Elaine was ridiculous. She was completely, categorically ridiculous.
But somewhere on the drive home, I became aware of a low, persistent hum in a region of my consciousness that had been so quiet for so long I'd half-assumed the frequency no longer existed.
It did, apparently.
It very much did.
July 27, Monday
WHEN Iwalked into the courtroom Monday, I scanned until I found the dark-eyed deputy. He was talking to a bailiff, going over a form of some kind. I screwed up my nerve and walked toward him. He handed the form back, then spotted me. Our gazes locked as I approached. I suddenly wondered if I'd remembered to put on deodorant. I was feeling… moist.
"Hello," he said in a professional voice. "Can I help you?"
"I, um, need to report something to Judge Arnold. How do I do that?"
"I can take you to his chambers. Come with me."
I fell in step beside him but couldn't keep up with his stride. And the man was at least eight inches taller than me. He led me to the front of the courtroom and through a door that led to a hallway with doored offices. At the end of the hallway, the frosted window on the door was glazed with "The Honorable James Arnold."
The deputy rapped on the door.
"Come in," came the judge's voice.
The deputy opened the door.
"Ah, Deputy U.S. Marshal Wells. What can I do for you?"
"Beg your pardon, judge, but prospective juror 247 would like a word."
I registered his name—nice name—and the fact that he'd memorized my juror number, then dismissed it because he probably knew everyone's number.
"Show the juror in."
The deputy stepped aside and I walked into the judge's chamber, which was really just a very nice office with sumptuous carpeting and window treatments.
"Hello," the judge said with a smile. It was strange to see him in slacks, dress shirt, and tie, without the robe. He consulted a binder on his desk. "Two forty-seven, you're Isabel Good."
"Yes," I said. "Thank you for seeing me, Judge Arnold."
"You have something to report?"
The deputy stayed back but hovered near the door. My face warmed. "I thought you should know that I… got a speeding ticket over the weekend."
The judge's eyebrows climbed. "Was anyone hurt? Were you going more than twenty over the limit?"
"Er, no. Fifty-five in a forty-five zone."
One beat passed, then two. The judge's mouth quirked. "I see. And why were you in such a hurry?"
"My son's, um,ridedidn't show up and he was late for a soccer game."
The judge smiled outright. "Thank you for letting me know, Ms. Good, but a moving violation isn't enough to get you dismissed from the pool." Then he frowned. "Are you trying to get dismissed from the jury pool?"
I blinked. "What? No! I just thought it might be pertinent. I've never had a speeding ticket."
The judge sighed. "Wish I could say the same. How about you, Deputy?"
"I've had one or two," Deputy Wells said.
