uncomfortably awkward posture, disgust and loathing colored his face as the words hurled from his mouth. “In a tragic story that has come far too close to home…” I heard every last word, but they seemed to hover above me, floating. They wouldn’t sink in. It was exactly what he wanted, control. Right from the start, he’d been calling the shots, and now he had accepted a plea deal. Who the hell knew what were the terms, but he was likely in control of that, too.
Restlessly, I continued reading down the page, searching for something to make sense. The written equivalent of a car accident, I should have closed the page, but I couldn’t stop reading. Grimes kidnapped his victims at amusement parks and arcades, and then took them to a deserted trail at Red Rock Canyon where he sexually assaulted them and threatened to kill their families if they told anyone. If Molly Webster hadn’t escaped, he would still be on the loose. She hiked in the canyon with her family fairly often and knew the trails well. Ducking into shadows and behind rocks, Molly barely breathed for fear that Grimes might hear her or see the vapors from her breath. By the skin of her teeth, she got out in time to wave down a passing car. At the police station she was reunited with her family and mapped out the location of the others kids.
I was aghast, torn between tears and sheer ire. While my biggest worries in life had been over heartbreaks and candy, poor Molly was literally trying to survive. And this was only the kids we knew about. Who knew how many other children had been traumatized, raped, and murdered by that psychopath. I could hardly get my mind wrapped around the full magnitude. So that was it? He made his plea and jury duty was over. I should have been ecstatic, but all I wanted to do was punch something. Or someone.
Two near-miss accidents and one finger-flipping road rage war later, I found myself in the designated kickboxing area at my small local circuit gym. The poor new age centaur of a rubbery half-man ended up suffering the brunt of my wrath. He’d never done anything to me, but lately he’d become the victim of my pent up rage. Shipments delayed due to backorder, wham, kick to the jaw. Ethan’s getting remarried, pow, uppercut to the gut, front kick to the place where his faux-man bits would be. And on that day, when a kidnapping vulture pedophile dictated the course of a trial, the dummy was in for it—double combo jab-hook-uppercut scissor-kick.
As the dummy toppled over, I realized that I’d garnered the attention of an audience. Some were staring with what looked like sheer horror of the spectacle I created, others probably to see what I’d do next, but mostly, I got the feeling they were pissed that I put a wrench in the circuit rotation. Either way, I took my cue and decided to call it a day.
After all was said and done, I stunk—literally. There’s no other way to put it. Anger, confusion, and the filth of the day oozed from my pores and left me an empty vessel. I was hot and salty, and my cropped yoga pants were sticking to my thighs. I headed for the club
’s tiny restroom to wash my hands and face before heading out. A glimpse of myself in the mirror did not surprise me. I looked how I felt, worn out. Sweat had rendered my hair a matted mess. Dark divots encircled bloodshot eyes. And blotchy red polka-dots took up residence on my face. I let the cold water run for a second, then held my face under. The chilled water on my steamy face felt so soothing, I could’ve stayed there all day, but I had things to do.
I posted myself on the ledges of the sink with my head back, trying to work up a second wind, when someone started jiggling the door handle and knocking frantically. I jolted from my stupor. “Just a minute,” I said flushing the toilet for effect and turning the faucet back on to show that I’d washed my hands. With a turn of the handle, the lock popped, and I was blindsided. Myles was the inpatient looney on the other side of the door. Instantly, my mind reeled back to our last meeting, our lustful make-out session on the side of my parents’ home. My jaw dropped with an audible gasp. “Hey,” I stammered.
“Laila,” he stated, clearly on the same level of shock. His gaze was locked on me, but his jittery movement reminded me that he was trying to get into the restroom. He was about to say something, but he held up his index finger and slid pass me. Still shifting from one foot to the other, he excused himself. “Hold that thought.”
In rapid succession, I heard him relieve himself, the sound of water running, and the rough crinkle of coarse paper towels. A cold breeze fanned me as the door swung open.
“Now, where were we?”
“Uh, apparently we were catching each other off guard.” I giggled with embarrassment, feeling a little self-conscious as I flashed back to the ghastly image of myself in the mirror. Out of habit, I readjusted my T-shirt and smoothed over my pants. With every move, his eyes followed my hands.
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