Isobel woke at seven thirty the next morning, bleary and hungover from her evening with Hugh. Between the weather and her state of mind, she had considering canceling, but Delphi had insisted that Hugh would cheer her up, and in model boyfriend fashion, he did. But she’d definitely overdone it, and now the prospect of dragging herself downtown in the pouring rain went so far beyond depressing that Isobel didn’t even bother to take a shower. The thought of getting wet before getting wet made her want to cry, which would only mean more water. She applied the barest dusting of foundation and some under-eye cream, which did a subpar job of masking the dark circles under her eyes. She huddled over her coffee, savoring it as slowly as possible, and entertained the idea of being purposely late. They couldn’t fault her for not showing up if she eventually did. People got stuck on the subway all the time, and everyone knew that on a day like this, delays were to be expected. But the grain of conscience that derailed even her mildest rebellions got the better of her. At eight, she geared up for Noah’s flood and set forth.
She arrived at the courthouse on time at eight forty-five and, after waiting ten minutes to go through security, was dismayed to discover the large, wood-paneled courtroom practically overflowing. The spectator seats were full, as were those in the jury box, and people were sitting in the aisles or leaning against the wall, reading soggy newspapers or clicking away on their smartphones. Isobel squeezed into a corner in the back next to a heavyset middle-aged man with soulful blue eyes and the longest lashes she’d ever seen.
When fifteen minutes passed and nothing happened, Isobel realized that the judicial system clearly allowed for the possibility of stalled subway trains. More people trickled in, damp and defeated. Finally a bald, light-skinned black man appeared at the front of the room and spoke into a microphone.
“Good morning, everyone. Folks in the doorway, come on in. Don’t be shy. There’s room to stand along the sides. Please let them through.”
The newest arrivals edged forward with little enthusiasm.
“Sorry about the weather, but the wheels of justice grind on. Welcome to grand jury. My name is Atticus Johnson, but you can call me Mister. I’ll be your host this morning.” Uneasy titters from the crowd. “I’ll be brief so we can get things moving, since I gotta hand it to you folks, this is a pretty good turnout, all things considered. Definitely a whole lot of you will get to go home today.”
Isobel perked up at the prospect, and Johnson continued. “Here’s how it works. When I call your name, there are only two possible answers: ‘here’ or ‘postpone.’ If you have a red ‘must serve’ across the top of your card, you cannot postpone. I repeat, you cannot postpone. You’ve used up your deferments, and we know where you live. There is no excuse yet invented by man that will get you out of serving. The court does not care how deep you are in dying grandmothers, or how your company’s billion-dollar deal is going to collapse without your Midas touch. If your name is called and you are not here, don’t answer.” Johnson smiled. “Ready?”
Even if Isobel hadn’t already decided to serve, any lingering temptation to postpone had been put to rest by that little speech. She couldn’t afford a “must serve.” What if it came when she was making her Broadway debut? When her name was called, she answered “here” loud and clear. Even with the room overflowing, a surprising number of names went unanswered, but as people shouted “postpone” and left, the room began to seem less like a cattle car. Isobel was mildly amused to hear several celebrity names called—none of whom answered.
Johnson picked up a stack of white cards and dropped them into a brown box with a large handle on the side. Then he gestured to the first several rows of spectator seats. “I need to ask you folks to please vacate those seats and find a spot along the wall. There’s a lot more room now.”
Isobel noticed that the people who had thought themselves lucky for finding seats now stood up with barely a groan.
“All right. Now we come to the fun part.” Johnson indicated the box. “All the names of those present are in this collection box. I will spin it several times, and then I will randomly draw names. When you hear your name, please call out either ‘morning’ or ‘afternoon.’ You can choose which part of the day to serve, and your service will last for one month. Today we will be impaneling four morning juries and three afternoon juries. If you say ‘morning,’ please seat yourself on the left side of the courtroom. If you choose ‘afternoon,’ please seat yourself on the right. If your chosen time of day is filled when I call your name, you will automatically be placed in the other.” For the first time, a faint rumble of protest rustled through the room, but Johnson stemmed it instantly by calling the first name.
Isobel clenched her fists and tried to steady her breathing, silently willing her name not to be called. She figured the same odds that kept her from winning the lottery and booking a seat on a crashing plane had to operate here, even with the reduced juror pool. Every inch of her body was on edge, and she jumped a mile when the man next to her with the long eyelashes bellowed, “Afternoon.”
Okay, she thought, what are the chances he’ll call two people standing right next to each other? Proving her wrong immediately, two women rubbing elbows a little farther down were called one right after the other. The torturous waiting went on, until Johnson suddenly said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, we have filled our morning panels. From here on, if your name is called, please take a seat in the afternoon section.”
This announcement plunged Isobel into an even more intense tangle of nerves. Afternoons would be awful. She’d be totally out of work for a month. How would she pay her rent? She tried to remember some of the other names that had been called earlier, focusing all her psychic energy on them to render her own nominal presence invisible: Glenn Savarin, Lindy McGregor, Rosita Hernandez…
“Isobel Spice.”
“Shit!”
There was an eruption of nervous laughter at her outburst and then a communal exhalation of relief when a moment later Johnson announced, “And that’s everybody for today. If your name was not called, you have completed your service and are free to go. Proof of service will arrive in the mail within two weeks. If you are on a morning panel, please report to this room at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you are on an afternoon panel, please report back here at one o’clock today to begin your service. If you’re looking to kill some time down here—the one kind of killing that’s not a felony—you might want to explore Chinatown or Little Italy. I hear there’s a sale at Pearl River Mart.”
Isobel stayed pressed against the wall as waves of discharged jurors jostled to the entrance, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and jocular Johnson. Isobel, reeling from her near miss, let them go by.
The last name picked. How was it possible that she had made it to the bitter end, only to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory?
“When is my luck going to change?” she groaned aloud. She turned to a willowy redhead who was stuffing a glossy magazine into her bulging messenger bag. “At least there’s a sale, right?”
“There’s always a sale at Pearl River,” the redhead said, picking her way gingerly over Isobel’s wet umbrella.
Figures, Isobel thought. Even my luck isn’t luck.
In the crowded elevator, another juror was loudly singing the praises of a restaurant on Mott Street, so Isobel followed him there and took a table by herself in the corner. The premises trod the line between unprepossessing and ready to be repossessed, but the food was cheap and surprisingly tasty, and Isobel found herself marginally cheered. By the time she returned to the courthouse, the rain was letting up, and she decided to interpret these small omens as incentive to make the best of her situation. After all, she was stuck. No excuse yet invented by man (or presumably woman) would spring her now. Well, as Percival liked to say, she’d either have a great experience or a great story to tell.
She filed through security and made her way back to the courtroom, which didn’t seem quite as intimidating as it had earlier. The court officers seemed more relaxed, and the jurors resigned to their fate. They rose for the entrance of Judge Charles Alexander Brodhead, a handsome, square-jawed man who reminded Isobel of John Cleese. Judge Brodhead divided the jurors into three panels and swore them in. Isobel found herself assigned to the same group as the snooty redhead (Chloe) and the man with the long eyelashes (Lazaro). They were led away to a new room, and Isobel’s heart sank when she saw the airless, charmless institutional cube she’d be calling home for the next month. She started to sit but was stopped by a court officer.
“Assigned seats,” he said. “Wait until everyone is here, please.”
The last few people trickled in, and the court officer called their names and arranged them in the jury box. Isobel found herself in the last row between Chloe and Lazaro.
“Thank God,” Chloe murmured.
“Why?”
“I hear you can sort of read and do stuff if you’re in the last row. But not if you’re up front.”
Lazaro gave a disapproving frown, but Isobel was happy to hear it. She pulled out her phone and opened her email, but before she could scan her inbox, a short man with a rabbit face stepped forward, introduced himself as the grand jury warden, and explained the ground rules.
The sessions would be run not by a judge, but by a prosecutor, who would introduce evidence and produce witnesses when possible. The defendant might or might not be present, but in no case would anybody speak for the defense. The only exception was if the accused wanted to speak for him or herself. The job of the jury was to indict if it was determined that the defendant was the right person to be formally accused of the crime.
“Any questions?” asked the warden.
Isobel’s hand shot into the air. “If we determine that the defendant should be indicted, how is that different from deciding he or she is guilty? I mean, if we think the person is innocent, we’re not going to indict, and if we think they’re not, we will. So obviously, on some level, we are making a determination about guilt or innocence.”
The warden smiled indulgently. “No, the burden of proof in the grand jury is the preponderance of the evidence and reasonable cause. In a trial, you’re deciding beyond a reasonable doubt as to guilt.”
“But if there’s enough evidence to file charges, doesn’t that mean there’s enough evidence to convict?” Isobel asked.
“There may still be reasonable doubt, but that is different from reasonable cause.”
“Just don’t,” Chloe warned under her breath.
Isobel turned to her, affronted. “Why? I want to know.”
Chloe shook her head in disgust and pulled a magazine from her bag.
“You don’t have to make a definitive determination,” the warden continued with studied patience. “In a trial, there would be considerably more evidence and, most importantly, a defense presented. Here, you’re only going to hear one side, the prosecutor’s.”
“Well, that’s totally unfair,” Isobel said. “Why don’t we hear from the defense?”
“Because that would confuse the issue. The issue is not guilt or innocence—it’s probable cause. Unless you have any further questions…” He glanced at his attendance sheet. “…Ms. Spice, I suggest you trust the system that our founding fathers put in place and just lie back and think of America.”
“Oh, snap,” Chloe said, idly turning a page.
Lazaro leaned over to Isobel and whispered, “I am glad you asked that question.”
Isobel smiled gratefully at him.
“If you have a question during the proceedings, signal to the assistant district attorney, and she will hear your question privately,” the warden continued. “If she deems it to be relevant, she will query the witness.”
Isobel’s phone buzzed in her hand. She looked down and saw a text from Delphi.
Call me asap re judge.
“There is absolutely no cell phone use while the court is in session,” the warden called out.
Isobel ignored him and typed furiously: Can’t. Text me.
“Ms. Spice! I’m talking to you.” The warden loomed over the end of her row. “If you don’t put your phone away right now, the court will confiscate it until the end of your service.”
“But this is urgent, I—”
The warden held out his hand.
“Okay, okay!”
Isobel stuffed it into her bag.
“Turn it off, please.”
Cursing every single thing about her day, she retrieved her phone, powered down, and threw it back in her bag with a force she immediately regretted.
The warden returned to the front of the room. “We will now bring in the assistant district attorney and the defendant, who, in this case, has elected to appear.”
Chloe pulled her magazine out from under her. “Get us all in trouble, why don’t you,” she muttered.
But Isobel didn’t respond. She was staring at the two people who had just entered the courtroom. One was the ADA, a tall, curvaceous woman in a red power suit.
The other was Peter Catanzaro.