The gallery laughed—a proper laugh, the kind that fills a room briefly and leaves it feeling looser. Even the judge's expression shifted in a direction that suggested amusement.
"One more question," he said, when the room settled. "Can you think of a time when everyone around you believed one thing and you believed another?"
I sat with that for a moment. The honest answer was not the impressive answer, and by now I'd learned that this judge could tell the difference.
"I can't think of a time when I was the only person in the room who disagreed," I said. "But I can think of times when everyone around me reached a conclusion faster than I did. I tend to make up my mind more slowly than most people because I want to know all the ramifications of that decision."
"Thank you," the judge said with a nod. "You may return to your seat."
I left the witness box, walked back to my seat, and picked up my knitting. My eyes flicked to the deputy holding up the rear wall. His eyes flicked to mine.
Then we both flicked away.
July 22, Wednesday
"TODAY," JUDGEArnold announced, "I'll be hearing hardship excuses." He called about two dozen juror numbers and the people dutifully filed to the front. He looked at each in turn and said simply, "Tell us why serving as a juror would be a hardship."
The first was a small woman with work-worn hands who cleaned houses for a living—eleven of them, spread across two counties. "If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, my children don't eat." She said it without drama, as a person states a fact about weather. "I have four children."
A farmer from rural Fulton County explained that his livelihood depended on the September harvest. "If I'm still here in September, I lose the harvest. If I lose the harvest, I lose the year."
A woman in her sixties described her husband in the quiet, specific way of someone who has memorized the language of a disease. "He has Parkinson's. He can still dress himself most days. But there are days he can't button his shirt." She looked at her own hands briefly. "There are days he forgets where the bathroom is. There's no one else to show him."
A man explained that his mother used a wheelchair and added he'd not spent a night away from her in seven years.
A man in a pressed polo shirt explained he owned a landscaping company. "I have twelve employees. If I'm away six months, the contracts lapse and there's no payroll." He paused. "These people and their families depend on me."
By the end, I was sitting with the discomfort of someone forced to examine her circumstances from a new angle and finding them embarrassingly comfortable. I had a house. I had an ex-husband who, despite his character flaws, was not going to let his children go unfed. I had a sister I could count on. I had,when it came right down to it, the rarest of luxuries in a hardship hearing—the ability to answer "Would this create a financial hardship?" with an uncomplicated no.
I drove home thinking about the woman with the husband who forgot where the bathroom was, and the man who hadn't left his mother overnight in seven years. I thought about what it means to be genuinely needed somewhere, and how I'd spent two weeks assuming my children couldn't manage without me, when two weeks of evidence had suggested otherwise.
I wanted to go home and do something useful with all of that feeling. I wanted to sit in a room with my children and talk to them about all the changes we'd gone through. The kids had both grudgingly agreed to attend the therapy session that evening, so I was hopeful.
But when the grid loaded, once again it was just Dr. Anders and me.
"Isabel," Dr. Anders said in a patient tone, "it falls to you to help Lily and Josh understand why this process would benefit them. Children don't self-select into healing. Someone has to create the conditions."
"You're right."
"I'd encourage you to be direct with them rather than hoping they'll come around on their own."
"I will."
"Is there anything you'd like to talk to me about?"
Lily's assertion that I was the one who needed help, that the rest of them were "fine" flitted through my head.
"Isabel?" Dr. Anders prompted.
"No, thank you," I said, then hit the "exit" button.
July 23, Thursday
SEQUESTRATION HADbeen the quiet threat looming at the back of every conversation in the courtroom—mentioned, clarified, carefully not dwelt upon. Today Judge Arnold moved it front and center.
"From day one I told you this trial was expected to last for six months. In the questionnaires you filled out and during the in-court Q&A sessions, you were asked if being away from your home and your families for that length of time would create a hardship. Now that we've narrowed down the jury pool, I want to make it very clear that if you're chosen for this jury, there is a high likelihood that you would be sequestered for the duration of the trial. That means you would go home to pack clothing and necessities, then report back. After that you would be housed in a hotel and shuttled to and from the courtroom. You would not be allowed to go home, although you would be permitted phone calls with your families. You would not be allowed visitors. You would be supervised at all times. And you will not have access to your phones or other devices that connect to outside media. Please take a few moments and think about how this would affect your life. I'll hear your reasons to be excused one at a time."
A man in his thirties explained that he was a recovering social media addict and that six months without access, was a mental health matter. He provided a note from his therapist. The judge thanked him and excused him.
