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?”
The female juror answers no.
The questions continue. Everyone gets asked about any ties to domestic violence, if they or anyone in their family has ever worked in law enforcement, or been involved in politics. If anyone they know has ever experienced a death of a suspicious nature.
The longer the void dire goes on, the more intrigued I become. Judging by the kinds of questions she’s asking, as well as the questions coming from the defense team, I deduce this isn’t just any trial. We are being interviewed to be jurors for a murder trial.
Holy shit, I think, biting my tongue so I don’t cuss out loud.
I glance around the room. Down the row from me is Sam, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes cast downward. He’s disappointed. He really doesn’t want to be here. Maybe he’s