Page 4 of Jury Woman, Part 2 of 6

We were herded into a conference room where Randall collected phones, smart watches, and anything that might connect us to the outside world, sealing each item into a labeled envelope. I handed mine over and felt an odd, unexpected lightness.

Then came the rooms.

Mine had a king bed dressed in linens soft enough to make me question every sheet purchase I'd made. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, glittering as dusk settled in. A writing desk. A huge couch. An oversized television that, I was informed, would only display movie and music channels. A kitchenette, stocked. And in the bathroom, a soaking tub.

I sat on the edge of the bed and laughed out loud. I could get used to this.

August 3, Monday

A CARAVAN of black SUVs met us at the hotel's service entrance at seven-thirty, and I climbed into the second one alongside Preta, an accountant, and Marcus, a high school shop teacher, feeling like a minor dignitary. Nobody spoke much. The city slid past the tinted windows, familiar streets rendered strange by the angle and the silence.

At the courthouse, we bypassed the line I remembered from weeks ago—the shuffling, the trays, the woman confiscating knitting needles—and were led through a side entrance to a checkpoint manned by two deputies who already seemed to know our faces. No waiting. No crowd. Just a quiet, efficient pat-down of our belongings before we were escorted up a private elevator.

Once seated in the jury box, I reached for my knitting bag out of habit to calm my nerves. My stomach had folded itself into something small and tight. I wished I'd eaten more of the breakfast that had been served to us in a private dining room.

Out of nowhere it hit me that today was the first day of school, and for the first time in sixteen years, I wasn't there for it. No first-day photo on the porch steps. No forcing Josh into a shirt with a collar. No listening to Lily complain about her class schedule while secretly thrilled about whichever friend she'd been assigned lunch with. Someone else—Warren, God help them both—was handling backpacks and forgotten forms.

I pushed aside guilt to find another emotion sitting there: satisfaction. Maybe Warren was a teeny bit right—a small part of me was glad he'd have to deal with the mundane details of domestication for a while.

Then the side door opened, and Robert Blackthorne was led in, and every other thought in my head evaporated. His eyes moved over the jury box with unhurried thoroughness, the way a man might survey property he already considered his. When his gaze landed on me, a cold finger traveled the length of my spine before he moved on. I resisted the urge to look away first. Barely.

Deputy Wells stepped forward, addressing the jury with a formality I hadn't seen from him before. "My name is Deputy U.S. Marshal Colin Wells. I, along with three other deputies, am responsible for your security for the duration of this trial. You'll see us at the hotel, in transport, and here in the courthouse. Please don't hesitate to flag any of us if something feels off, day or night." He paused, and something in his voice loosened, just slightly. "I know this is a significant disruption to your lives. We're going to do everything we can to make it manageable."

For such an imposing man, there was an unexpected gentleness in the delivery, and I found myself breathing easier than I had all morning.

Judge Arnold took the bench shortly after and addressed the full box—jurors and alternates alike. "For the four of you serving as alternates, I want to clarify your role. You will hear every piece of testimony, every exhibit, every argument, exactly as the twelve jurors do. But you will not participate in deliberations unless called upon to replace a juror who becomes unable to serve. Please don't consider this a lesser assignment. It's a vital one."

He then reintroduced the players—U.S. Attorney Lorna McDavid and her team, seated with the crisp posture of people who'd rehearsed this moment; defense attorney Bryan Stone, gesturing broadly even in stillness, his team arranged around him like satellites.

"Today, counsel and I have a number of pretrial motions to work through," the judge continued. "This won't involve you directly, so I'm releasing you for the day. Go back to the hotel, rest, eat something decent. Tomorrow morning, we begin opening statements."

I was pleasantly surprised to have the day off—I could finish my knitting project of a baby blanket to donate to a children's hospital. As we filed out, I glanced once more at Blackthorne, who was watching me still, that same unhurried attention, as if he had all the time in the world to figure out exactly who I was.

I had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that he already had a good idea.

August 4, Tuesday

THE COURTROOM felt different today, with the gallery full and the jury box occupied—charged, somehow, like the air itself had been swapped out for something denser.

I settled into my seat with my knitting bag on my lap but didn't open it yet. Something told me I should listen to the opening statements with my hands still.

U.S. Attorney Lorna McDavid rose without notes, buttoning her jacket in one economical motion, and walked to a spot squarely between the jury box and the defense table.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "over the next several months, the government will prove that the man sitting at that table"—she didn't point, didn't need to—"built an empire on fear."

She laid it out methodically, no theatrics, which somehow made it land harder. The Blackthorne Syndicate operated across six states. Extortion rings disguised as protection services. Shell companies laundering money through legitimate-looking construction firms and restaurant chains. Bribes paid to local officials in amounts that made my mortgage look like pocket change.

And then the murder-for-hire charge.

"You will hear testimony," McDavid said, her voice dropping into something quieter and more deliberate, "about a man named Horatio Alvarez, a witness in a prior federal case, who was found dead eleven days before he was scheduled to testify. You will hear evidence connecting his death directly to orders issued by the defendant."

A ripple moved through the gallery. I kept my eyes on my hands, which had found their way, without my permission, into my knitting bag. My fingers wrapped around a needle like it was a life preserver.

I glanced up once, toward the defense table, and found Blackthorne already looking at McDavid with contempt. His jaw worked slightly, and when McDavid gestured toward the jury box to underscore a point about the human cost of his enterprise, his gaze swept over to us—to me.

I looked back down at my needles and made myself knit a stitch, then another, just to have something to do with the part of my brain that wanted to bolt.

McDavid continued for nearly forty minutes, walking the jury through wiretap evidence, financial records, cooperating witnesses who would testify under protective custody. Numbers piled on numbers—dollar amounts, dates, body counts. Somewhere around victim number four, a shop owner in Macon who'd refused to pay and lost his store to an arson fire, I stopped being able to think of this as an abstraction.