Page 13 of Jury Woman, Part 2 of 6

He looked slowly across the box, meeting eyes one by one, the way he did when he wanted a point to land.

"If someone approaches you—at the hotel, during a supervised call, anywhere—and asks about the trial, even in the most casual, well-meaning way, you are to say only this: 'I'm not able to discuss that.' Nothing more. Not 'it's going fine.' Not 'it's more complicated than people think.' Simply that you can't discuss it, and then you change the subject or end the conversation. If the person persists, you report it to your marshal immediately, no matter how insignificant it seems."

He let that settle before continuing. "I want to be direct with you about why this matters so much in this particular case. We are not dealing with an ordinary defendant. Even a stray comment repeated to the wrong person could compromise this trial, endanger a witness, or endanger one of you. I do not say that to frighten you. I say it because I respect you enough to tell you the truth."

The room had gone very quiet. I thought of the paralegal with the peppermints, wondering whether she'd said something she shouldn't have to someone she trusted, a slip so small she probably hadn't recognized it as one until it was already too late to take back.

When the judge finished speaking, Robert Blackthorne was escorted in. The judge called for the day's first witness and I let my gaze drift, just briefly, toward the back wall.

Deputy Wells was watching the box with his usual careful attention, and for half a second his eyes found mine. He gave the smallest nod, so slight that anyone not already looking for it would have missed it entirely—a private acknowledgment, you're doing fine, you're safe, carry on—before his gaze resumed its steady circuit of the room.

I picked up the baby blanket, found my place in the pattern, and tried very hard not to think about what, exactly, the alternate before me had said, and to whom.

August 15, Saturday

WARREN ANSWERED from what looked like his office at the dealership, the wall behind him lined with awards for regional sales figures, his phone lying face-up beside the laptop where I could see him glancing at it every few seconds like it might rescue him from the conversation entirely.

"Hey," he said, already thumbing something on the screen. "Sorry, one sec."

I waited, aware of Deputy Wells a discreet distance behind me, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere neutral. I'd stopped wondering what he made of my calls with my family. Mostly.

"Warren. I have limited time."

"Right, right." He set the phone down, though his eyes kept drifting toward it. "So look, I don't know what you want me to say. The kids are completely out of control. Josh mouthed off to me last night, and Lily's been slamming doors like she's auditioning for something." He shook his head. "This is what happens, Isabel, when there's no discipline."

I silently counted to ten before I trusted myself to speak. "That's your responsibility too, Warren. You're their father."

"I'm working sixty hours a week to keep the lights on!" He spread his hands. "I'm the reason you and the kids have that roof over your heads in the first place. Forgive me if I don't have time to be the discipline police on top of everything else."

"This isn't helping either of us figure out how to fix it."

"The way to fix it is for you to come home."

"You know I can't do that." He didn't respond to that, just exhaled through his nose, and I decided to press forward before I lost my nerve. "The kids mentioned Heidi's been at the house more."

His jaw tightened instantly. "What do you expect, Isabel? I'm living there again. And she and I are together."

"All I'm saying is it adds a layer of confusion."

"She's not living there. God." He rubbed his forehead like I was the one being unreasonable. "She needs her own space. She comes by sometimes. That's it."

I bit down on several things I wanted to say, none of which would move this conversation one inch closer to useful, and redirected instead, the way I'd learned to do at family dinners over the years. "Let's talk about Lily's driver's permit. If she got it, she could help with Josh's soccer runs. My SUV is just sitting in the garage, and it would take some pressure off both of you."

"Sure, yeah, I'll mention it." He was already glancing at his phone again, which had lit up twice in the last thirty seconds. "I've got a lot going on right now, Isabel. I can't exactly sit her down for a heart-to-heart about parallel parking."

"It doesn't have to be a heart-to-heart. Just encourage her. Or maybe Elaine can help."

"I said I'd try." His phone buzzed a third time and he picked it up this time, glancing at the screen with the particular urgency he used to reserve for me, a long time ago. "Look, I've gotta take this. Bye."

The screen went black.

I sat there a beat too long, heat crawling up my neck and into my face, aware in a way I hadn't quite let myself be during the call itself that Deputy Wells had probably heard every word of my domestic drama.

He said nothing as he walked me back down the hallway, offered no expression I could read, which somehow made it worse. I told myself it didn't matter what a federal marshal thought of my ex-husband, of my marriage, of the general wreckage of my life laid bare in twenty-minute increments on a hotel laptop.

I told myself that the whole way back to my room.

August 16, Sunday