He waited for more.
"I've also held myself accountable. That's harder, in my experience, and takes longer. But it matters more."
He tilted his head, recalibrating something. I'd noticed he did that when an answer didn't land where he'd expected it.
"When two people tell conflicting stories, how do you figure out who's telling the truth?"
"I watch for consistency—not in the facts they present, but in the small details. People who are telling the truth tend to have the texture right. The things they don't think to embellish. People who are constructing a story tend to be very good at the headline and shakier around the edges." I thought for a moment. "I also pay attention to what they choose not to say. Omission is information."
Both attorneys wrote something at roughly the same moment, which I found interesting.
"Final question," Stone said. "Do you believe actions matter more than intentions?"
This one I sat with. The room was quiet enough that I could hear the air conditioning.
"I think intentions matter enormously," I said. "They tell you who someone is trying to be. But actions are what everyone else has to live with. So in terms of consequences and accountability—yes. What you actually do carries more weight than what you meant to do." A beat. "I say this as someone who has spent countless hours explaining to children that good intentions don't make a mess clean up itself."
Stone looked at me for a long moment after I finished. Then he nodded, as if something had been confirmed.
The U.S. Attorney caught my eye briefly as I stood. Her expression hadn't cracked into warmth exactly, but it had shifted.
I walked back to my seat, picked up my knitting, and tried to determine what any of that meant.
The professor leaned over from two seats away.
"Good answers," he said quietly.
"Thank you," I said, realizing what I'd enjoyed most about the questioning was the courtesy of being allowed to finish a complete thought. I'd been speaking in phrases and incomplete sentences for most of my adult life.
July 29, Wednesday
I HADjust cast off another knitted knocker when the attorneys began peremptory strikes. Each number called sent a small tremor through what remained of us. It was personal now.
The physical therapist, gone. The retired banker, gone. The city accountant, gone.
I knitted through all of it, and my fingers were getting faster. I was going to run out of yarn before I ran out of proceedings.
By four o'clock nineteen of us remained. From a thousand.
Judge Arnold looked at us with the expression of someone who could see the finish line. "Return tomorrow," he said. "Nine a.m."
I drove home with excited anticipation. Both kids had texted during the day, assuring me they'd be on the therapy Zoom call.
Lily:i'll be there i promise
Josh:yeah same
Warren:I'll make sure they're both on.
I made a sandwich, opened the laptop, and logged in two minutes early. At six o'clock the grid loaded. Dr. Anders' face. And mine.
"They promised to be here," I told her.
She smiled and nodded.
I willed them to sign on, to show up for our family. I started to text them, but stopped myself. At ten minutes past, Dr. Anders gave me a sad smile. "It appears we're alone again."
"It appears so."
