Page 11 of Jury Woman, Part 2 of 6

Lorna McDavid was on her feet. "Your Honor, the government reserves the right to investigate this conduct as witness intimidation at the conclusion of trial, and requests the incident be reflected in the record."

"So noted," the judge said. He set down his pen with a deliberateness that somehow felt louder than a gavel. He looked at Blackthorne for a long moment before he spoke, and when he did, his voice had dropped into a register I hadn't heard from him before.

"Mr. Blackthorne. That conduct is intolerable. You will not threaten, intimidate, or disrespect any witness in this courtroom. One further incident and you will be removed from the courtroom, restrained, or both. Do you understand me?"

Blackthorne didn't answer. Stone leaned in, whispering fast and urgent, one hand still braced on his client's arm. After a beat, Blackthorne gave a single, tight nod, jaw working like he was chewing on everything he wasn't allowed to say.

"Let the record reflect the defendant's acknowledgment," the judge said. "Marshals, you may stand down."

Wells and the other marshal eased back, though Wells didn't return all the way to his post by the wall. He stayed a few feet closer to the defense table than usual, weight settled low, watching Blackthorne the way you'd watch a pot that had already boiled over once.

"Special Agent Reyes," the judge said, "are you able to continue?"

Her voice, when she answered, was subdued. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Then continue."

She did, picking up the thread and walking the jury through the rest of the strip-mall transfers, the dates, the dollar amounts. But the room didn't fully settle back into itself. I could feel it in the stiffness of the jurors on either side of me.

I paid close attention, but no chart could've told me what the incident had: whatever else Robert Blackthorne was—businessman, family man, innocent man, as his attorney kept insisting—he was also a man who, when someone said or did something he didn't like, lashed out.

August 12, Wednesday

THE MOMENT the screen connected, I could tell this call was going to be challenging. Lily's hair was scraped into a messy knot and Josh had a smear of something on his shirt that I decided not to ask about.

"There's literally nothing to eat," Lily announced before I'd even said hello. "Like, nothing. I had crackers for dinner."

"Dad said he'd pick up groceries but he didn't," Josh added. "And my soccer uniform's been in the hamper for a week because nobody's done laundry."

"You can use Instacart to order groceries," I said. "And it's past time you both learned how to do laundry."

Lily gaped. "Who's going to teach us?"

"Try YouTube," I suggested.

"Mom, that's so not funny," she said.

"I wasn't trying to be. You're both smart kids, you'll figure it out." Then I wet my lips. "Where is your dad?"

"Not here," Lily said.

"Dad and Heidi had a huge fight," Josh offered. "He asked her to take the trash out and she went off on him. Said it wasn't her job. They were yelling in the kitchen."

Part of me resented her for being in my kitchen. Part of me respected her for saying no.

"Well," I said, once I'd located something resembling a neutral tone, "how's Tucker doing through all this?"

Lily's mouth fell open. "Oh my God. We're literally starving and you're asking about the dog?"

"You two can manage a few rough days. Tucker needs someone thinking about him."

Josh paused, considering it. "I've been feeding him. And walking him before and after school."

"Thank you, honey. That matters."

"But I might get cut from the team," he said, the bravado draining out of his voice all at once. "I've missed like four practices because nobody can get me there on time."

"I'll talk to your father about that. That's not acceptable."