I relaxed and gave in to a smile, feeling foolish. "Then I'm sorry for wasting your time."
"You didn't," the judge said, peering at me over his glasses.
I walked back out in the hallway with the deputy and retraced my steps to the courtroom. I could feel the mirth rolling off him and it made me feel silly. I couldn't make eye contact as I settled into my spot on a bench.
So much for seeming worldly.
A few minutes later, the judge appeared in his robes and extended a greeting to those of us who remained. The defendant was brought in and passed a dark glance over the gallery. Was it my imagination, or did his eyes stop on me? A chill skittered over my shoulders.
The bailiff pulled him down into his chair and I tried to brush off the heebie jeebies. But at the attorney tables, the atmosphere had definitely shifted. There was a new sharpness in the way both teams oriented themselves toward the remaining candidates. The jury consultant for the defendant's attorney, a trim woman I'd noticed earlier in the week who sat slightly apart and watched people with detached precision, had her notepad out and was using it with intent.
Whatever conversation was happening across those tables, it had acquired urgency.
I picked up my knitting and watched from beneath my lashes.
Throughout the morning, members of both legal teams conferred in tight clusters, passed documents, compared lists. Three times in the first hour the jury consultant looked directly at me, frowned, and wrote something down. The lead defense attorney looked my way twice. Even the U.S. Attorney glanced over and frowned at me in a way that felt personal.
In that moment, I felt the object of more attention than I'd received at any point in my life.
By mid-morning the room was down to thirty prospective jurors.
When my number was called, I walked to the front of the courtroom to sit in the witness stand with the awareness that every legal professional in the room was laser focused on me. The judge asked me several questions I'd answered previously and it occurred to me they were probably comparing my responses to see if I'd lied or changed my mind. It made menervous because some of the questions were so philosophical and could be answered in more ways than one.
The afternoon ran its course. More numbers were called and dismissed. By four o'clock, the pool was down to twenty-five. When the judge released us for the day, I gathered my things and joined the procession toward an exit, carefully avoiding the door Deputy Wells stood next to.
But in the crush of bodies in the lobby, I found myself next to him as I made my way to the main entrance.
"Be careful out there," he said, then gave me the merest hint of a smile. "Don't be such a lead foot."
I closed my eyes briefly and let the embarrassment roll over me. Okay, so the man knew I was a goody-two-shoes. What did it matter? Tomorrow the judge would dismiss me and I'd probably never see Deputy U.S. Marshal Wells again.
July 28, Tuesday
WHEN MYjuror number was called to come forward for more questioning, both attorneys seemed ready to pounce. I settled nervously into the witness stand and waited for the judge to nod and say, "Proceed."
The U.S. Attorney went first. Lead attorney Lorna McDavid approached with the focused energy of someone who had prepared for this conversation the way athletes prepare for competition.
"Have you ever felt judged unfairly by someone who didn't know the whole story?"
A short inventory of the past eighteen months offered approximately forty examples. I decided to be brutally honest.
"Yes. When my marriage ended, people formed opinions very quickly. Some of those opinions were about what kind of wife I must have been, based on the outcome, without any particular knowledge of the marriage itself." I met her eyes. "An outcome is not an explanation."
She made a note. "Do you believe a person's reputation is always accurate?"
"No. I think a reputation is a story other people tell. I try to watch what someone actually does rather than rely on what I've heard. Those two things don't always line up."
She nodded slowly. "Can someone make serious mistakes and still be a good person?"
I considered this longer than the others.
"Yes. Provided they actually reckon with what they've done." A pause. "Serious mistakes without accountability are just—a pattern. That's different."
The lead defense attorney, Bryan Stone, rose before she'd fully returned to her seat. He took up a lot of room with animated hand gestures.
"Have you ever had to hold someone accountable for something they did?"
"I'm a mother," I said. "It's about sixty percent of the job description. But I can't say I've always been successful."
