Authors: Daphne Uviller
I
had
to get on this jury.
The judge kept talking and I strained forward to see if I could tell which one was Pelarose. I scanned the courtroom for big blond heads and was rewarded with a glimpse of Maria Anna herself, wearing bright pink Chanel and matching lipstick. She leaned over and whispered to the man next to her. He looked as familiar as she did, and I racked my brain trying to remember which family member he was.
“Zephyr Zuckerman.”
I jumped an inch in my seat, startling the personal trainer next to me. The old woman patted my hand and smiled reassuringly.
I made my way to the front and a court officer escorted me into the well and up into the jury box. With all eyes on me, I felt like a minor celebrity. I took a shallow gulp of air and exhaled in ratchety breaths. When the officer sat me in the first seat, my legs nearly buckled. He handed me a laminated sheet
of paper with a list of perfunctory questions on it, which I glanced at and then laid in my lap.
As I waited for my fellow jurors to be seated, I grew nervous. Where should I look? I didn’t want to make eye contact with the defendants or their lawyers. Would I need protection if I voted to convict? Would I find a suitcase full of money in my apartment as an invitation to acquit? Would they hurt my family or my friends? No way Dover Carter would stick around if his girlfriend started receiving death threats from the mob. I decided to keep my eyes firmly on the judge. As the last juror was seated, she glanced at her watch.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” she said sternly to the lawyers, “because of the morning’s mishaps”—What mishaps? Gunplay in the courtroom? Unruly outbursts of undying love?—“you only have time to question one, perhaps two potential jurors before we break for the day. We’ll begin with,” she glanced down at her desk, “Ms. Zuckerman. Ms. Zuckerman, please use the questions you’ve been given to provide the court with some information about yourself.”
I looked down and found the stiff plastic sheet trembling in my hand.
“My full name is Zephyr Anne Zuckerman,” I croaked.
“Please relax and speak up so that everyone can hear,” the judge instructed.
“Zephyr Anne Zuckerman,” I repeated in a stronger voice. “I live in Greenwich Village, where I’ve lived my whole life.” I glanced down at the questions. “I’m single, twenty- seven, and…”
How many adults are in your household?
“I live alone.” It was true, I reminded myself.
A small commotion in the second row caught my eye and I glanced over. I was dismayed to see a couple of buzz- cut guys in Gap sweatshirts and baggy jeans whispering to each other and squinting at me.
“Ms. Zuckerman, please continue,” the judge said firmly.
“Education. Uh, I have a bachelor’s and I’ve completed some graduate work in medicine.”
Where are you currently employed?
I swallowed hard. “I… I manage my parents’ apartment building in the Village.” No gasps of disappointment. No explosions of laughter and finger pointing. I relaxed a little and continued, running my eye down the list.
“I don’t know anyone involved in this case, and…” I paused over the next question. “My father is an attorney, but no one else in my family is in law or law enforcement.” I hoped we could glide past that issue.
“Thank you,” the judge said. “Mr. Suarez?”
One of the lawyers jumped up from the defense table, nearly knocking over his chair. He looked like he was my age.
“Your father is an attorney, Ms. Zuckerman?” he said too eagerly. I took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
“What kind of law does he practice?”
“He’s an assistant U.S. attorney.”
“In other words, a prosecutor.”
“Yes,” I said, looking Suarez straight in the eye.
“And where does he work?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“I see,” he said suggestively. “And you don’t think having a father who is a prosecutor would compromise your impartiality in this case?”
“Not at all,” I said calmly.
“A father who has successfully prosecuted people with alleged mob ties?”
I was going to find a horse’s head in my bed tonight.
“My father’s profession would have no influence on me as far as this case is concerned,” I told him, thinking how proud my dad would be of this well- crafted answer.
“Do you see your father often?”
Who the hell was on trial here?
“I am close to him, but we rarely discuss his work.” Not until after a trial ends, I added silently.
“Where does he live in relation to you?”
I paused.
“Ms. Zuckerman?”
“Upstairs,” I practically whispered.
Mr. Suarez grinned.
“Would you please repeat that so the court reporter can hear it?”
“Upstairs,” I said, and the whole room laughed. Even the judge smiled. My face was burning.
“And you wouldn’t discuss this case with your father, the mob prosecutor who lives upstairs from you?” More laughter. I licked my lips and met his arrogant gaze again. His cheeks were pocked with post- acne craters.
“No. I wouldn’t.” I hoped I sounded assertive, not petulant.
“ Uh- huh, uh- huh.” Suarez the Cocky strutted away from the jury box and I exhaled, thinking he was through. Suddenly he whirled around, feigning a jolt of sudden memory.
“Didn’t your father write a book about the history of racketeering in this country and the far- reaching adverse effects it has on local economies?”
The Book. The stupid, goddamned book. My dad had coughed it out twenty years ago, as part of an attempt to see whether he’d prefer the Life of a Writer. It had sold about ten copies and no one but the other A.U.S.A.s in my dad’s bureau had ever read it—except, apparently, for this guy. I was tempted to ask Suarez whether he was admitting that his clients were mobsters, but he looked triumphant, as if he’d already won the case.
I waited until the laughter died down again, then said, “I
think he wrote that when I was seven. I don’t know much about it.” That was unfortunately true. My father, who had sat through countless dreary school plays, read reams of lifeless poetry, and proofread dozens of sophomoric term papers, had an ungrateful daughter who had never cracked the cover of the only book he would ever write. But at the moment, it seemed my selfishness was coming in handy.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” Suarez said, grinning. I gripped the edges of what could be my chair, the forewoman’s chair. The chair of Juror Number One. It was still within my reach.
“Ms. Langley?” The judge raised her eyebrows at the prosecutor, a tiny wisp of a woman. Langley smiled broadly, spread her arms, and replied, “That’s all I need to know,” sending the room into another round of tension- breaking chuckling. Great. I was the comic relief.
I sat stewing while Suarez began questioning the personal trainer. He’d been seated next to me in the jury box and now turned out to be an orthodontist. No one laughed while
he
was questioned, and Suarez sat down after the guy said his main source of news was Animal Planet.
“That’s all we have time for today,” the judge said, with a final reproachful glance at the lawyers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, turning to us. “I remind you that, as potential jurors, you are under oath and must refrain from discussing this case with
anyone.
That includes all involved parties as well as members of the press. Please return to this courtroom tomorrow at nine- thirty You’ll take the same seats and we’ll continue the voir dire then. Officer Pendleton?”
The court officer who’d read us the riot act stepped forward to lead us out. As I followed her, I noticed again the group of men in the second row studying me intently. I was thinking of a way to ask Pendleton whether I might be able to
get protection for the evening without sounding hysterical, when something else—some
one
else—caught my eye.
There he was, sitting behind my sweatshirted admirers, grinning the same self- satisfied grin that had cost me two years of sanity.
Hayden.
O
UT IN THE POORLY LIT CORRIDOR, SURROUNDED BY THE EXCITED
jabberings of my formerly tight- lipped comrades, I grabbed for a wall as tunnel vision set in. Hayden would pile out of the courtroom with the rest of the press in just a few seconds, and I had to decide whether to face him or run for the stalls.
But in the time that it took to persuade my body not to pass out, Hayden had sidled up to me and thrown a casual arm over my shoulder, as if we saw each other every week. He was apparently unconcerned about the judge’s injunction against jurors consorting with members of the press.
“Hey, you,” he whispered into my ear. His voice vibrated straight down my spine and landed between my legs. I cursed him, me, and Luis Pelarose as I caught a whiff of the musk and soap scent that had done me in the first eight times and now promised to level me again, right there in the over- sanitized halls of justice.
“Hey,” was all I could muster as I tried to collect my thoughts and my hormones soared to prom night heights. A few new laugh lines only made his eyes sexier, and his thick reddish hair still begged to be raked by my fingers. Despite myself, I checked out the rest of him, most of which I’d groped, stroked, or clung to at one time or another.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he purred, catching me in the act.
I opened my mouth to express shock, but all that came out was a stuttering grunt.
“Ooh, I remember that sound.” His eyes flashed with mischief.
“Wait. Just fucking wait,” I growled. He had the good grace to look surprised, and I was about to recover the power of speech when the group of sweatshirts emerged, deep in conversation with the prosecutors.
“Come on.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him around a corner, toward the elevators. When I looked at him, he was grinning again.
“Still eager,” he commented.
“Eager to get away from the
lawyers,
” I said pointedly.
“If you’re so nervous about being seen by the lawyers, let’s go to your place,” he said, not missing a beat.
I emitted a slightly hysterical, disbelieving snort that was supposed to be a laugh. “You haven’t changed.”
“Only gotten better,” he promised.
“No. You’re as bad as ever.” I was stalling, and in the process, seemed to be flirting. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere, filing a story or something?” He had never been this available when we’d been together.
He shrugged, not taking his eyes off mine. “There’s no story yet. Come on, Zephyr.” He lowered his chin and dipped his head to one side. “We’ll just talk.”
S
O YOU’RE THE SUPER?” HAYDEN SAID, OPENING MY
refrig erator later that afternoon as easily as if we lived together. “Hey, you have alcohol.
That’s
newsworthy.”
“It belonged to the other super,” I said as he popped open one of James’s Brooklyn Lagers and slunk toward me, grinning impudently.
What are you doing, Zephyr? What the
hell
are you doing? “I’m just going to run to the bathroom,” I squeaked, and left the kitchen to get a grip.
I headed past the discarded clothes on my bedroom floor, unzipping my boots and kicking them off as I went. It had been light years since I’d left my apartment that morning. That had been the part of my life in which I still looked for Hayden in every corner of the city. This afternoon, I had crossed into the next part, the uncharted territory where I finally found him.
But, I realized as I eyed my un- privacy- checked home, I’d never scripted anything beyond the very first moment of our reunion. I’d imagined being in a restaurant, on a date with
someone else, looking fabulous. Our eyes would meet as Hayden passed my table. I would smile victoriously and it would be clear from both his face and his pug- nosed, bespectacled date that he was devastated by his loss and would be plagued with regret for the rest of his life.
That’s where the fantasy had ended. I never imagined him crossing my threshold again, and I certainly never imagined him swilling beer in my kitchen. If I had, I would have cut the teeth marks out of the cheddar and stashed the reeking workout clothes airing out on bookshelves and chairs.
I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. In here, at least, I could hide the plaque rinse and the tampons. Hating myself, I propped the condoms on the back of the toilet. Then I hid them again. Then I put them out again.
I sat down on the toilet and pressed my palms into my eyes. We were alone together in my apartment. No one in the world knew where we were. If anything happened, it would almost be like it didn’t really happen. There would be no record. What was I planning to do with this secret freedom?
I started to pee and immediately the bathroom filled with the stench of the asparagus salad I’d had for lunch. Oh, God, what if Hayden came in the bathroom after me and smelled it?
Screw what he thought! Why would I want to be with someone who made me feel embarrassed about natural body functions? I opened the cabinet again and exchanged the condoms for the tampons. I wasn’t going to sleep with him anyway. I didn’t care if he smelled my asparagus pee.
Damn it. I did care. I frantically looked around the bathroom for something to cover up the smell. I looked at the bottle of mouthwash. Would Hayden think I had brushed my teeth for him? Was that better or worse than him smelling my asparagus pee?
I cursed him again, and the thought crossed my mind that
even though I’d only known Gregory for two weeks, I would never have been this self- conscious around him. He was real. Hayden was fake.
I splashed some Scope into the toilet bowl and swirled the brush. Now if I flushed again, would he think I was pooping and couldn’t get it all down in one flush? Oh, my God, I was going crazy. I looked at myself in the mirror to see if I looked crazy. I did, I looked crazy.
Deep breaths. Remember his breakup note. The cockroach lowercase letters. All those times I ate sushi alone. Clearing empty beer bottles from under the bed. This is not the right man for you, Zephyr. Get him out of here.
But I don’t have anyone else right now, crowed the little devil homunculus on my shoulder. Gregory dumped me because he’d rather believe a lunatic on a skateboard than give me a fair chance. And the rest of the available men
were
the lunatics on the skateboards. Maybe I could just sleep with Hayden but not get emotionally attached.