It's Got A Ring To It (13 page)

I didn’t know the face, but the name I’d know anywhere.
Catherine Hutchins, the woman
—
or rather gold
digging home-wrecker who pickpocketed my
fiancé.
Walking toward me audaciously leering, she reminded me of
Charlotte from
Sex and the City,
pre-Harry. Hopeful and eager to marry some diluted version of the perfect man.

The confusion that colored my face was replaced by a steely façade.
Now standing beside me, she repeated the words that she’d mouthed
.

“You can have him back now.”

These
fools don’t know whether they’re coming or going. First they’re engaged, now
she’s trying
to
unload him back on me. Figures
he
got dumped by the same person he dumped me for
. Karma’s a bitch.
My
first inclination was to deck her in the gut and make her take it back, but the
fact that we were in a courthouse filled with officers, made me think better of
it. Instead, I conjured up the comeback of a worthy adversary. I zinged her,
“Oh, so now I see you’re done rummaging through my leftovers. Take your doggy
bag and go bark up another tree.”

The words fluttered from my mouth before I could ponder long enough
to consider taking them back. Almost immediately after, remorse filtered
through me and I wanted to shrivel and weasel away. Somehow, my pride got the
better of me and I solidly stood my ground.

“Ahem,” the bailiff cleared her raspy old throat, reeling us in.
Catherine’s reaction made me think she was military or raised within a military
family, the way she jolted to attention, ready for orders. On cue, she broke
eye contact first and I was crowned victorious.

Next thing I knew, the two of us were being escorted down the hall.
At first
,
I thought we
were going to
be
reprimanded
for behaving impishly. But, as we rounded the corner, that notion went out the
window. They shuffled us into two adjacent rooms for interrogation and
selection.
Just that fast, Catherine was the least of my
worries.

Serving my civic duty should’ve been my top priority, followed by my
grand opening at a close second, but neither made the top three that day. Every
boring question left me daydreaming about the following day. Sure, someone’s
fate was in my hands, but selfishly I was worried about my own. What
was
I going to wear? How
was
I going to act? My
thoughts were squarely focused on getting out of duty.

Please
lord,
deliver me from this evil that is jury duty
, I pray
ed
.
If you get me out of this, so I can
enjoy my date, I mean meeting, with Myles, I will go to church every Sunday,
even when I’m too tired
…

“I’m sorry. What was the question?”

In the midst of my prayer and daftly important thoughts, I’d
forgotten where I was. There
were
few certainties in life including death, paying taxes, and serving jury duty
when called upon. I realized
,
there
was
no sense in bargaining
with God. Quickly, I shifted my thoughts to all those stories I’d heard time
and again from friends, who sw
ore
there
were
foolproof
ways to get out of grown-up detention.

There’s the irritable
bowel
syndrome excuse. Apparently,
interrupting a trial for potty breaks
was
frowned upon. Then the “I can tell by
looking at them that they’re guilty” method, that just about everyone vows w
ould
work. Because I was
fresh out of medical reasons not to serve, I’d strongly considered claiming to
be a
mythomaniac
. What possible good could come from
having a compulsive liar on the jury?

Just as in Murphy’s Law, anything that could go wrong
would
. Answering the
questions according to my
mythomaniac
theory
was
just what the jury needed to add
balance. No, no I could never win tickets on the radio, or win a raffle
drawing. But, wouldn’t you know
it
,
I was the
chosen one when it c
ame
to jury duty. The
unlucky cream of the crop, slated to be one of the dirtiest dozen.

As the other elite eleven begin to trickle into the room, I got a
glimpse of what it
was
like when the tables have turned. One by one, I sized each of them up. A
construction worker trekking mud through the corridor entered quietly and took
the seat closest to the door.
Surprisingly, not the type to
whistle at women passing his worksite.
As
rough, filthy,
and callous as his hands were,
it
was
easy to see that
the sparkling clean gold band on his finger ke
pt
his manual labor squarely focused on the
big picture.
Walking past
,
a lawyerly looking suit with breakfast smeared on his tie, eyed the rest us.
The memo must not have gone out that businessmen should be exempt from civil
duties. Disdain colored his face at the thought that he must share a room with us
lowly peons. He offered no eye contact or friendly smile as the construction
worker did. Instead he inched by, careful not to let us rub off on him.
Finally, he selected the seat on my right. At first
,
I thought that I must be the least
repugnant, but his audible sigh of relief at the electrical outlet behind me,
helped me see otherwise. Heaven forbid this prominent man whose presence with
which we have been graced, be forced to exchange words with our kind or go
milliseconds without his cyber-leash on life.

The weight of his stare fell upon me, but rather than give him the
satisfaction, I decided I’d rather catch up on Giovanni and Helena’s forbidden
love. Just as I found the page that I’d dog-eared, the suit felt chatty.

 
“What book are you
reading?”

“Uh.
Giovanni and Helena
.”
Purposely short with him. It never fail
ed
. On airplanes, in jury duty, d
idn’t
matter. People never g
ot
the clue that reading a
book
was
a solo
activity. Entertain yourself and leave me alone. He didn’t get the hint.

“You
know who it is?
” I thought he was still talking about the book,
but
when
I looked up at him, his eyes were directed across the table.

 
“I heard we were getting Earl
Grimes,”
a lady two seats
down chimed in with all the
drama of a tabloid and the twang of the South. “They say he’s been abducting
and molesting kids for years off some hiking trail out at Red Rock.”

The name was familiar, but I never really got into to tabloids or
watched Nancy Grace that much. I
might’ve guessed based on their line of
questioning, but I was hopeful that it
would be about some dumb idiot who
evaded taxes, some
W
ar
of the
R
oses divorce
dispute over child custody, or a drunk driver. But, a pedophile did not cross
my mind once. Just the thought of some perverted loser forcing himself on a defenseless
child boiled my blood. “This is supposed to be a jury of the defendant’s
peers,” I
interjected
in utter disgust, “but excuse me if I don’t want to claim myself to be a
peer to a molesting kidnapper.”

The room rumbled with chatter in every corner. I was enraged, but I
tried to find the bright side. “Well, at least this ought to be over real soon.
There’s really nothing to debate,” I said
,
leaning back in my chair.

“So, you’re ready to convict him
? B
efore hearing all the facts, is that
right?” By the door, the construction worker
who
I pegged a loyal spouse and family man,
now seemed more like a bossy militant shouting orders at me. I cowered in
silence. What did I just get us all into?

Rising from his chair, he closed the door until it
was
just slightly ajar.
Then, he turned to us, seething with venom. “I want you all to take a minute to
think about the
S
ixth
A
mendment that is afforded
to all of us as citizens.” Walking slowly around the table away from me, he
addressed each one of us as he spoke. “We
all
have the right to a speedy and public trial by an
impartial
jury. So, if you are not
going to listen to all the facts and be fair before casting your judgment, then
you need to make that known now,” he said as he stopped directly behind my chair.

Every eye in the room landed on me. I caused this outburst. I wished
I would’ve ignored the nosy suit and kept reading my book, but suddenly I was
the
troublemaking biased
juror.
More
to avoid their accusing eyes than anything else
,
I
turned to him
. Big mistake.

He continued, “Now take this lady. Either still in college or barely
out,
if
she graduated. I could
look at her and judge her, but I don’t propose to know the first thing about
her. But, I know she doesn’t know what it feels like to be falsely accused of
anything and be forced to prove her own innocence. Unfortunately, I do know what
that’s like. So, I for one am proud to be part of this process to ensure others
don’t have to endure what I’ve already suffered through.” With the footsteps in
the hall nearing the room, he closed his speech. “I pray that none of you ever
have to.”

In walked the bailiff, an older woman just about a rent-a-cop on the
totem pole. Super serious about her work. She looked around, tallying up
jurors. “This door stays open, unless I close it,” she stated firmly and loud
enough to vibrate the walls. “There are eleven of you so far and Ms. Hutchins
will be our twelfth.” Gliding into the room from behind the bailiff, she took
the seat directly across from me.

thirteen

It
was
school all over again. When the
minute hand on the clock finally hit twelve, signaling five o’clock, I was
practically buoyant as I bounced out of the seat and through the door. I
couldn’t get out
of
there fast enough. Really, there
was
only so much one person
can take, and dodging the firing squad of the Nazi construction worker and
Catherine,
was
not one
that anyone should have to endure.

By the following day, I was willing to leave all that behind and
start fresh. I woke up early enough to drive leisurely and stop for a tall
white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, possibly the only positive thing
about being up before the sun. The fact that I found an available legal parking
spot, I just figured was an omen that the day would take a turn for the better.

But
we all know what happens to the best-laid plans
. As my luck would
have it, it was Saturday. Hence, the reason the courthouse doors wouldn
’t budge. Drivers
were nice. Someone actually let me get over without flipping me off or honking
with
bubbled rage.
I knew it was
Saturday because I
’d been looking forward to meeting Myles, but it
hadn’t registered that there wouldn’t be jury duty on a weekend.
Still, j
ust to be certain,
I sat in my parked car with the phone pressed to my ear
and my jury duty
notice in hand
.
I couldn’t take the chance.
Digit by digit, I
entered my access code.
T
he court operator confirmed
my code, then my
name.
“
Yes. Yes. I’m over
eighteen and a resident. Keep it moving.
”
Then the polite automated lady said something I
hadn
’t
been expecting.
My service
was no longer needed
. The whole civic
duty was over.

Immediately,
I
scrolled
through my phone for a
local news app. Sure enough. It was the first
headline on the page.
“Grimes Does
the
Crimes,” spanned the entire width
of the screen
in bold red
letters
.
All the air inside me deflated in one fluid gasp. “What happened?” I
said aloud, knowing
no one could hear me
.

As
soon as I clicked on the link, I had my answer.
The anchor sat
behind the desk
in a garish yellow blazer
with
uncomfortably awk
ward posture,
d
isgust and
loathing colored his face as the words hurled from his mouth. “
In a tragic story
that has come far to
o
close to home
…” I heard every
last word, but
they seemed to hover above me, floating. They
wouldn
’t
sink in.
It
was exactly what he wanted, control. Right from the start, he
’d been calling the
shots
,
and now he had
accepted a plea deal. Who the hell knew what were the terms, but he was likely
in control of that, too.

Restlessly,
I
continued reading down the page
, searching
for something to make sense. The written
equivalent of a car accident,
I should have closed the page, but I couldn
’t stop reading.
Grimes kidnapped
his victims at amusement parks and arcades, and then took them to a deserted
trail at Red Rock Canyon where he sexually assaulted them and threatened to
kill their families if they told anyone.
If Molly Webster
hadn’t escaped, he would still be on the loose.
She
hiked in the
canyon with her family fairly often and knew the trails well. Ducking into
shadows and behind rocks,
Molly b
arely breathed for fear that Grimes might hear her
or see the vapors from her breath.
By
the skin of her teeth
, she got out in
time to wave down a passing car
.
At
the police station
she was reunited
with her family and
mapped out the location of the others
kids
.

I was aghast, torn between tears and sheer ire. While my biggest
worries in life had been over heartbreaks and candy, poor Molly was literally
trying to survive. And this was only the
kids
we knew
about. Who knew how many other children had been traumatized, raped, and
murdered by
that
psychopath.
I could hardly get my mind wrapped around
the full magnitude.
So that was it? He made his plea and jury duty was
over. I should have been ecstatic, but all I wanted to do was punch something.
Or someone.

Two
near-miss accidents and one finger-flipping road rage war later, I found myself
i
n the designated kickboxing area at my small local circuit gym
.
T
he poor new
age centaur
of a rubbery half-man ended up suffering the brunt of my wrath. He’d never done
anything to me, but lately he’d become the victim of my pent up rage. Shipments
delayed due to backorder,
wham
,
kick
to the jaw. Ethan’s getting remarried,
pow
,
uppercut to the gut, front kick to the place where his faux-man bits would be.
And on that day, when a kidnapping vulture pedophile dictate
d
the course of a trial, the
dummy was in for it
—
double
combo jab-hook-uppercut scissor-kick.

As the dummy toppled over, I realized that I’d garnered the attention
of an audience. Some were staring
with what looked like
sheer horr
or
of the spectacle I
created, other
s
probably
to
see what I’d do next, but mostly
,
I got the feeling
they
were
pissed that I put a wrench in the circuit rotation. Either way, I took my cue
and decided to call it a day.

After all was said and done, I stunk—literally. There’s no
other way to put it. Anger, confusion, and the filth of the day oozed from my
pores and left me an empty vessel. I was hot and salty
,
and my cropped yoga pants were sticking to
my thighs. I headed for the club’s tiny restroom to wash my hands and face
before heading out. A glimpse of myself in the mirror did not surprise me. I
looked how I felt, worn out. Sweat had rendered my hair a matted mess. Dark
divots encircled bloodshot eyes. And blotchy red
polka-dots
took up residence on my face. I let the cold water run for
a
second,
then held my face under. The chilled water on my steamy face felt so soothing,
I could’ve stayed there all day, but I had things to do.

I posted myself on the ledges of the sink with my head back, trying
to work up a second wind, when someone started jiggling the door handle and
knocking frantically. I jolted from my stupor
.
“Just a minute,” I said flushing the toilet
for effect and turning the faucet back on to show that I’d washed my hands.
With a turn of the handle, the lock popped
,
and I was blindsided. Myles was the
inpatient
looney
on the other side of the door
.
Instantly,
my mind reeled back to our last meeting, our lustful make-out session on the
side of my parents’ home.
My jaw dropped with an audible gasp. “Hey,” I
stammered.

“
Laila
,” he stated, clearly on the same
level of shock. H
is
gaze was locked on me
, but his jittery
movement reminded me that he was trying to get into the restroom. He was about
to say something, but he held up his index finger and slid pass me. Still
shifting from one foot to the other, he excused himself
.
“
H
old that thought.”

In rapid succession, I heard him relieve himself, the sound of water
running
,
and the rough
crinkle of coarse paper towels. A cold breeze fanned me as the door swung open
.

“
N
ow
,
where were we?”

“Uh, apparently we were catching each other off guard
.
” I giggled with
embarrassment, feeling a little self-conscious as I flashed back to the ghastly
image of myself in the mirror. Out of habit, I readjusted my
T
-shirt and smoothed over my
pants. With every move, his eyes followed my hands.

“You look…great.”

He hesitated. Immediately, I started to analyze his
tone, inflection,
and word
choice. Did he really think I looked great or was he merely attempting to fill
in the awkward silence? By his ogling eyes, I realized it was the former. At
first
,
his admiring
eyes made me feel confident. But, when his gaze lingered a little too long, I
was mortified. The air conditioning had kicked in and my ladies were peaked at
full attention. In an awkward attempt to be casual, I crossed my arms, tucking
my hands into my pits. “Ahem. Thanks.”

Myles knew he was caught. Jerking his head up, our eyes connected
once more. “Uh, yeah. So, like I was saying. Your body looks great.”

“Thanks.” The awkwardness returned. “So…did you join?” I asked
,
with a raised eyebrow,
taking him in. Loose-fitting
j
eans
and a white
T
-shirt
weren’t quite gym attire.

“No. No, I was next door at Dean Books picking up a couple summer
reads and having a cup of
Joe
,
but nature called
and
their
restroom was out of order. One of the employees let me know there was one here.”

Myles walked with me
,
and then waited,
as I grabbed my bag out of the locker. I was listening
to him, but mostly I was taking in his more appealing qualities. There’s
something so sexy about the way his five o’clock shadow f
ound
a happy medium between clean-cut and
rugged masculinity. He’s laid back with the ebony waves of his hair set neatly
below the sunglasses perched upon his head. Even beneath his
T
-shirt, the mold of his
chest and shoulders managed to maintain its shape. And though, I’d only seen
him a couple of times, I couldn’t fathom ever getting tired of the way his
jeans hug in all the right
places.

“So, what are you reading now?” he asked, genuinely interested in my
response.

“Let’s see, I’m about a quarter of the way through three different
books that I’ve started but haven’t finished,” I confessed. “Was about to head
over there myself and get a smoothie at the café
,
though.”

“Well, I know we have plans to meet later to go over the photo
layouts, but if you’re not busy now, maybe we can just hang out at the café for
a little, while you have your smoothie and I pick up some books. Then, if
you’re ok
ay
with it, we
can go home and clean up
,
and I’d be happy to make you dinner while we discuss the photo layouts.”

“That all sounds great, but I think I’ll go to
my
home to clean up,” I teased.

Myles blushed, noticeably embarrassed by the mixed meaning of his
words, “Oh, no. No, that’s what I meant.” Stuttering and stammering, “
W
e can each go to our
own
homes to clean up before dinner.”

I knew exactly what he meant, but it tickled me to see him flustered.
Honestly, it felt nice to hear someone use the word “we” again. I didn’t want
to get carried away, but it would’ve been easy to slide back into the comfort
and security that goes with being a “
we
.”

He was down an aisle intently sorting through titles, while I
ordered
my smoothie. The
place buzzed with avid readers and the aura of academia. The scent of coffee
beans perfumed the air and the
clickity
-
clack of keyboards tapping
hummed a melodious tempo.
People
all around were focused on their thoughts and some literary work of the day,
but when Myles headed for our table and smiled at me, we could’ve been
anywhere. With him sitting across from me, little else mattered.

“This is the one I was telling you about,” he said as he excitedly
took his seat facing me. He quickly filled me in on the synopsis and began
referencing other books and why it raise
d
so many new questions.

After a while, he realized that I hadn’t contributed much. Purposefully,
he squared his body to mine
as
if
to let me know I had his undivided attention. “But that’s enough about
me. What about you? What about those three books you’re reading? What’s been
going on with you?”

“Oh, I haven’t had as much time to read as I’d hoped. I’ve just been
preparing for the grand opening and cleaning up the house. My closest and
oldest friend, Brooke
,
is coming out on a layover, then I’m going to join her on her trip to New
York.”

“Stewardess?”

“Yep. You know for the past few decades they’ve been called flight
attendants,” I joked.