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Nice ass for an old cowboy.
My new friend Sam’s number gets called shortly after I return to my seat in the jury room, and I have to smile at the way he mutters under his breath as he slowly rises to his feet, something about how his reading’s been interrupted right as the plot was starting to get good.
He can’t fool me. I can tell by the wear and tear, he’s read that book about eighteen thousand times.
Nah, he’s just mad I didn’t get dismissed. He’s getting increasingly worried he’s going to end up in the jury box with little ol’ me.
He doesn’t like the looks of me at all. He’d probably be shocked out of his mind if he knew I thought he was better looking than that mustached guy from Roadhouse—one of the greatest movies of all time.
I know the type. I see guys like him at the farm supply store where I work as a cashier every day. Not all of ‘em would dress up for court the way Sam has: pressed dark jeans, belt with a silver buckle—a small buckle, not too flashy—plaid button down shirt that’s slightly outdated but he carries it off well. And fills it out well, I might add.
Men like Sam are not an uncommon sight around here; this is cattle country, after all. What I do find unusual is the fact that he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Not even a dent in his weathered ring finger to indicate there might have been one there, once upon a time. Too bad. How can a virile, gorgeous, salt-and-pepper daddy like that not have a partner? Who knows. Maybe he enjoys being single. Maybe he’s a bad boy with a reputation with the ladies, or maybe he’s a serial monogamist who’s emotionally unavailable. All the possible scenarios swirl around in my head, and my intuition rejects every single one.
I watch him quietly answer the clerk’s questions, nodding respectfully and saying, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.”
I survey the crowd and notice a couple of other people staring at Sam too. Heat rises under my skin. I don’t like it that other people are admiring him. Why in the world would that bother me? I just met him less than thirty minutes ago. And using the word “met” might even be a stretch. More like I sat here bugging him to pass the time while we wait.
He seems like an interesting guy to talk to.
Not to mention he saved my face when I forgot to pair my Bluetooth earbuds with my phone and the entire first seven rows in the jury pool room got to hear the first seventeen second of my favorite audio smut.
It doesn’t embarrass me at all if people know what I listen to. Some people read cowboy books. The lady in the row in front of us crochets baby blankets. Me? I listen to guys jerk it while I cross stitch cuss words and pictures of vaginas. I didn’t bring the current cross stitch project with me today, though. I can’t very well be stitching “Fuck Off” at the county courthouse, I don’t think. That would be too tacky, even for me.
I wait patiently and watch Sam stride back to his chair next to me. I give him another smile, which he acknowledges with a polite nod.
Even though his rugged face doesn’t give a hint of a smile back at me, it doesn’t feel cold. In fact, everything about him feels warm. He’s handsome, kind and polite. I really hope he has kids; it would be a shame not to pass down those good genes of his. Calm down, Wren, I say to myself. It’s bad enough I wear my heart on my sleeve; I don’t need to advertise my baby fever, too.
“It’s OK,” I say.
“Ma’am?”
I like the way he says “ma’am” instead of “what?” He oozes old school manners.
“It’s OK if you don’t smile. I can read people pretty well, and I think you’re the kind of person who reserves your smile for when you’re really feeling it. And that’s perfectly cool. In fact, I think that’s kind of badass.”
Sam assesses me from the side, leaning away and casting his eyes at me, his brow furrowed. “Glad I got your permission.”
I like his brand of sarcasm. We all
know this dude does not give a shit about permission for much of anything.
“Also,” I add, “thank you. For earlier.”
He has to think for a minute as I study his focused ice blue eyes.
“For taking the blame for she-bop soundtrack coming from my phone,” I whisper.
Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Ma’am, I don’t have to know what that was, I just didn’t want you getting in any kind of trouble. If anyone gets sent home, I’d rather it be me, ‘cause for some reason you seem to be in your happy place. Just make sure I don’t ever have to hear that foolishness again.”
I give him my best thousand watt smile.
Just when I think he might see fit to allow himself to smile back at me, the bailiff interrupts us and lists off a bunch of numbers, indicating that the people assigned to those numbers will be called to go to a second room for interviews.
My number and Sam’s number, along with a couple dozen more, are called and the bailiffs herd us down the hall. Once we are all seated in the gallery of a large, stately courtroom, I wonder if this is the same room the trial will take place in. If so, it must be a big deal. It ain’t gonna be an assault and battery charge, that’s for sure. This is the kind of courtroom, with its many long rows of seats and imposing columns and ornate wood details, that is seen in the movies. Something pretty important is going to go down in this room.
The judge walks in, and the bailiff instructs us all to rise while she takes her seat on the bench.
Once we’re settled, a tall woman wearing a dark suit and kickass heels introduces herself as an assistant district attorney. She begins asking questions to the potential jurors, addressing them by their numbers. “If any of you don’t feel comfortable answering my questions in front of the group, all you have to do is ask to approach the bench, and you may speak with the judge directly. Juror Number 3. Have you or anyone in your family ever been a party to domestic violence?”
