I felt like an utter failure. "I know. I'll—" I exhaled. "I'll try to do better."
Dr. Anders nodded, kindly, in the specific way of someone who has heard that sentence many, many times, from many, many parents, and has learned not to hold her breath.
July 9, Thursday
THURSDAY'S BIGevent, as far as I could tell, was watching two groups of very expensive-looking attorneys read questionnaires. Again.
They sat at opposing folding tables that had been brought in, sorting through our questionnaires that had been separated into various stacks. Occasionally one would lean toward a colleague, murmur, and tap a page. Otherwise, nothing happened. And nothing kept happening for a long time.
I had come prepared with my knitting bag. I was able to finish more of my charitable projects and let the rhythm fill the silence. And I studied the courtroom.
Robert Blackthorne sat at a counsel table alone, flanked by two armed guards. Even sitting, the man seemed to take up a lot of space. It was astonishing to me that one person could have such presence, while others of us could go completely unnoticed.
I turned my head to glance to the back of the courtroom and froze. It was the deputy from Monday, the one who liked my dress and offered knitting needle advice. He stood near the back wall, close to the exit, scanning the room the way I imagine lifeguards scan a pool. Not looking at anyone in particular. Looking at everyone, including Blackthorne… including me.
Our eyes met for half a second. He gave me a small nod, the kind that says I see you, nothing to report, carry on, and then went back to scanning. I dropped a stitch, dammit, and had to root around in my bag for a crochet hook to repair it.
With nothing else to occupy it, my brain did what it does best: catastrophize about household logistics.
Had anyone fed Tucker? Had Lily remembered to move her cheer uniform from the washer to the dryer? Had Josh made his dentist appointment? I'd dragged both trash bins to thecurb before sunrise, but there was no possible universe in which either of my children would think to bring them back in.
Before the noon break, Judge Arnold said, "Come back at 1pm. Many of you will be released today."
The mood was lighter as we exited the courtroom—almost everyone around me confessed they wanted to go home. I found a seat in the hallway to eat the brown bag lunch I'd packed and check my phone. It lit up like a slot machine.
Warren:you're not still doing the jury duty thing, are you?
Lily:mom where are u theres no food
Josh:mom
Josh:MOM
Lily:my cheer stuff is still wet
Warren:Isabel the kids can't reach you
I sighed and typedAt the courthouse. Will probably be released today.
Lily:good
Josh:good
Warren:GOOD
I frowned. Not good.
After lunch, the judge was true to his word. He released several dozen jurors. I kept waiting for him to call number 247… but he didn't.
"See the rest of you tomorrow," the judge said cheerfully.
July 10, Friday
A BAILIFFannounced there were roughly one hundred of us left in the running for six months in a windowless courtroom.
And then they split us up further. We were called forward in groups of twenty to sit on the front rows. Since I was in the last group, I had the benefit of watching the judge quiz the other groups and dismiss many jurors based on their responses. I thought I was prepared when he called the last group, but I was strangely nervous.
"I'm going to ask you a series of questions," he said. "If the answer applies to you—if you feel you could not be fair, could not set aside a bias, or could not fulfill the obligations of this jury—I need you to raise your hand. There's no wrong answer. There's only an honest one."
