The judge glowered, but gestured for the bailiff to let them exit, directing him to gather their jury numbers.
I can't lie—the commotion left me rattled, especially since Robert Blackthorne grinned throughout. I was glad I was sitting near the back, with lots of bodies between me and him. I reminded myself again the chances of me making it onto the jury were practically nil. But maybe I'd get a good party story out of it.
"Prospective jurors," the judge said, reclaiming command of the room, "you'll begin today by answering questionnaires. You must answer truthfully and to the best of your ability. Take as much time as you need."
We each received a thick questionnaire, along with a clipboard and pen. It was old school, with spaces for hand-written answers.
Section One asked for personal info that should've been rote but at this juncture in my life, seemed fraught with meaning.Age:42. Although I felt like I had less wisdom now than when I was in college.Marital status:Seeing the word "divorced" in black and white was jarring, but I checked the box.Education level:Bachelor's degree, business.Current occupation:I wrote "homemaker," resisting the urge to add a parenthetical explaining years of unpaid logistics work.Prior occupations:Marketing assistant, two years. Well, almost two years. I was sure I could handle working and having a baby, but Warren had been offered a promotion that required longer hours so weagreed I'd "take one for the team."Spouse's occupation: I added an "ex" in front of spouse, then wrote "car salesman." I knew it was petty of me not to list his title as general manager, but I was okay with it.Household members and ages: two children, 16 and 14.Length at current residence:10 years. The big house in Alpharetta had been an upgrade from our little ranch in Doraville, but it had never felt as homey.
Section Two, the money section, made my stomach do a somersault.Employer:None.Sources of household income:Child support and alimony, two words that still felt strange in my own handwriting, like I'd borrowed someone else's life.Would jury service create a financial hardship?No. Since I wasn't bringing in any income, my income wouldn't be missed.
Section Three asked what I thought about the justice system.Did you trust police testimony?I wrote "generally."Do you trust government agencies?"It depends."What are your views on prosecutors, defense attorneys, plea bargains?I sat there for a long moment, pen hovering, genuinely unsure—and then realized that the uncertainty itself felt like a small miracle. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked me my opinion about anything. I took my time to express the fact that I made my decisions about trustworthiness based on the individual, not on their title or role.
Section Four dealt with the logistics of being a juror.Would restrictions on phone and internet access create a hardship?I thought about the PTA and neighborhood watch group chats and my neglected laptop that I used mostly to find recipes and knitting patterns, then wrote "No."Could you be away from professional and personal responsibilities for approximately six months?I hesitated, twirled my pen, hemmed and hawed, then reminded myself it didn't really matter because I'd never be selected for this jury.
So I wrote "Absolutely."
July 8, Wednesday
IT HADbeen another day of waiting, with sporadic announcements of juror numbers who were excused, I presumed, based on some objectionable answer on the questionnaires the judge and two teams of attorneys pored over. But at least I had my plastic knitting needles with me. As the day dragged on, I added several rows to the project I was working on for a beloved cause.
Lily and I were talking again, but the temperature remained chilly. I was hoping things would thaw a bit more at our family therapy appointment this evening.
I checked my watch for the hundredth time. If I left in the next forty-five minutes, I'd make it home in time. With luck.
I'd texted a reminder to both kids and Warren that morning—separately. Lily had responded with a question mark, which wasn't a no. Josh hadn't responded but I could tell he'd at least read it. Warren had responded with a big thumbs up—suspicious, but I was determined to be optimistic.
Worst case, I told myself, I'll pull into a parking lot somewhere and join from my phone. I had a plan. I felt almost competent.
"Now I'll hear reasonable excuses as to why you can't serve for the six months we're estimating the trial will take."
Robert Blackthorne had been doodling on a pad of paper all day and looking generally bored. But now he turned his head to listen to the jurors who'd lined up. They all looked nervous. One woman kept glancing over at Blackthorne and was visibly shaking.
One by one, jurors stood and explained, with varying degrees of composure, why six months of their lives could not be handed over to the federal government. A woman with three kids underfive and no childcare. A man recovering from knee surgery who couldn't sit for long stretches. A freelance nurse who would lose her health care if she didn't work, and many more. The judge nodded, made notes, then excused them one by one.
"Does anyone else want to present an excuse?" Judge Arnold asked.
I could say I had two teenagers with no other parent in the home. I could say my family was still healing from a traumatic divorce. I could cite my job search. Either one of those, framed correctly, might be enough. Plus I'd be home in time for the therapy session.
But I didn't raise my hand.
Some of it was pride—I didn't love the idea of standing up in front of three hundred people and itemizing how unsupported my life was. And bottom line, I wasn't ready to talk myself out of this yet.
Finally, the judge thanked the remaining group—maybe two hundred of us now—and released us for the day. "Report back here tomorrow, eight a.m."
What followed was over an hour of frenetic driving. I pulled into the garage with four minutes to spare, feeling victorious.
I burst through the front door. "Lily? Josh?"
No answer. Tucker came running with his leash, indicating he'd been alone all day. I opened my laptop and logged into the Zoom call with ninety seconds to spare.
The little grid of faces loaded. Dr. Anders. And me.
"Good evening, Isabel," Dr. Anders said. "Let's give everyone five minutes, shall we?"
I smiled and nodded, but after ten minutes, I sighed. "Let's try again next week?"
Dr. Anders steepled her fingers. "I want to gently remind you—and I know this isn't entirely in your control—thatfamily therapy is strongly recommended, especially with minor children in the home. Consistency matters."
