Part 004 · CHAPTER 1: Juror Eight | 2 of 2

The eighteen jurors were not permitted to discuss the case, which left them with almost nothing to say that did not feel suspicious.

The court officer led them to a jury room for a short break while the courtroom handled administrative matters. Eighteen chairs had been fitted around the long table and along one wall. A counter held a coffee machine, paper cups, a sink and a handwritten sign asking jurors not to leave food in the refrigerator overnight.

Amanda Pierce, Juror One, was the first to notice that the outlets along one wall did not work.

"Does anybody need to charge a phone before I take the chair closest to the good one?" she asked.

Two people checked their battery levels. Nobody objected when she moved the chair six inches.

Darius knew from selection that Pierce ran hospital operations. The detail fit the way she had already found the functioning outlet, the coat hooks and the extra box of tissues without appearing to search for any of them.

Juror Two, Helen Cross, raised a hand toward the court officer when he came back through the door. "I have medication in my purse. Is that okay to keep with me?"

"Yes, ma'am. If you need to take it at a particular time, just let me know if we're in court."

"Thank you. I didn't want somebody thinking I was bringing in something I shouldn't."

Juror Four, Joanne Mercer, asked where the nearest restroom was. The court officer gave directions and then added, before anyone could start another conversation, "And remember, nothing about the case. Not even a little bit. You can talk about the weather, the Red Sox, your jobs, anything else you can live with for however long you're together."

"Can we talk about the coffee?" Peter Lang asked from Seat Twelve.

The officer glanced at the machine. "At your own risk."

Peter poured half a cup, tasted it, and made a face. "I think the machine has already testified against itself."

A few people laughed. Darius did too, mostly because everyone seemed relieved to be given something harmless to laugh about.

The officer pointed at Peter with two fingers. "That's as close to legal analysis as you're getting during break."

"Understood."

The names settled slowly into their seats. Amanda Pierce in One. Helen Cross in Two. Rachel Sloan, the nonprofit case manager, in Three. Joanne Mercer in Four. Kayla O'Brien, a pediatric nurse, in Five. Teresa Ward, a real-estate appraiser, in Six. Bethany Reed, the bookkeeper, in Seven. Darius in Eight. Monica Vaughn, who worked in user-experience research, in Nine. Lydia Brooks, an administrative-law paralegal, in Ten. Martin Keller, an accountant, in Eleven. Peter Lang, an architect, in Twelve.

Seats Thirteen through Eighteen belonged to six additional jurors who would hear the same evidence. Judge Bell had been explicit that none of them should assume those six were already the alternates. The court would identify the six jurors who would not deliberate only after the evidence closed. Until then, all eighteen were jurors.

Only after the names were attached to seats did Darius connect two of them to answers he had heard during voir dire. Monica had disclosed that she had once posted publicly in support of a defendant in an unrelated criminal case. Judge Bell had asked whether that experience gave her a rule about prosecutors, defendants or mental-health evidence here. Monica said it did not and that she had stopped following coverage of the Whitcomb case once summoned. Teresa had disclosed a years-old complaint against her that had been dismissed without a conviction. Brogan asked whether the experience would keep her from evaluating police testimony fairly. Teresa said no. Neither disclosure had been treated as a verdict on the person making it.

Those were facts from selection, not personalities. Darius caught himself trying to match occupations to behavior and stopped after deciding that an architect was no more naturally qualified to judge coffee than anyone else.

He also noticed, because it was visible, that he was the only Black juror among the eighteen. The other seventeen were white. Among Seats One through Twelve, nine were women and three were men. He registered the racial fact the way he registered that most of them had brought sweaters for the over-air-conditioned courtroom and he had not. It was a fact about the room. He had no reason to assign it a meaning.

Rachel asked if anyone knew whether they were expected back the next morning at the same time.

"Judge will tell you before you leave," the officer said.

Teresa looked toward the closed door. "Do we know how long the trial is supposed to last?"

"The judge will cover scheduling too."

"So your answer to everything is the judge?"

"You are learning quickly."

That drew another laugh.

Darius sat with his hands around a paper cup of water. He knew almost nothing personal about any of them. Helen had mentioned a family history of psychosis during selection, but the questioning had stopped before it became a story. Kayla had said her work with children would make some evidence difficult but would not keep her from serving. Lydia had answered questions about legal employment carefully enough that Darius suspected she had spent years being told not to give legal advice when she was not the lawyer. Martin had a quiet voice. Monica spoke quickly when nervous. Bethany thanked every court employee who handed her anything.

None of it told him how anyone would vote. There was nothing to vote on.

The officer collected them before the silence became uncomfortable again.

Back in the courtroom, they stood while the clerk administered the oath. Darius repeated the words with the others, aware of his own voice only because eighteen voices did not quite land at the same speed.

Judge Bell waited until they were seated.

She congratulated no one. She thanked them for serving and moved directly into instructions.

They were not to discuss the case with anyone, including one another, until deliberations began and the court told them they could. They were not to research the law, the parties, the lawyers, the witnesses or any subject connected to the evidence. They were not to visit locations. They were not to read, watch or listen to coverage of the case. They were not to post about jury service in a way that could invite discussion. If anyone tried to speak to them about the case, they were to end the conversation and report it.

Most important, Judge Bell said, they were not to decide anything before the evidence was complete, the lawyers had made their arguments and she had instructed them on the law.

She added one logistical instruction that felt important only because nobody had expected it. Eighteen jurors would hear the evidence. Before deliberations, six would be designated not to deliberate and released or retained as alternates as the court directed. Seat number did not answer that question in advance. Every one of them was to listen as if a verdict might depend on the notes in front of them.

Darius looked down at the badge clipped to his pocket.

Eight.

A number did not feel like much of an identity. For now, that was probably the point.

It did not even guarantee that he would be one of the twelve who finally deliberated. Not yet.

Maya looked at the badge before she looked at him.

"Juror Eight," she said. "Sounds like you have two lines in a crime show."

Darius put his keys in the bowl by the apartment door. "I plan to demand more screen time."

"You'd be terrible on television."

"Thank you."

"You'd correct the host."

"Only if the host was wrong."

She gave him a look that suggested he had made her case for her.

Darius took off his shoes and carried his work bag toward the kitchen. The apartment smelled like garlic and whatever Maya had heated in the toaster oven. A school backpack lay open beside the couch. Two college brochures were face down on the coffee table under a sweatshirt.

"You got milk, right?" she called.

He stopped.

Maya appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Dad."

"I had court."

"Stores still exist when court is happening."

"I forgot."

"You remembered the badge."

"The Commonwealth of Massachusetts handed me the badge."

"Maybe they can hand you milk tomorrow."

He opened the refrigerator as if a carton might have appeared through administrative process. There was enough for breakfast if nobody wanted a second glass.

"I'll get it in the morning."

Maya leaned against the counter. "So did she look remorseful?"

Darius closed the refrigerator.

"I can't talk about the case."

"I asked what somebody looked like."

"That's the case."

"That's ridiculous."

"It is also what the judge told us."

Maya opened a cabinet and took down a glass. "You can tell me if you saw her."

He had, of course. He could have said that much. He could have told Maya that Nora Whitcomb looked smaller than the news story built around her, except he did not actually know whether that was true because he had made a point of not studying her. He could have explained the difference between the case he had vaguely absorbed through headlines and the legal question Judge Bell had described.

He wanted to. Maya was seventeen, old enough to understand why the day had felt serious and young enough that he still wanted credit from her for taking something seriously.

The judge's instruction had not come with a family exception.

"I can't discuss it," he said again.

Maya filled the glass from the tap instead. "You're going to be unbearable."

"For the duration of the trial, apparently."

"How long is that?"

"They didn't promise a date."

"Great."

His phone rang on the counter. Keisha.

Maya saw the name and pointed at it. "Tell her about the milk."

"Why would I do that?"

"Accountability."

Darius answered. "Hey."

Keisha skipped hello. "Did they keep you?"

"Yes."

"Of course they did."

"What does that mean?"

"It means your face says civic duty even when you're buying tires."

Maya laughed from beside him. Darius turned away from her.

"You called for a reason."

"The college visits. We need to figure out transportation before you disappear into this trial for a month."

"Nobody said a month."

"How long did they say?"

"They didn't."

"Exactly."

He pulled one of the brochures from under Maya's sweatshirt. Dates and reservation notes were written on the back in Keisha's handwriting. One visit had already been moved once because of Maya's school schedule.

"I can still drive when court isn't sitting," he said.

"That is not a schedule."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because I asked you last week to tell me whether jury service was going to affect the Saturday visit and you said you'd know after today."

Darius looked at Maya. She had stopped laughing and was now pretending not to listen.

"I know after today that I was selected," he said. "I don't know every day they will need us."

"Then I need a backup."

"Fine. Get a backup."

There was a small silence.

He heard his own tone after it was too late to take it back.

Keisha said, "I was trying to make sure our daughter gets where she needs to go."

"I know."

"You don't sound like you know."

Darius put a hand on the counter. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

"It is August. The trial hasn't even started."

That was exactly the sort of sentence he might have corrected by pointing out that jury selection was part of the proceeding. He decided he preferred remaining divorced.

"You're right," he said.

Keisha waited, perhaps expecting the rest of the argument. When it did not come, she said, "I'll ask my sister about the Saturday visit. If you can do it, great. If not, Maya still goes."

"Okay."

"And don't make her your case sounding board."

Darius glanced at Maya again. "The judge already covered that."

"I wasn't talking about the judge."

Keisha ended the call before he could ask what she meant.

Maya opened the refrigerator and stared inside. "Still no milk."

"Thank you for checking whether reality changed during the phone call."

"You're welcome."

He took the juror badge off his shirt. The clip had left a shallow crease in the fabric. He set the badge on the counter, then moved it when Maya reached for a plate.

She pointed at it. "Do you get to keep that?"

"For now."

"Do they call you Juror Eight all day?"

"Mostly numbers during selection."

"That's creepy."

"It's privacy."

"Same thing, depending on the building."

Darius almost smiled. He opened the drawer where they kept takeout menus, spare batteries, tape, two screwdrivers that belonged in the utility closet and a collection of pens that mostly did not work. He laid the badge on top, face up, where Maya would see it every time she went looking for the tape.

Then he set an early alarm on his phone.

Maya had gone back toward the living room when she stopped.

"Is it that case?" she asked.

Darius looked up.

"The one everybody's been talking about. The mother and the kids."

He could hear Judge Bell's instruction almost word for word. He could also hear that Maya was not asking him what he thought, what he had seen or what he believed. She was asking whether she had identified the case from what little he had already said.

"Yes," he said.