I sat up a little straighter, the way you do when a teacher says "this won't be on the test" and you immediately assume it will be.
"Is there anyone here who has a personal connection to organized crime, either as a victim or otherwise, that would affect their ability to be impartial?"
One hand went up, near the end of the row. The judge made a note, thanked the man, and—with an efficiency that felt almost gentle—excused him on the spot. He gathered his things and left fast enough that I nearly envied him, then felt guilty for envying someone whose reason probably involved real pain.
"Does anyone here distrust law enforcement to the degree that you could not weigh police testimony fairly?"
One hand, slow, reluctant. Excused.
"Conversely—does anyone trust law enforcement so completely that you could not consider the possibility of police error or misconduct?"
A man two seats down from me raised his hand, looking almost relieved to have a category that fit him. Excused.
It went on like that—questions about defense attorneys, prior jury service, or relationships with anyone in the courtroom, including the attorneys, their offices, bailiffs, court reporter, and the judge himself. One more hand. Then another.
By the time the judge finished, about half of the original group was gone. And I was still standing—er, sitting.
"For those of you remaining," the judge said, "I'll ask you to return Monday morning. At that point, we'll move to individual voir dire—one-on-one questioning, in this courtroom, with myself and counsel for both sides."
He paused, and something in his tone shifted—not unkind, but more deliberate, like he was choosing each word.
"I want to be honest with you. Some of these questions can feel personal. Occasionally, they bring up emotional responses people don't expect. That's normal, and it's nothing to be embarrassed about." His expression was almost fatherly. "By the time this process is finished, I'll know each of you considerably better than I do right now. And I suspect some of you will know yourselves better, too."
I laughed along with everyone else, the polite laugh a room makes when a judge says something almost funny. But underneath it, something in me went very quiet.
Walking out to my car, I turned the judge's solemn words over in my head, expecting the obvious worry to surface—that strangers were about to learn about my marriage, my finances, my whole messy year. But that wasn't it. It wasn't what they might find out about me that had my stomach in knots.
It was what I might find out about myself.
July 11, Saturday
I MADEit through exactly one cup of coffee before the day began its assault on my nervous system.
The kids appeared in the kitchen within three minutes of each other. The fact that they were awake before nine should've been my first warning that the day was about to go sideways.
"Mom, I need to be at the gym by ten for conditioning," Lily said, dropping into a chair and scrolling. "And then Kaylee's getting her nails done at noon and I'm going with her, so I need a ride to the nail place after. And they never have enough Gatorade at conditioning—could you grab some? Blue. Also maybe some of those trail mix bars."
"Soccer's at ten, too," Josh said, to the open refrigerator.
"Your dad's not driving you?"
"Dad'sworking."
"Right," I said, not wanting to point out that Warren had verbally committed to assuming more of the duties associated with the kids activities to spend more time with them.
"I need snacks," Josh continued. "And forty dollars."
"Why forty dollars?"
"Things cost money. And I figured you'd say no to fifty."
I was formulating a response to the general unfairness of my Saturday when Lily looked up from her phone and beamed at me with something approaching genuine warmth.
"I'm just so glad this jury duty thing is over and you're back. Like, so glad."
"Same," said Josh, without turning around.
It was possibly the nicest thing either of them had said to me in weeks, and I was still deciding whether to be touched or suspicious when the front door opened.
