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“Only when you’re ready to sell.” This lighthearted conversation is one that Smitty and I have had several times before. Maybe it’s time to start getting serious about selling to him and retiring.
The truth is, I’d have no problem selling the ranch to Smitty when I decide to retire. He’d do a bang up job. I just worry he’s a workaholic. He’s got nothing else going on in his life besides the ranch. If he had a partner and some kids, then maybe I wouldn’t worry about him so much. I already know he’d be fine with me keeping a couple of acres down by the creek to build my cabin, and with me keeping my own horses in the barn. I could do nothing but fly fish, hike, ride horses, read my books, and relax. But when the time comes, who knows if I’ll actually be able to let go.
As I exit the truck, I catch sight of my own ring finger.
You got no room to worry about Smitty’s lack of a wife when you yourself don’t have one—and never will.
I pick up a tall stack of novels from the library. We’re not going to be allowed to watch TV or read the newspaper, so books it is. On a whim, I grab a thick paperback historical romance and add it to the pile. Turns out, there’s a good number of ‘em set in the Wild West. It might be fun to see if they get the details right.
I don’t have anything against romances; I’ve just never read any of ‘em.
The one I’ve chosen has a lady on the cover that sort of looks like Wren. Not the same kind of hair but the same sweet face and petite frame. Of course, she’s not wearing short shorts but a big flouncy dress. And a corset, which looks uncomfortable, but does seem to serve up a woman’s breasts like they’re desserts on a plate. Still, I might have more fun after that kind of contraption is removed.
I know it’s wrong of me to think of Wren like that. But I’m gonna need something to get her out of my system. Pretty sure I can’t take porn and can’t have any outside visitors, so the suggestive cover of a romance novel will have to do.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe isolation is the best thing for me. As I understand it, I’m not to talk to any of the other jurors about the case, and I’m not allowed to talk to family or friends. Not allowed to speak to any members of the media or read the newspapers or watch the news, or access the internet.
Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Funny. When I actually think about how few people I’ll be allowed to talk to, and how limited I’ll be in my access to the outside world, it seems sort of like a dream come true.
The outside world has always been, in my experience, overrated.
My first day on the jury does not bode well of any of my dreams coming true.
If I had to describe this assignment with one word? Frustration.
I somehow got seated in the jury box right next to Wren. And I still can’t get my devious thoughts about her under control.
She made an attempt to dress more conservatively and gets an A for effort. The way she’s tried to get her hair under control is charming. Still full of dreads and braids, she has it twisted up and secured with a pencil. And she’s wearing glasses with little red frames that m
ake her look like a stoner librarian. Thank god she’s not wearing shorts cut all the way up to her lady business again today.
But her sheer presence is like a field of heat, a ball of energy waiting to be released, radiating all morning, just barely touching my left arm and leg but sending me warmth.
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury,” begins the prosecutor, “you have an enormous task ahead of you. We, the prosecution, are going to show you beyond a reasonable doubt why we believe Mrs. Ellen Jacobsen, seated right over there”—the tall, blonde prosecutor points to the defendant, seated at the front right side of the courtroom with a team of impressive looking lawyers—“murdered her husband, the beloved State Senator Ernie Jacobson, in cold blood. We are asking you to convict her of the crime of murder in the first degree, after showing you a multitude of evidence, based on motive, physical evidence, and witness testimony.”
I don’t recall much about the details of the case, but as she speaks, a memory is sparked from the news reports I briefly scanned last year. Supposedly this lady drugged her husband, then smothered him with a pillow in his sleep.
I study her while the opening arguments go on and on. A diminutive woman in her 50s, the most diabolical act I can imagine her doing is accidentally burning a tuna casserole. The prosecutor tells us that we will learn, based on police reports and witness testimony, that there was no forced entry, that Ellen had access to prescription sleeping pills, that they had quarreled, and that Ellen had previously bragged to friends about one day killing her husband.
I try to keep an open mind as I listen. Mostly my mind is occupied elsewhere. The way Wren’s knees look in that skirt she’s wearing. The way her oversized sweater pairs with that skirt.
The lead defense attorney speaks to us in an over-the-top, impassioned tone that immediately makes me not like him. “This woman, the defendant, is a victim of police blundering at the crime scene, of emotional manipulation by investigators, and of a husband whose ill treatment of her drove her to a dependency on prescription sleeping pills.”
It seems a bit of a stretch. I can’t imagine why cops would take any pleasure in pinning this on someone who looks like a Sunday School teacher, but that’s just my own prejudice. Also, I don’t like the lead defense attorney’s flashy cuff links or his hair gel. I in no way would ever pay a man like that to defend me in court; he appears to be a weasel with political aspirations himself. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
Still, doesn’t mean she did it.
Throughout the day, my mind and my body are far more attuned to Wren. Her breath, the occasional nervous clearing of her throat, her little ass shifting around in her seat.
When we break for lunch, the bailiffs bring us a mess of fast food burgers and fries in the jury room.
“I don’t eat this shit,” I mutter to myself as I grab a sack of fries and head to a corner, away from everyone else.
Of course, the little bird follows me. “Oh my god, are you vegan too?”
I stare at Wren and wait for the punchline. Surely it’s obvious I am not a vegan.
