"I've noticed you knitting to pass the time," he acknowledged. "What kinds of things do you knit?"
I swallowed hard. "Um, my current project is… Knitted Knockers."
A titter passed over the room and I suddenly wished I'd said something else.
His eyebrows rose. "What are knitted knockers?"
I reached inside my knitting bag and removed a closely knitted dome the size of a paper weight in a nice shade of taupe. "They're for women who've had mastectomies and need filler for their, um… bra."
The courtroom fell completely silent. The judge gave me a warm smile. "What a wonderful project."
"I lost my mother to breast cancer," I said, now rambling. "I want to… help."
He nodded. "Do you work outside the home?"
I pressed my lips together. "No. I'm a stay-at-home mom. My last job was in marketing, when my children were small."
Another nod. "What accomplishment are you most proud of?"
The room waited. I searched. Not my marriage, obviously. My children? I didn't see them as my accomplishments. My home? That sounded so materialistic, and besides, it wasn't even true.
I opened my mouth, hoping something would come to mind. "I…"
He gave me a respectful ten seconds, then moved on, which was either merciful or damning. I felt like an idiot.
"What concerns you most about serving on this jury?"
That one I had. "Coming to the wrong conclusion."
The judge sat back and threaded his fingers together. "That's important to you—to come to the right conclusion?"
"Yes," I said. "But not just the right conclusion—the just conclusion, for everyone involved."
Another nod. "And finally—is there any reason the attorneys should consider not selecting you?"
I gave a little laugh. "I'm not a great public speaker, as you've probably gathered. And I'm not a particularly interesting person."
Judge Arnold looked at me over his glasses.
"Neither am I," he said. "Hasn't slowed me down much."
The gallery laughed.
"Juror 247, you may return to your seat."
I did, skin tingling. I sat down and replayed my answers over and over, wishing I'd said other things. Smarter things. Finally I resumed knitting and relaxed. What's done was done, and it was for the best. I'd given the attorneys plenty of ammunition to send me home.
But when the numbers of excused jurors were called, mine wasn't one of them.
I was still in the running.
I walked back to my car genuinely unsure whether to be relieved or terrified, and landed, provisionally, somewhere in between.
July 15, Wednesday
WEDNESDAY'S QUESTIONSwere the kind that made me realize how small and uneventful my life had been.
The judge worked through them methodically, both attorneys watching from their tables with the focused expressions of people running their own internal spreadsheets.
