Page 10 of Jury Woman, Part 3 of 6

We both sat with that for a second, the absurdity of it settling in slowly—our father, who'd managed maybe four visits in two years, whose calls came scheduled and brief, finally making the trip east not for a birthday or a holiday or to see his daughters or grandchildren, but because his wife wanted a photo with a giant fiberglass Coke bottle.

I don't know which of us started laughing first. It didn't matter. Within seconds we were both fully gone. And for a few minutes it was just my sister and me, finding the same ridiculous thing funny the exact same way.

September 14, Monday

THE CONFERENCE room had been rearranged since my last visit. Two armchairs now faced each other at a slightly wider angle. Jill Mathers was already there when I walked in, a cup of tea steaming on the little table beside her.

"Isabel." She gestured to the chair across from her. "How are you settling in as a full member of the jury?"

I sat and folded my hands in my lap. "Honestly? It's a lot more daunting than I expected."

"Daunting how?"

"I don't know. Heavier, I guess. When I was an alternate, there was this buffer—like I was watching a movie instead of being in one. Now every word of testimony feels like it's targeted to me." I picked at the seam of my sleeve. "This whole thing is a lot more serious than I thought it would be."

Jill tilted her head, a small, curious motion. "What made you think a RICO trial wouldn't be serious?"

Heat climbed my face. "When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous."

"I'm not trying to catch you out. I'm genuinely asking."

I exhaled. "I guess I feel silly saying it out loud. I've lived a pretty sheltered life. Suburbs, PTA meetings, a husband who handled things that felt dangerous. But now I could be deciding how a man lives out the rest of his life." I swallowed. "Or not."

"Go on," she urged.

"I guess I thought this would be—"

I stopped.

Jill waited. The silence stretched long enough that filling it felt like the only option.

"I thought it would be interesting." My voice had gone quieter. "And fun."

I immediately wanted to claw back the word. Fun, as if a man's freedom, maybe his life, were a puzzle I'd signed up to solve for entertainment.

"That's a terrible thing to admit," I said.

"Is it?"

"A man could go to prison forever. People have died because of this syndicate. And some part of me was excited to be picked for the trial of the decade, like it was a door prize." I shook my head, then sighed. "Are you going to recommend I be taken off the jury?"

"No," Jill said, without hesitation. "Not unless the pressure becomes more than you can carry, and I don't see any evidence of that today. Feeling daunted isn't disqualifying, Isabel. It's actually a healthier sign than feeling nothing at all."

"It doesn't feel healthy. It feels like I've been playing dress-up."

"It's common," she said, "for a process like this to change the people inside it. You walked in with one version of yourself, and eight weeks of testimony have started rubbing against that version, wearing certain parts of it down. That's not a flaw. That's what serious things do to people who are paying attention." She set down her tea. "I'd just ask you to stay aware of it as it happens, rather than letting it happen to you unnoticed. Keep writing. The journal isn't only for the trial—it's for tracking who you're becoming inside it."

I nodded, throat tight, feeling like I'd gotten a reprieve.

September 15, Tuesday

DETECTIVE JACK Terry came back into the courtroom looking like a man who'd lost a fight with the last five weeks. I recognized him immediately from his testimony in August—the broad shoulders, the way he carried himself. But everything else about him had frayed at the edges. His eyes had a grayish cast beneath them, the kind that no amount of coffee erases, and his shirt had the faint crumple of fabric that had been slept in, or not slept in at all. His tie, a rich navy silk with a subtle geometric print, was knotted a half-inch off center, tugged loose at some point during the day and never quite reset.

I set my knitting in my lap and studied him while McDavid arranged her notes at the podium. That tie didn't belong to a man who dressed himself in a hurry. Somebody with an eye for these things had picked it out—his wife, probably, standing behind him in a bathroom mirror months ago, smoothing his collar before he left for a job that apparently ate mornings, evenings, and everything in between. I wondered how many other cases were stacked on his desk right now, how many other courtrooms were waiting for their turn with him.

It struck me, watching him settle into the witness chair, how much had to line up for a single case like this one to move forward—detectives, forensic techs, an army of lawyers on both sides, court reporters, marshals, sixteen ordinary people pulled out of their ordinary lives and locked in a hotel for months. An entire small city's worth of effort, funneled toward the question of one man's guilt.

Or innocence.