entire face was one massive smile. Her eyes glowed with mischief.
“Nicholas Easter,” he said, as he reached for her outstretched hand. She squeezed tightly, shook with a vengeance, and found his name on her paperwork. Another, larger smile, then, “Welcome to the jury room. This your first trial?”
“Yes.”
“Come on,” she said, virtually shoving him through the door and into the room. “Coffee and doughnuts are over here,” she said, tugging at his arm, pointing to a corner. “I made these myself,” she said proudly, lifting a basket of oily black muffins. “Sort of a tradition. I always bring these on the first day, call ’em my jury muffins. Take one.”
The table was covered with several varieties of doughnuts arranged neatly on trays. Two coffeepots were filled and steaming. Plates and cups, spoons and forks, sugar, cream, sweeteners of several varieties. And in the center of the table were the jurymuffins. Nicholas took one because he had no choice.
“Been making them for eighteen years,” she said. “Used to put raisins in them, but had to quit.” She rolled her eyes up at him as if the rest of the story was just too scandalous.
“Why?” he asked, because he felt compelled.
“Gave ’em gas. Sometimes every sound can be heard in the courtroom. Know what I mean?”
I guess.
“Coffee?”
“I can get my own.”
“Fine then.” She whirled around and pointed to a stack of papers in the center of the long table. “There’s a list of instructions from Judge Harkin. He wants every juror to take one, read it carefully, and sign at the bottom. I’ll collect them later.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be in the hall by the door if you need me. That’s where I stay. They’re gonna put a damned deputy with me for this one, can you believe it? Just makes me sick. Probably some clod who can’t hit a barn with a shotgun. But anyway, I guess this is about the biggest one we’ve ever had. Civil, that is. You wouldn’t believe some of the criminal ones we’ve had.” She took the doorknob and yanked it toward her. “I’m out here, dear, if you need me.”
The door closed, and Nicholas gazed at the muffin. Slowly, he took a small bite. It was mostly bran and sugar, and he thought for a second about the sounds in the courtroom. He tossed it in the wastebasket and poured black coffee into a plastic cup. The plastic cups would have to go. If they planned for him to camp here for four to six weeks, then they’d have to provide real cups. And if the countycould afford pretty doughnuts, then it could certainly afford bagels and croissants.
There was no decaf coffee. He made a note of this. And no hot water for tea, just in case some of his new friends weren’t coffee drinkers. Lunch had better be good. He would not eat tuna salad for the next six weeks.
Twelve chairs were arranged neatly around the table, which was in the center of the room. The thick layer of dust he had noticed three weeks ago had been removed; the place was much tidier, and ready for use. On one wall was a large blackboard, with erasers and fresh chalk. Across the table, on the opposite wall, three large windows, from floor to ceiling, looked upon the courthouse lawn, still green and fresh though summer had ended over a month ago. Nicholas looked through a window and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalks.
The latest from Judge Harkin was a list of a few things to do, and many to avoid: Get organized. Elect a foreman, and if you are unable to do so, notify His Honor and he will be happy to select one. Wear the red-and-white Juror buttons at all times. Lou Dell would dispense these. Bring something to read during downtimes. Do not hesitate to ask for anything. Do not discuss the case among yourselves until you are instructed to do so by His Honor. Do not discuss the case with anyone, period. Do not leave the courthouse without permission. Do not use the telephones without permission. Lunch will be catered and eaten in the
“Nicholas Easter,” he said, as he reached for her outstretched hand. She squeezed tightly, shook with a vengeance, and found his name on her paperwork. Another, larger smile, then, “Welcome to the jury room. This your first trial?”
“Yes.”
“Come on,” she said, virtually shoving him through the door and into the room. “Coffee and doughnuts are over here,” she said, tugging at his arm, pointing to a corner. “I made these myself,” she said proudly, lifting a basket of oily black muffins. “Sort of a tradition. I always bring these on the first day, call ’em my jury muffins. Take one.”
The table was covered with several varieties of doughnuts arranged neatly on trays. Two coffeepots were filled and steaming. Plates and cups, spoons and forks, sugar, cream, sweeteners of several varieties. And in the center of the table were the jurymuffins. Nicholas took one because he had no choice.
“Been making them for eighteen years,” she said. “Used to put raisins in them, but had to quit.” She rolled her eyes up at him as if the rest of the story was just too scandalous.
“Why?” he asked, because he felt compelled.
“Gave ’em gas. Sometimes every sound can be heard in the courtroom. Know what I mean?”
I guess.
“Coffee?”
“I can get my own.”
“Fine then.” She whirled around and pointed to a stack of papers in the center of the long table. “There’s a list of instructions from Judge Harkin. He wants every juror to take one, read it carefully, and sign at the bottom. I’ll collect them later.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be in the hall by the door if you need me. That’s where I stay. They’re gonna put a damned deputy with me for this one, can you believe it? Just makes me sick. Probably some clod who can’t hit a barn with a shotgun. But anyway, I guess this is about the biggest one we’ve ever had. Civil, that is. You wouldn’t believe some of the criminal ones we’ve had.” She took the doorknob and yanked it toward her. “I’m out here, dear, if you need me.”
The door closed, and Nicholas gazed at the muffin. Slowly, he took a small bite. It was mostly bran and sugar, and he thought for a second about the sounds in the courtroom. He tossed it in the wastebasket and poured black coffee into a plastic cup. The plastic cups would have to go. If they planned for him to camp here for four to six weeks, then they’d have to provide real cups. And if the countycould afford pretty doughnuts, then it could certainly afford bagels and croissants.
There was no decaf coffee. He made a note of this. And no hot water for tea, just in case some of his new friends weren’t coffee drinkers. Lunch had better be good. He would not eat tuna salad for the next six weeks.
Twelve chairs were arranged neatly around the table, which was in the center of the room. The thick layer of dust he had noticed three weeks ago had been removed; the place was much tidier, and ready for use. On one wall was a large blackboard, with erasers and fresh chalk. Across the table, on the opposite wall, three large windows, from floor to ceiling, looked upon the courthouse lawn, still green and fresh though summer had ended over a month ago. Nicholas looked through a window and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalks.
The latest from Judge Harkin was a list of a few things to do, and many to avoid: Get organized. Elect a foreman, and if you are unable to do so, notify His Honor and he will be happy to select one. Wear the red-and-white Juror buttons at all times. Lou Dell would dispense these. Bring something to read during downtimes. Do not hesitate to ask for anything. Do not discuss the case among yourselves until you are instructed to do so by His Honor. Do not discuss the case with anyone, period. Do not leave the courthouse without permission. Do not use the telephones without permission. Lunch will be catered and eaten in the
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