The Holdout, page 3
He thought about saying hello, but figured, Then what? He never knew what you were supposed to say after hello.
They sat in silence until the girl took the final swig from a paper coffee cup and set it down on the floor next to his.
He stood. “Are you finished with that?”
It seemed to take her a moment to realize what he was talking about. “Oh…yes.”
He plucked both cups off the floor and carried them to the recycling bin.
“That was nice of you,” she said when he’d returned to his seat.
He pointed to a placard of rules on the wall. Please dispose of trash appropriately was item number two. “Just following the rules.”
She gave him a once-over, taking in his khakis and ironed shirt. “I’m guessing you’re not the rebellious type.”
She lifted up her backpack and plopped it on her lap. Rick noticed a large Obama campaign button pinned to one of the pockets. The button was square, with H-O-P-E in red, white, and blue.
Rick held up his own backpack, revealing the same button pinned to the front.
“He’s been in office for four months,” she said, smiling. “I guess it’s time to take these off.” She had a great smile.
“Save it. You can put it back on in three years.”
“God, can you imagine going through all that again?”
“Yeah. I can.” He felt as if she was already bringing out something embarrassingly earnest in him. “Did you volunteer?”
“I knocked on doors in Pennsylvania for a couple weekends. I was living in New York then.”
“Nevada,” he said. “I mean, the doors I knocked on were in Nevada. I was living here.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the administrator called out. “Thank you for your service to the city of Los Angeles. If you will direct your attention up here, I’m going to play a short video explaining your duties and responsibilities to this court.”
He dragged a black metal cart from the corner of the room, on which sat an old television. He struggled to turn it on, smashing his thumbs against the remote control with ever greater annoyance. Finally, the screen filled with the image of the actor Sam Waterston.
“This is…unexpected,” Rick said.
“Is that…the guy from Law & Order?” the girl said.
“Hello,” said Sam Waterston on the TV. “And welcome to your jury service.”
They both watched the actor explain their solemn responsibilities over the course of a ten-minute introductory video. Sam Waterston informed them that not every country, or even every democracy, guaranteed a criminal defendant a jury of his or her peers. In France and Japan, for example, judges did the finding of fact. In Germany, a three-person team of one judge and two politically appointed laypeople played the role. The use of juries was what made our system so unique, and so precious to the American experiment. Serving on a jury was one of the most profound acts of citizenship one could perform.
Rick didn’t let the girl see that he actually found the whole thing sort of inspiring.
After the video, the administrator began the lengthy process of calling them up one at a time to be assigned to a courtroom. “Juror 110! Please approach the desk.” The juror was an older man, Chinese, who didn’t say a word as he was assigned to a courtroom.
“Why do you think he’s doing it?” the girl said, nodding toward the newly christened Juror 110 as he shuffled to the door.
“Doing what?” Rick said.
“Jury duty. It’s easy to get out of. Everybody who isn’t making up an excuse must have a good reason for wanting to do this.”
“Maybe they feel, I dunno, a responsibility to serve.”
The girl observed the older Chinese man thoughtfully. “Or…maybe he’s a career bank robber. Never been caught. Loves testing the limits, teasing the police, pulling off ever more risky heists. So when he got the summons for jury duty, he couldn’t resist a trip to the courthouse that could never put him away.”
“Maybe,” Rick added, “he’ll be assigned to the trial of one of his former associates. Maybe it’s all part of his plan.”
“That wouldn’t be a very good plan.”
“How would you know?”
“The statistical likelihood of getting yourself assigned to the exact trial you want…”
“Ah,” Rick said. “Now I know why you’re here.”
“Why?”
“You’re planning a robbery.”
She threw back her head and out came a deep laugh, straight from the gut. A few people nearby turned to look at her.
Rick really liked her laugh. He had to remind himself that it was against the rules to ask her name.
A few minutes later, the administrator called for Juror 111 and duly dispatched an annoyed-looking white man to his assigned courtroom. Rick and the girl agreed that he must have come here to enjoy a day off work from a job he despised, hoping to sit and read his Sports Illustrated in peace.
For the rest of the morning, they kept up their game, concocting motivations and histories for each of the jurors as their numbers were called. She was funny. More surprisingly, Rick felt like he was funny, which didn’t happen every day. He was trying to figure out a way to ask if she wanted to get lunch when the administrator called for Juror 158.
“That’s me,” he admitted.
“Good luck delivering justice.”
“Juror 158!” barked the administrator.
“Good luck with your robbery,” Rick said as he walked away.
Man, did he wish he could have gotten her name.
* * *
—
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Rick realized he was in deep shit. He and eight other prospective jurors had each been handed a black pen and a dozen-page questionnaire. There were hundreds of questions, but the very first one clued Rick in to the situation at hand.
“Have you ever personally met, or had any dealings with, Robert Nock?”
Damn. Was he about to be screened for the Jessica Silver case?
Question #2: “Have you ever personally met, or had any dealings with, Jessica Silver?”
Rick vaguely knew what Jessica Silver looked like. He and Gil didn’t have a TV, but he’d seen her face dozens of times on screens at Mohawk Bend or any of the other spots he went to read when he wanted to get out of the apartment. She looked like so many of the pretty white girls whose disappearances filled twenty-four-hour news cycles: blond, blue-eyed, ever smiling, the epitome of well-appointed innocence. She looked like she could be the daughter of any of the suburban parents who were the target audience for those broadcasts. They were the real victims of all those shows that existed to terrify comfortable, decent people into believing that their well-ordered lives were under constant threat of attack. Never mind that the likelihood of a white kid from a wealthy family and a good neighborhood suddenly getting murdered was minute. The news shows never mentioned that a kid like Jessica Silver had a higher chance of being struck by lightning. Instead of explaining the rarity of such events, the message was always, This could happen to you. They broadcast it every hour on the hour. This could happen to your children.
Had Rick ever met Bobby Nock or Jessica Silver? No. But he knew that Jessica Silver was white and rich and Bobby Nock was black and had no money and that the guy was going to be eaten alive.
This is when a reasonable person would lie on the form and go home. Answering a jury summons was one thing, but serving on the Bobby Nock trial would be something else. If Rick was selected, he’d be here for weeks. Half the summer, maybe. Was he really up for that? There were so many easy lies he could tell: Say he knew someone who’d been murdered, or that he hated cops so much that he couldn’t ever believe a word they said. Or he could just say something nuts so they’d think he was a crazy person.
He looked down at the sheets of questions. And then, with a sigh, he realized he couldn’t stop himself from answering them truthfully.
Shit.
* * *
—
NINETY MINUTES LATER, Rick was ushered into a courtroom. The judge told him to take a seat in the jury booth, alone, while the prosecutor and the defense attorney each looked over his answers to the questionnaire. Rick was surprised to see a young black guy seated at the defense table. Was that Bobby Nock?
For the first time, Rick got a good long look at him. In person he looked like a teenager. He was definitely younger than Rick, and it wasn’t just that the suit hanging from his shoulders was too big; the dude was scrawny. His eyes were cast down at his folded hands. This kid was supposed to be a murderer?
The judge was balding and white, with a voice so close to a whisper that Rick had to strain to hear as he explained that Rick was about to undergo something called voir dire.
“It’s Old French,” the judge said, “for ‘to say what’s true.’ ” The prosecutor and the defense attorney would take turns grilling Rick about the answers he’d put on his questionnaire.
The prosecutor was a heavyset, jowly man named Ted Morningstar. He had the arrogant air of hard-won experience. When he asked Rick if he knew of any reason why he couldn’t be impartial in this case, Rick answered no. When he asked Rick if he’d developed any opinions about the defendant’s guilt up to this point, Rick answered honestly that he hadn’t.
But Rick wasn’t blind. There were four black people in the courtroom. They were the defendant, Bobby Nock; an assistant prosecutor, a woman who didn’t say a word as she perused questionnaires at the prosecution table; a uniformed police officer providing security; and Rick.
What did Rick know about the defendant? Only that they were both black men in Los Angeles. If the lawyers thought that meant that Rick couldn’t be fair, then that was on them. Rick stared at Bobby. The kid’s face was unreadable. It was like looking at an old TV, tuned to static.
Morningstar continued to dance around the question that Rick knew he really wanted to ask. The question that was formed by the legacies of all the trials that had taken place in this room, and in so many others just like it.
Can you, Rick Leonard, a black man, fail to consider that Bobby Nock, currently on trial for the murder of a white girl, is also a black man?
Can you, Rick Leonard, just let all that shit go?
More than anything else, Rick wished that the prosecutor would simply say it. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Pamela Gibson, the defense attorney, was younger than the prosecutor, thin and angular. She cut across the courtroom floor like an athlete running a well-practiced play. If the prosecutor’s tone was one of We all know what’s really going on here, don’t we? then hers was more like Who’s to know what’s ever real?
After Morningstar was finished, it was the defense’s job to find a way to not quite ask Rick how that whole “being black” thing was going to impact his decision-making.
Will you, Rick Leonard, give Bobby Nock the benefit of the doubt because you and he share—well, you know?
In the forty-five minutes of questioning, Rick made eye contact only once with Bobby Nock. Gibson asked Rick to list the people he knew who’d been victims of violent crimes—it was a short list—and as he explained that his mother had gotten mugged once, when he was nine, Bobby Nock looked straight at him.
“It wasn’t really a violent crime, though,” Rick clarified. “The guy just grabbed her purse and ran.” And then he was staring into Bobby’s eyes, the scared eyes of this poor kid who everybody thought had killed a teenage girl. Was Bobby’s look, in that moment, a plea for help? Was it some kind of signal? Can you help me out here?
Rick didn’t have a clue, and he realized that he didn’t care. The only people who thought that he and Bobby Nock had anything in common were people who didn’t know either of them. Rick meant what he told the lawyers: He would be fair. Impartial. He would follow the evidence, wherever it led.
“Juror 158?” came the judge’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “You have been admitted to the jury.”
The judge instructed him not to use his real name in the courthouse or give any personally identifying information to other jurors. He would be required to show up every day by 8 A.M. and would be allowed to go home by 5 P.M. every evening. But he was expressly forbidden from reading any news reports about the case. Nor was he permitted to discuss the case with anyone outside the court—not his family, not his friends, not any prying journalists. The court would shield his identity from the public—they had a procedure for handling his safe arrival and departure every day—so that intimidation and harassment should not be concerns.
Did Rick understand everything the judge had told him?
“Yes, sir,” said Rick. And that was that.
* * *
—
THE BAILIFF ESCORTED Rick into the jury room. There was only one other person there. An older woman, she had to be at least eighty, sitting quietly by herself. Rick walked over and introduced himself.
“Juror 158,” he said.
“I am 106,” she said. She had a thick Spanish accent.
She wore dark pants with wide legs and a bright long-sleeved top. A black canvas tote bag rested by her feet. On the bag, white capital letters spelled out THE HOUSE OF TAROT.
“Are you a fortune-teller?” Rick asked.
Juror 106 looked at Rick like he was crazy. “No.”
He gestured to her bag. “The House of Tarot. It’s on Sunset, right? I’ve walked by there. I figured it was a fortune-teller shop?”
She looked unhappy. “We’re not supposed to know anything about each other.”
“Right, I wasn’t asking for your name or anything, I was just…” He stopped himself. He hadn’t meant to upset her.
He sat down a few chairs away.
“I don’t believe in fortunes,” she said as she immersed herself in her Sudoku book.
* * *
—
THE DAY WAS almost over when the door opened and the bailiff led the third juror into what was to be their new home. Rick laughed. So did she.
“Statistically speaking…” Rick said.
“What do you think?” the girl said. “Is this all part of my devious criminal plan?”
Juror 106 looked at Rick and the girl suspiciously. “Do you know each other?” she said.
“We’re old friends,” Rick said.
Juror 106 looked alarmed.
“ ‘Old’ as in ‘from this morning,’ ” the girl explained.
Rick turned to her and reached out his hand. “I’m Ri—” He stopped himself. “Sorry.”
“Do we really have to keep up this whole thing? No real names?”
Rick was committed to what they were doing, and if that meant abiding by a few extra annoying rules, so be it. Justice deserved at least as much.
“I’m 158,” he said.
“Nice to meet you.” She took his hand. Her fingers felt soft against his. “I’m Juror 272.”
CHAPTER 3
H-O-P-E
NOW
“I’m Maya Seale,” she said to the production assistant who met her in the lobby of the Omni Hotel. “Juror 272.”
“Yes, you are!” the energetic PA said without consulting the clipboard nestled in the crook of her arm. “Everyone is thrilled that you’re here! I’m Shannon!”
Maya surveyed the lobby. It was late morning on a Wednesday, a month after Rick had appeared at her evidentiary hearing. The wall art had changed in the past ten years. So had the furniture and the staff uniforms, though their aesthetic was still the sort of timeless, placeless, generic hotel style that you could find in any city, anywhere in the world. It was just a different shade of bland.
Avoiding this place for the past decade had not been difficult.
Shannon gestured to the elevator banks. “Why don’t I take you to your room so you can get settled? The hosts will call you in for singles. Today and tomorrow morning.”
“Singles?”
“Interviews. One on one. Just the hosts and you.”
“That’s two on one.”
Shannon looked like she was trying to figure out whether she’d done something wrong. “It looks like…” She consulted her clipboard. “Your single will be in the morning. But whoever isn’t being interviewed at any point is invited to get together in the restaurant. It’ll be informal. We reserved the back room. We’ll do the official re-vote tomorrow.”
“Have the others arrived?”
Shannon nodded.
“What about Rick Leonard?”
So much for nonchalance. It had taken her all of twenty seconds to reveal both that she was anxious and why. But then, why should she care what a PA thought about her anxiety level?
Shannon didn’t seem to find the question noteworthy. “I don’t think he’s arrived yet.”
* * *
—
MAYA HAD GOOGLED Rick thoroughly since he’d appeared at the courthouse. But she could find no recent information about him. Nothing about where he worked, what his job was, where he lived. He wasn’t on any social media that she could find.
There were only old photos. Old vitriol directed at her. Watching pixelated YouTube clips of old interviews surrounding the release of his book, she’d once again felt stung by what he’d said about her and the other jurors.
“When will I have an opportunity to see his new evidence? If I’m going to respond to it, I need to have time to examine it.”
“All I know is that he wanted to be interviewed last. And then you’ll all hear what he has to say before you re-vote.”
Maya looked at her watch. It was going to be a long day.
Shannon removed an electronic keycard from a manila folder and handed it to Maya. “We’re really glad you’re here.”
