I don’t have anything against romances; I’ve just never read any of ‘em.
The one I’ve chosen has a lady on the cover that sort of looks like Wren. Not the same kind of hair but the same sweet face and petite frame. Of course, she’s not wearing short shorts but a big flouncy dress. And a corset, which looks uncomfortable, but does seem to serve up a woman’s breasts like they’re desserts on a plate. Still, I might have more fun after that kind of contraption is removed.
I know it’s wrong of me to think of Wren like that. But I’m gonna need something to get her out of my system. Pretty sure I can’t take porn and can’t have any outside visitors, so the suggestive cover of a romance novel will have to do.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe isolation is the best thing for me. As I understand it, I’m not to talk to any of the other jurors about the case, and I’m not allowed to talk to family or friends. Not allowed to speak to any members of the media or read the newspapers or watch the news, or access the internet.
Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Funny. When I actually think about how few people I’ll be allowed to talk to, and how limited I’ll be in my access to the outside world, it seems sort of like a dream come true.
The outside world has always been, in my experience, overrated.
My first day on the jury does not bode well of any of my dreams coming true.
If I had to describe this assignment with one word? Frustration.
I somehow got seated in the jury box right next to Wren. And I still can’t get my devious thoughts about her under control.
She made an attempt to dress more conservatively and gets an A for effort. The way she’s tried to get her hair under control is charming. Still full of dreads and braids, she has it twisted up and secured with a pencil. And she’s wearing glasses with little red frames that make her look like a stoner librarian. Thank god she’s not wearing shorts cut all the way up to her lady business again today.
But her sheer presence is like a field of heat, a ball of energy waiting to be released, radiating all morning, just barely touching my left arm and leg but sending me warmth.
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury,” begins the prosecutor, “you have an enormous task ahead of you. We, the prosecution, are going to show you beyond a reasonable doubt why we believe Mrs. Ellen Jacobsen, seated right over there”—the tall, blonde prosecutor points to the defendant, seated at the front right side of the courtroom with a team of impressive looking lawyers—“murdered her husband, the beloved State Senator Ernie Jacobson, in cold blood. We are asking you to convict her of the crime of murder in the first degree, after showing you a multitude of evidence, based on motive, physical evidence, and witness testimony.”
I don’t recall much about the details of the case, but as she speaks, a memory is sparked from the news reports I briefly scanned last year. Supposedly this lady drugged her husband, then smothered him with a pillow in his sleep.
I study her while the opening arguments go on and on. A diminutive woman in her 50s, the most diabolical act I can imagine her doing is accidentally burning a tuna casserole. The prosecutor tells us that we will learn, based on police reports and witness testimony, that there was no forced entry, that Ellen had access to prescription sleeping pills, that they had quarreled, and that Ellen had previously bragged to friends about one day killing her husband.
I try to keep an open mind as I listen. Mostly my mind is occupied elsewhere. The way Wren’s knees look in that skirt she’s wearing. The way her oversized sweater pairs with that skirt.
The lead defense attorney speaks to us in an over-the-top, impassioned tone that immediately makes me not like him. “This woman, the defendant, is a victim of police blundering at the crime scene, of emotional manipulation by investigators, and of a husband whose ill treatment of her drove her to a dependency on prescription sleeping pills.”
It seems a bit of a stretch. I can’t imagine why cops would take any pleasure in pinning this on someone who looks like a Sunday School teacher, but that’s just my own prejudice. Also, I don’t like the lead defense attorney’s flashy cuff links or his hair gel. I in no way would ever pay a man like that to defend me in court; he appears to be a weasel with political aspirations himself. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
Still, doesn’t mean she did it.
Throughout the day, my mind and my body are far more attuned to Wren. Her breath, the occasional nervous clearing of her throat, her little ass shifting around in her seat.
When we break for lunch, the bailiffs bring us a mess of fast food burgers and fries in the jury room.
“I don’t eat this shit,” I mutter to myself as I grab a sack of fries and head to a corner, away from everyone else.
Of course, the little bird follows me. “Oh my god, are you vegan too?”
I stare at Wren and wait for the punchline. Surely it’s obvious I am not a vegan.
“No,” I finally say. “I just have standards.”
I admit my attitude has not earned me any points with the other jurors. Clearly I’m occupying this corner of the conference table by myself for a reason. But it’s not working on Wren.
“Can I sit with you?"
I nod and gesture to the seat adjacent to me. You’d think she’d be bored of sitting next to an old dude like me by now. But she’s here, yapping away, asking questions, and telling me all kinds of things I don’t care to know about.
“I guess when you think about it, we both have high standards,” she says, sipping her sugary drink through a plastic straw.
I offer a confused grunt while I shove a salty french fry in my face.
“You don’t like fast food and neither do I. Different reasons, I’ll grant you that, but hey, I like a guy with strong opinions.”
She likes a guy? This guy? Is that a tease? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
“Tomorrow I’m ordering us ribeye, if I gotta pay for it myself,” I grumble.
Wren responds with just the right amount of chuckle that is worthy of what I said. I appreciate that she doesn’t pretend I’m funnier than I am. Some people laugh too hard at things that aren’t funny; those people freak me out.
Still, she’s got a sexy laugh. Cheerful but also husky. I’d like to hear more of it, but that would require me speaking more.
The more I take the chance to speak, the likelier it will be that I will embarrass myself. Surely she’ll figure out quickly that I find her attractive. Right now, I’m hungrier than any amount of salty french fries will be able to satisfy. Now that we’re somewhat face-to-face at this table, rather than side-by-side in the jury box, everything about her is enhanced. Her pink lips make me think of what it’d be like to kiss her. Her conservative skirt makes me wonder what she’d look like naked. Her low voice evokes pillow talk. Her herbal scent makes me want to lean forward and take a deep whiff of her hair.
All of this makes the rest of the day’s court proceedings nearly unbearable.
Do I really like her for her, or is she just an annoying little bird, pecking away at my resistance?
Finally, some relief. I’m alone in my room. Peace and quiet.
A hotel room is not the same as my own bedroom, not by a long shot. Sooner or later I’ll get tired of not being able to open the window to feel the night breeze on my dick—yeah, I sleep naked—but I’ll manage somehow.