By the time the sun is tall enough to cast shadows, we’re inside and hiding from it. There is one great rectangular opening on the east wall. It is obscured by thick and faded blinds. A single slit of dull dust runs illuminated down the center of the courtroom. The Bench is on that side of the line. It is a monument of fake wood finish. There was polish. There is dust. All around there is a lulling purr. A gentle fan rattles like smiling death. It clinks and clacks and whirs softly. It is a kind sound that fades into the air. And then there is a sputter. And then there is a cough. And then there is a screech. And then there is silence.
The air is quiet and chalky and hot and full. Juror number three arrives in brown wool suit. He has a brown tie. He has a brown pair of shoes. He has a brown belt, a brown head of hair, and two faded brown eyes. He sits down, closes his hands together, and does not move from his brown chair.
The jury box is on the west wall. There are sixteen seats, I counted. Nine are on that side of the light. Eight are on mine. Our tables are folded out like props. They have metal legs that are cool to the touch. I run my finger across the top. The tip becomes grey and fuzzy. In the dust someone has drawn an adolescent holding a bong. He is cartoonish. His head is ridiculously big with eyes that are wide and bloodshot and happy. They are so happy. I go to erase it, but can’t. There is no one else that happy here. I look over Gale. He is pale faced and cuffed. The jaw line is smooth and jagged against stale air. He reeks of cheap cologne. Bushes of eyebrow bunch up. Crevices run across his face. Most are wrinkles. Two are old scars from the fighting. He is in a white button down shirt with a blue tie and a matching blue jacket. There is already sweat on the back of his neck. Pools of it are drawn out by the heat. In whispers I tell him to leave his suit coat on. He tries to whisper back, but he has a deep and urgent kind of voice that resonates within these yellow walls. All of his answer is in one word of agreement. All of the benches behind us stop rustling. Then they start again. There is a chair between us. It is pulled out and turned slightly sideways.
The carpet is tan and speckled and short and it rejects the light of the overheard fluorescents. Jurors Four, Five, Six, Eleven, and Fifteen are a herd of middle aged men with varying degrees of grey hair. They are barrel chested and thick legged working men. They suffocate in their collars. They try to take their seats, but grit their teeth as they realize the seats are too small. Carefully each one lowers himself down.
The buzzing is here. In this heat the flies are out. The little beast sits in the air next to my right ear. He stalls by flipping his wings. He moves away from me and over to Mr. Gerald, the prosecutor in black slacks. Accompanying the dark pants is a dark belt, dark shoes, dark hair, and unlit eyes. He has wide glasses over those milky eyes. He stands up and has to support himself on the table. His face is pruned by time. He has a thick file in front of him and two paralegals behind him.
Juror Eight is gold. She’s in her sixties and chains herself with heavy jewelry. She hides in weighted make up. She is bean thin. Jurors Nine, One, and Three are all keeping a distance from Juror Sixteen. Jurors Nine, One, and Three are young and healthy women. They are formal and fashionable and chic. Juror Sixteen is a fire haired imp. He is about five foot six and grubby. His face is speckled with red and orange —and so is his shirt. As walks up to the box he throws out an oozing hot dog rapper. Red ketchup splats on the floor. The rest of them file into this place together. They move at the pace of the air. They are an anxious bunch. Several keep fidgeting with their hair while others rap their fingers. One keeps brushing dust off of his pants.
Behind me there are four rows of benches. Sharp dressed sharks are testing their pens with sharp taps on their clean pads. The air is still and silent. The air is frantic. The air is dusty. We are called to stand. We all stand up together. We all stand up slowly. A half-broken man with a brittle beard and black drapes creeps up to the bench. BANG—clean and bony, the gavel. The trial has begun.
