A woman who had seemed composed all week suddenly wasn't. "I've been feeling increasingly claustrophobic with this whole process," she said. "I don't think I can be confined like that. I've been struggling to come back every day as it is." Excused.
A man who had been sitting quietly in the second row stood and said, with a steadiness that was clearly costing him something, that he had post-traumatic stress from the pandemic—from the isolation, the enforced confinement, the not knowing how long it would last. "This is starting to feel like that," he said. "I need you to know that before you decide whether you want me here." The judge excused him.
Then a woman near the aisle stood and said, without elaboration, "I simply couldn't be away from my family for six months." She didn't expand. She didn't need to. The judge asked a few follow-up questions, made notes, and after a thoughtful pause, excused her.
One by one, the judge made his way through the remaining pool. He looked at each face in turn and asked, "Do you believe you could be away from your family for six months?"
I had time to think about it before my turn came. More specifically—all the time after the missed therapy session from the previous evening. Maybe we could all use a little distance. Not forever. Just—enough to miss each other.
The judge reached me.
"Juror 247. Six months of sequestration. Do you believe you could manage that separation from your family?"
"Yes, I do."
July 24, Friday
THE DAYstarted with a civics lesson I apparently needed.
Judge Arnold explained peremptory strikes to the assembled pool with the patient thoroughness of a man who understood that most of us had arrived expecting jury selection to work the way it does on television, which is to say, nothing like this.
"Each side has a limited number of peremptory challenges," he said. "A peremptory strike allows an attorney to remove a candidate without providing a reason. No explanation is required. No cause needs to be stated." He paused in his measured way. "Some of you will be dismissed today through this process. If that happens, it reflects nothing about you personally, your honesty, or your fitness as a citizen. It simply means an attorney has chosen to use a challenge."
So, I mused, I could answer every question honestly, demonstrate thoughtfulness and fairness and the ability to compartmentalize, and still be gone by lunch because someone on the defense team didn't like my cardigan, or someone on the U.S. Attorney's team didn't like my haircut. I accepted this with the equanimity of someone who's had a lot of practice being dismissed for reasons that were never explained.
The morning unfolded quietly. Every hour or so, a few numbers were called and those jurors were dismissed. By midday the room had thinned to around sixty. By mid-afternoon, forty-five. I knitted through all of it, producing knitted knockers at record speed. Occasionally my gaze drifted toward the deputy, but he was always looking at someone or something else.
At four-thirty the judge addressed the remaining forty-odd people. "Return Monday. The questioning will become more detailed. Please come rested."
Lily was in the kitchen when I arrived home, radiating with indignation. "I need to go to Madison's, like, now."
Nearby Tucker sat with his leash in his mouth, whining.
I set my bag down on the cluttered counter. "This is exactly why you need to get your driver's permit."
"I'd think about it if Dad would get me a BMW."
"Lily. I don't even drive a BMW."
She shrugged. "Nobody cares what moms drive. But I have a social reputation to think about."
I stared at her.Spoiled. Entitled. Selfish.The words arrived before I could stop them. My sweet Lily had turned into one ofthosegirls.
I told myself it was the divorce. Sixteen was a brutal age under ordinary circumstances, and this year had been anything but ordinary. She was processing in the only vocabulary available to her. This was a phase. Phases end.
But standing in the kitchen surrounded by dirty dishes and uneaten food, I felt the weight of a woman who had poured herself into a family and was now beginning to wonder about the return on investment.
Wife: failed. Mother: unclear, but the early indicators were not promising.
This was my fault. I blinked back sudden tears.
Lily looked alarmed. "Mom?"
"Get your bag," I said evenly. "I'll take you, after I walk Tucker."
Whatever concern Lily had felt evaporated under the relief of getting her way. She was already grinning and bounding up the stairs.
July 25, Saturday
