I’m in my best suit, which has always felt like a costume, structured and stiff, the fabric sharp at the shoulders and cinched at the waist.
The bathroom door swings open with a rush of air and a heel-click so severe it makes my teeth ache. Two unfamiliar women in identical navy skirt-suits and sensible haircuts stride in, commanding the space with a confidence I can only aspire to.
I do not know who they are, but they sweep past me, discussing jury selection and case dispositions like it’s small talk.
Jury selection. That’s all I’m doing today. Selecting the jury that will decide the outcome of my first trial. No big deal.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
When I step into the hallway, James is there.
He’s wearing a charcoal suit, standing with his hands in his pockets, one foot propped against the wall in an attitude of lazy confidence. But as soon as he sees me, his smile flickers on. It’s quick, private, only for me to see. It’s the smile that says he knows I’m terrified and despite that, I’m still upright and not face-down on the marble floor.
“Ready?” he murmurs softly.
“Not even a little,” I say, but my voice is more steady than I expect.
James’s eyes steady me, or at least pin me in place.
“Yes, you are,” he says, and the words are so certain that for a moment I let myself believe him.
I try to calm my breathing as we walk to the courtroom, the gloom of the hallway broken only by the flicker of fluorescent lights. I wish I could say I feel powerful, but mostly I just want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
My eyes scan the gallery, already half-full, and land on Nash sitting in the front row behind the plaintiff’s table. The look on his face is serious in a way that looks foreign on him. He sees me, and his mouth tips up at the corner, a smile that tries for reassurance.
I take a seat at the table next to my clients, greeting them quietly and answering their last-minute questions.
On the other side of the aisle, the defense attorney, an older woman in a pale suit the same color as the bland walls, gives me a thin smile. I return it, teeth clenched so tightly that it starts to hurt.
James sits next to Nash behind me in the front row. All I can feel are two sets of eyes on me, but I can’t think about that right now.
Jury selection is about to begin.
The bailiff leads in a herd of prospective jurors, and the judge reads through the script of welcome and admonition. The defense attorney and I are invited to introduce ourselves.
I stand, my throat dry, and recite my name, my role, the names of my clients.
I keep my voice steady, but my hands go numb.
My first question is a throwaway, something about the patience and ability to sit through a potentially multiple-day trial. I can feel my pulse in my ears, but I remember James’s advice: keep it conversational, keep it light, keep your eyes on the ones who look disagreeable or like they’re falling asleep.
I do all the things I have practiced.
I introduce vague facts of the case with a soft hand, ask about people’s feelings on doctors, on lawsuits, on money and grief.
When all questions have been answered, we have our twelve-person jury.
It’s not a perfectly ideal jury, but it will have to work.
The judge excuses us for the day with instructions to return tomorrow morning for trial at 9:00 a.m.
After the courtroom empties, I gather my things and shuffle to the hallway, feeling relieved not to have any eyes on me. All except one pair of eyes.
“Hey.” Nash is standing by the water fountain, hands shoved in his pockets, tie already loosened. “You were great in there.”
“All I did today was ask some questions and not faint,” I say. My tongue is so dry that the words stick to it.
He shrugs. “Well, I think it was great. And you looked really hot. That other lady looks like she bites.”
