Page 3 of Jury Woman, Part 3 of 6

JUROR NUMBER two Dwayne Fitch laughed today during a recess, a big unrestrained bark of a laugh that carried clear across the jury room and made two bailiffs glance over from the hallway. Nobody scolded him for it. Somehow, with Dwayne, that seems impossible—like reprimanding a golden retriever for being happy to see you.

He's the one who reminds me, more than any other juror, that this trial is populated by actual people. Sixty-two, built like the door of a walk-in freezer, thirty years spent as an Atlanta Fire Rescue captain before he traded burning buildings for a woodworking shop. He told us that much within the first week, unprompted, the way some men hand you their whole résumé before you've asked for it, except with Dwayne it never felt like bragging. It felt like a man simply glad to have people to talk to about his happy circumstances.

Today, waiting for the judge to resume after a sidebar, he leaned across the gap between our seats and murmured, "You look like you slept about as well as I did."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Honey, we've all got the same hollow eyes by Friday." He grinned. "I used to pull twenty-four-hour shifts and come home looking better than this."

I asked him, quietly, how he was managing the sequestration, and he shrugged off the question with the same ease he seemed to shrug off everything. "I used to run into burning houses for a living. Sitting in a nice air-conditioned box listening to lawyers argue is about the easiest shift I've ever pulled." Then, a beat later, softer: "Besides, since my wife died, there's nobody waiting for me to come home."

He said it without self-pity, just a fact laid down plainly, and moved on to asking whether I thought the ballistics guy from yesterday had actually answered the question or just talked around it for ten minutes. I said the latter. He said he'd been thinking the same thing, and it was the first time all week I'd felt like my opinion carried real weight.

There's something about Dwayne that unknots the tension the rest of us carry into that box every morning. He jokes in the hallway when the testimony turns grim—jokes that occasionally land wrong—but nobody stays annoyed with him for long, because underneath the joking there's a real life hero. The fact that he's seen horrors the rest of us only read about and came out the other side still capable of laughing points to a sturdy perspective.

I found myself thinking that Dwayne has become something like an uncle to the other jurors. He remembers which person mentioned a sick parent two weeks ago and asks how she's doing. He really cares about other people.

I don't feel intimidated by Dwayne the way I do by some of the others. His presence is oddly protective, similar to the way I feel about Deputy Wells. Some people just emit a sense of calm competence.

Walking out at the end of the day, Dwayne held the door and said, "Get some rest this weekend, if there's any rest to be had." His words were a reminder that all of us were accelerating toward a day when we'd have to make a grim decision that would affect a lot of people's lives.

September 5, Saturday

WHEN I arrived for my scheduled call with Warren, a stranger in a windbreaker stood at the back wall instead of Deputy Wells. An unexpected little jolt of disappointment barbed through my chest, then I reasoned at least he wouldn’t have to witness more histrionics regarding my aborted marriage.

The substitute was competent-looking, thick through the shoulders. But he wasn't Wells, and the room felt oddly unbalanced without him in it, the way a piece of furniture being moved throws off a room until you get used to it.

"You there?" Warren's irritated (and irritating) voice pulled me back to the screen. He was buttoning a shirt I didn't recognize, dark, expensive-looking, the kind of thing he never used to own.

"I'm here. Sorry."

"Heidi's got us reservations at that new rooftop place, then we're meeting people out." He smoothed a hand over his hair, then adjusted his collar. "Can't be late."

"Big night, huh?"

"It's Saturday." Said like that answered something.

I couldn't remember the last time he and I'd had a "big night" on a Saturday, unless you counted surfing Netflix and bickering about the rise in homeowner's association fees.

I asked about the kids, and he gave a dismissive wave. "They're fine. Josh is at a friend's. Lily's got cheer stuff." He glanced at his watch. "They're teenagers, Isabel, not toddlers. You gotta give them a little room to breathe…"

My mind wandered to where Deputy Wells was tonight. He obviously had a life waiting for him somewhere outside the courthouse. Maybe his band was playing somewhere tonight, or maybe he had a hot date. Or maybe—

"Isabel?"

I forced myself back. "Yes… I'm listening."

He frowned. "You never listen to me—that's why we're not together anymore."

I frowned back. "Try to be around more for the kids. Take Josh to soccer practice. Sit with Lily while she does her homework, even if she doesn't want you to. Show them how to do a load of laundry, for God's sake. You won't get this time back."

He gave a little laugh. "That's a hell of a thing to say to me right now."

"I mean it kindly."

"You're not here and you're lecturing me about being present?"

"It's not the same thing. I didn't choose this."