Making the Hook-Up (15 page)

Nola blinked. “Wha—? Sorry. I didn't say anything.”

“Oh. Forgive me, I thought you did.”

“It doesn't matter what was administered, when it was administered, or by whom. The outcome remains the same. Madison Daytona is dead.”

Nola let out a pent-up breath when everyone took their eyes
off her to look at Number Three, who had just spoken. She was an attractive woman who Nola thought resembled a den mother, but she didn't know of many den mothers with a Celtic band tattoo going around their wrist. Nola couldn't decide if the woman had gotten the tattoo as a result of her true personality, or if it was a manifestation of midlife crisis or a desperate attempt for a spot on some boy's MILF list. Perhaps it was all of the above.

Nola didn't like judging people, yet that was the specific task before her. For eight weeks, she and eleven others had listened to evidence in the mysterious and sudden death of mega A-list actress Madison Daytona, who had dropped dead on the set of her latest film,
Death of a Comeback Queen.

Never had a film been more aptly named, in Nola's opinion. Personally, she hadn't thought much of the deceased and she was still unimpressed. In a career that spanned thirty of her thirty-four years, Madison Daytona had more ups and down than a crack-house whore—and if any of the rumors were to be believed, Madison wasn't any better except for the fact that she had a staff who could get her whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. You didn't say no to Madison Daytona.

Now it was the job of Nola and eleven others to decide if Madison's personal physician, Dr. Paul Birger, was the person behind her death. His medical credentials were questionable, at best, and his character and lifestyle made him an easy prime suspect.

Serving on this jury was forcing Nola to confront her stereotypes and prejudices while at the same time, trying to dismiss them.

“Isn't that the point of our being here?” asked Number Seven. “We have to determine these things in order to decide if Birger is guilty or innocent.” Seven was also Nola's roommate.
Nola liked Seven. She reminded Nola of her first-grade teacher: a plump, white woman who always wore her hair in a bun and had a melodious voice. Seven had told some pretty bawdy stories in their hotel room even though she never said anything stronger than “darn” or “fudge.”

Rooming with Seven was fun, and convenient considering Seven slept like a log, eye mask and earplugs included. “Forty years of marriage to a man with a deviated septum,” she explained.

The city had them staying in a nice, high-rise hotel consisting almost entirely of suites. The rooms were large and comfortably furnished. Each person had his own walk-in closet. That first night, Nola discovered their room had an adjoining door to the next room inside her closet. She debated whether or not to bring it to the attention of the court representative. Surely they had vetted these rooms before picking the hotel or assigning the rooms.

It wasn't until after dinner that first night, when the jurors were being escorted to their rooms as an entire group that she found out who one of her neighbors would be.

Perhaps the adjoining doors didn't matter after all.

 

“No soul is innocent,” said Number Eleven.

“Oh, dear god, please keep religion out of this!” Number Eight slammed her pen on the table in disgust.

Despite the attempt for neutrality, there seemed to be enough religious fervor in the room to make Nola wonder if separation of church and state would be possible in this case. In the previous year, Madison Daytona's messy divorce revealed that the marriage was a sham to cover her lesbianism, and it was rumored that Dr. Birger had a preference for young men.

And the trial taking place in a state where the idea of gay marriage was an open, bitter dispute, just added more powder to the keg.

“Tyrell, if the court really wanted to protect us, our names would be sealed and not available for any hack to come knocking on our door for an ‘exclusive' story. We wouldn't have to worry about some deranged Madison Daytona fan stalking us because he didn't like our verdict.”

“That's a pretty cynical attitude coming from a woman like you, Nola.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Do you teach your Sunday School class to be so distrustful of people?”

To prove her point, she suddenly trapped as much of his cock inside her mouth as she could and sucked hard before letting it slide out with a wet
pop!

“I'm sure there are things you wouldn't tell your buddies at the office.”

He forced his cock back between her glistening lips and began to thrust. She closed her eyes and moaned.

“I don't know, girl. The world deserves to know about your mouth….”

 

Too fine,
she thought, and resumed sucking on the straw from her now-empty juice box. But the straw was a sad substitute compared to the firm, juicy piece of manmeat she had in her mouth the night before.

Nola suppressed a smile as best as she could. The court tried to come up with the most diverse and nonbiased jury possible. The jury consisted of six men and six women, and while half of the jury was white, the other was comprised of two Hispanics, one Asian, one Native-American, and two blacks—herself and Number Nine.

It wasn't like Nola didn't know the names of her fellow jurors.
But it wasn't until halfway through the first day of deliberations that names were revealed, and by that time, Nola already had faces assigned to numbers and they stuck. She preferred to keep it that way, at least in her mind. Everyone deserved a right to privacy, and if she couldn't maintain that belief in her head where no one had access, there was no hope for the world.

Besides, she liked to pretend she was part of a collective. In this case, she was Four of Twelve.

This whole trial was making Nola sick. Eight weeks in court, three days sequestered. At first, her digestion turned against her until she thought she would become addicted to antacids. Now, her head constantly throbbed. It was from all the built-up tension and frustration. It needed an outlet. She needed an outlet.

And she wasn't the only one.

 

Nola rolled over and let Tyrell mount her from behind.

“Ride me, motherfucker…ride me!”

Tyrell soon found his pace and proceeded to split her from a new angle. His strong fingers clasped her hip bones, holding her in position. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and looked over her shoulder. She saw his feet digging into the high-traffic carpeting of the hotel room floor and anchored for purchase the same way a runner's foot was anchored in starting blocks. His efforts had the desired effect as Nola sensed his cock pounding harder, deeper.

The sound of a mattress creaking and a gentle snore made her lover stop only briefly.

Number Seven had rolled over on her back, still asleep.

 

“You would think that after fucking up—sorry—
screwing
up so many high-profile cases, the prosecution in this city would finally get their act together,” said Number Two.

“Come on, everybody,” the jury foreman said. “It's getting late. Let's vote. Those who think Paul Birger is guilty…?”

Hands rose. Eight to four in favor. Some groaned and others rocked their heads on the table.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I think it's time we all take a break.”

 

They lay sprawled on the floor. Nola smirked. Whoever assigned them their numbers must have seen Tyrell coming. Otherwise, how could they have known his size? She didn't make a habit of sleeping with men, considering the only men she encountered were at work or at church. But that didn't mean she was ignorant of a good fuck.

 

Outside in the hallway, the jurors wandered aimlessly, stretching their legs or their bodies. No one thought twice when Number One and Number Eight started doing wind sprints up and down the hall. They just got out of their way. All the jurors had found a way of letting off steam without resorting to snide remarks and insults…at least so far. But the politeness was getting more strained and starting to feel more forced.

Nola watched Number Nine insert coins into the vending machine, enjoying how his long, thick fingers punched the number of his choice and how he stood and waited for the machine to disperse his selection.

She walked over and stood beside him. Their eyes met in their reflection of the machine's glass. If she could, she would have said something.

Number Nine moved aside but not without giving her the tiniest wink she had even seen in her life. In fact, she didn't know if it was a wink; it was just the slightest dip of one eyelid.

After another hour, Number Ten stood.

“Vote. Those in favor?”

Ten to two.

“I can't say I'm entirely convinced the charge suits the crime,” said Number Five. “That's the right thing, ‘charge,' isn't it? We're supposed to determine Birger's guilt for the crime of murder. Why not manslaughter or culpable homicide or…or something?”

This question was met by groans.

“Listen,” Number Eight began, “this ain't ‘Law & Order,' or ‘Perry-freaking-Mason.' No one is gonna jump up and say they're guilty. We were asked to determine if Birger is guilty of murder. Period. If we're in doubt we either need to ask some questions to get
out
of doubt or this may never end.”

“Well, I think that there may have been some hanky panky going on and people have been talking where they shouldn't of!” Number Eleven looked around the table.

I know you're not gonna look at me in that tone of voice,
Nola thought. When his eyes finally came to meet hers, he quickly looked away.

“That's a pretty heavy accusation you're making,” Number Nine said calmly. Nola and the others looked his way only to see him looking at the notepad in front of him. “What makes him say such a thing?” And with that, he raised his head to look straight into the eyes of his roommate.

 

“I just want this to end. I've made up my mind.”

“We can't discuss the case, Nola.”

“So who's discussing it? I'm just saying…”

“Shh…”

Tyrell's lips covered hers and Nola luxuriated in their moist softness. His tongue, velvety smooth inside her mouth, tasted slightly of Drambuie. She reached up from her position on the floor to grab at the obligatory notepad and pen.

Breaking the kiss, Nola wrote her full name out on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it over to him. “Here. Call me. I'm in the phone book.”

He smiled.

 

“Maybe ‘hanky panky' is the wrong choice of words,” Number Eleven conceded and leaned back in his seat. “But whatever the case, the longer we stew over this, the less convinced I am that we're all gonna agree on a verdict.”

“That wouldn't be our fault,” Nola said. “We've been deliberating and going over evidence, visiting crime scenes, getting exhibits sent forward… If we, as a group, cannot come to a unanimous decision, then either the prosecution has failed or the defense has succeeded.”

“And frankly,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest, “I'm not about to go against my convictions judging from what I have seen.”

Number Ten sighed and looked at the clock. It was nearing six o'clock. Dinnertime was approaching. Either they would reach a decision tonight, or—

A knock on the door made all the jurors jump.

 

The hotel catered a lavish, rich dinner. Due to her cynical nature, Nola couldn't help suspecting that the increase in quality and choice of meals corresponded with the hopes of spurring the jury to reach a decision. They were tired but they didn't want to give up on something that had eaten away at their lives for over two months. Despite their wariness, the jury ate well and was given an additional half hour to unwind before resuming their work. They had until ten o'clock before the hotel van went back to the courthouse.

During this time, Nola wondered if she would really hear
from Tyrell again. Not that it really mattered or bothered her. From what little conversation was allowed between them, he was a nice guy and had a good job. He was unattached and said so, not just to her but to the rest of the group during casual conversation.

Whether or not their encounter last night was a letting off of steam, the venting of heat or simply in response to genuine lust, their time together was coming to an end.

Nola, even though she didn't like to judge, considered herself a good judge of people. She believed that several of them would stay in touch after the trial ended. They had created friendships in spite of their need to remain aloof. They were bound together by jury duty.