“Juror 158?” came the judge’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “You have been admitted to the jury.”
The judge instructed him not to use his real name in the courthouse or give any personally identifying information to other jurors. He would be required to show up every day by 8 A.M. and would be allowed to go home by 5 P.M. every evening. But he was expressly forbidden from reading any news reports about the case. Nor was he permitted to discuss the case with anyone outside the court—not his family, not his friends, not any prying journalists. The court would shield his identity from the public—they had a procedure for handling his safe arrival and departure every day—so that intimidation and harassment should not be concerns.
Did Rick understand everything the judge had told him?
“Yes, sir,” said Rick. And that was that.
THE BAILIFF ESCORTED Rick into the jury room. There was only one other person there. An older woman, she had to be at least eighty, sitting quietly by herself. Rick walked over and introduced himself.
“Juror 158,” he said.
“I am 106,” she said. She had a thick Spanish accent.
She wore dark pants with wide legs and a bright long-sleeved top. A black canvas tote bag rested by her feet. On the bag, white capital letters spelled out THE HOUSE OF TAROT.
“Are you a fortune-teller?” Rick asked.
Juror 106 looked at Rick like he was crazy. “No.”
He gestured to her bag. “The House of Tarot. It’s on Sunset, right? I’ve walked by there. I figured it was a fortune-teller shop?”
She looked unhappy. “We’re not supposed to know anything about each other.”
“Right, I wasn’t asking for your name or anything, I was just …” He stopped himself. He hadn’t meant to upset her.
He sat down a few chairs away.
“I don’t believe in fortunes,” she said as she immersed herself in her Sudoku book.
THE DAY WAS almost over when the door opened and the bailiff led the third juror into what was to be their new home. Rick laughed. So did she.
“Statistically speaking …” Rick said.
“What do you think?” the girl said. “Is this is all part of my devious criminal plan?”
Juror 106 looked at Rick and the girl suspiciously. “Do you know each other?” she said.
“We’re old friends,” Rick said.
Juror 106 looked alarmed.
“ ‘Old’ as in ‘from this morning,’ ” the girl explained.
Rick turned to her and reached out his hand. “I’m Ri—” He stopped himself. “Sorry.”
“Do we really have to keep up this whole thing? No real names?”
Rick was committed to what they were doing, and if that meant abiding by a few extra annoying rules, so be it. Justice deserved at least as much.
“I’m 158,” he said.
“Nice to meet you.” She took his hand. Her fingers felt soft against his. “I’m Juror 272.”
CHAPTER 3
H-O-P-E
NOW
I’m Maya Seale,” she said to the production assistant who met her in the lobby of the Omni Hotel. “Juror 272.”
“Yes, you are!” the energetic PA said without consulting the clipboard nestled in the crook of her arm. “Everyone is thrilled that you’re here! I’m Shannon!”
Maya surveyed the lobby. It was late morning on a Wednesday, a month after Rick had appeared at her evidentiary hearing. The wall art had changed in the past ten years. So had the furniture and the staff uniforms, though their aesthetic was still the sort of timeless, placeless, generic hotel style that you could find in any city, anywhere in the world. It was just a different shade of bland.
Avoiding this place for the past decade had not been difficult.
Shannon gestured to the elevator banks. “Why don’t I take you to your room so you can get settled? The hosts will call you in for singles. Today and tomorrow morning.”
“Singles?”
“Interviews. One on one. Just the hosts and you.”
“That’s two on one.”
Shannon looked like she was trying to figure out whether she’d done something wrong. “It looks like …” She consulted her clipboard. “Your single will be in the morning. But whoever isn’t being interviewed at any point is invited to get together in the restaurant. It’ll be informal. We reserved the back room. We’ll do the official re-vote tomorrow.”
“Have the others arrived?”
Shannon nodded.
“What about Rick Leonard?”
So much for nonchalance. It had taken her all of twenty seconds to reveal both that she was anxious and why. But then, why should she care what a PA thought about her anxiety level?
Shannon didn’t seem to find the question noteworthy. “I don’t think he’s arrived yet.”
MAYA HAD GOOGLED Rick thoroughly since he’d appeared at the courthouse. But she could find no recent information about him. Nothing about where he worked, what his job was, where he lived. He wasn’t on any social media that she could find.
There were only old photos. Old vitriol directed at her. Watching pixelated YouTube clips of old interviews surrounding the release of his book, she’d once again felt stung by what he’d said about her and the other jurors.
“When will I have an opportunity to see his new evidence? If I’m going to respond to it, I need to have time to examine it.”
“All I know is that he wanted to be interviewed last. And then you’ll all hear what he has to say before you re-vote.”
Maya looked at her watch. It was going to be a long day.
Shannon removed an electronic keycard from a manila folder and handed it to Maya. “We’re really glad you’re here.”
ROOM 1208 WAS exactly the same. The paintings, the desk, the chairs, even the coffee table appeared to be the very same ones that she’d lived with, every day and every night, for five months. She imagined that this was what an escaped zoo animal felt when returned to captivity.
She walked across the familiar patterned carpet. She touched the polished wood of the chairs. She stared at the paintings on the walls, the depictions of what looked like English fields. She used to imagine herself running through those fields. Being outside, feeling wind against her cheeks. Being anywhere, anywhere at all, other than where she was then … and, now, again.
Instinctively, she squeezed the key in her hand. Unlike last time, she could leave whenever she wanted.
“Pretty cool, right?” said Shannon. “Accuracy—historical accuracy—that stuff is really important to us.”
Maya ran her fingers along the desk. The wood had a well-oiled shine. But something was off. The surface was too smooth. She felt for the pockmark on the front ridge of the desk. She’d made it with a pen one long, frustrating night. The mark wasn’t there.
“We found hotel suppliers who had older models of the furniture,” Shannon offered. “We brought everything in last week.”
“These are copies?” Maya’s fingertips brushed the leather frame of the desk blotter.
“Same make, same model, same year. We got them from a hotel in Atlanta.”
Maya was standing inside a simulacrum of her old life.