Juror

Juror

© 2022 Victor Cabana

She was the 54th.

All eyes flicked up and locked on her, transfixed, as she eased through the swinging doors. Every whispered, polite conversation between strangers fell silent mid-sentence, all cellphones suddenly became uninteresting, and the air thinned as the unison, awed inhalation intensified the utter silence.

Flat-out gorgeous.

As she surveyed the gallery of the courtroom, the gallery breathlessly surveyed her.

Statuesque. Five-ten minimum, probably late twenties, stunningly attractive. Long, lustrous, naturally wavy burnt-toffee hair cascaded freely over her shoulders and framed her thin, regal face, suggesting lineage to generations of czars. Sunken cheeks, inverted Nike-swoosh eyebrows over compelling blue-grey eyes, strong nose, and luscious lips that began paper thin at each end and blossomed to a voluptuous pouty pucker. Her long, savory neck -- it simply invited nibbles -- was adorned by a single strand of perfect pearls. Broad shoulders made her narrow waist seem even more so, as did her temptingly full, curvaceous hips.

She was stylishly, if a bit provocatively, dressed in a tight white silk blouse with the top two buttons undone. Hints of her white lace brassiere showed through the sheer fabric, stretched taught over perfect, succulent breasts. Her dark navy skirt, ending just above her knees, hugged toned curvaceous thighs, and white stockings clung to her taut, shapely calves and tapered down to spike-heeled, black leather boots. Their red sole and buckle gave the pedigree and spoke volumes: Louboutin, haute couture, and, along with the pearls, money. Lots of money.

The only remaining seats in the courtroom gallery were on the benches in the far corner, and she made for them. Two hopefuls -- under truth serum every straight male regardless of age would confess to instant, outlandish erotic fantasies -- stumbled awkwardly up and tried to scootch together the suddenly unimportant fellow occupants of their benches. Making room for her. Next to them. She gave them the disregard they deserved and floated -- I'd thought her wonderful thighs might betoken running or soccer, but the grace with which she moved meant she was a dancer -- to the center aisle, then to the empty seat next to an elderly woman in the back row.

No such commotion attended the arrivals of potential jurors 55 through 60, and we all resumed our chosen modes -- chatting amiably, stewing silently, or finding our phones fascinating as we cooled our heels. I admired the large portraits of past judges for the Northern Judicial District of Illinois. Crusty, well-dressed, old white guys, to a man.

The Clerk of Courts deigned to drop in 22 minutes later. We sixty citizens, who volunteered for jury duty by foolishly registering to vote, we who were to sit in judgement of our peer, had been required to arrive by 8:15. Under penalty of law. So we could sit, idly, until 8:43 when the Clerk told us that we would be compensated $50 for our time, plus mileage. Also lodging, if and only if we lived more than 60 miles away, and then only up to $97.66 or actual expense, whichever was less.

The Clerk then informed us of our duties and gave an overview of the case. The defendant was charged with conspiracy to commit murder and racketeering -- bootlegging, extortion, and other nefarious practices -- under RICO, the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. It meant one thing: the mob. The Clerk then gave each of us a numbered card, from 1 through 60, as randomly chosen as we had been from the registered voter rolls of the federal court district. The cards would allow the judge and attorneys to refer to us jurors by number, rather than by name.

I held my breath as the numbers were dolled out. I had many work-related balls in the air and being tied up all day for the anticipated two weeks of the trial would not help my juggling act. Not at all. Numbers 1 through 12 took seats in the jury box. The next 12 were invited to sit on folding chairs set up in front, and the rest of us got to return to our benches. I was thrilled to get 51. It seemed pretty safe, as 39 others would have to be dismissed before I moved up and got one of the "special" seats.

The prosecutors, defense attorneys and the defendant had moseyed in randomly before 8:55. We all rose when Judge Martha Trimble came in precisely at 9:00, then once again when she administered our oath. She introduced herself and had the attorneys introduce themselves. When the lead defense attorney presented his client I couldn't see his face, but I did see wealth and power. His pale gray pinstripe suit fit perfectly, which meant tailoring and exact fitting. Made just for him.

In old French Voir dire means "true say," and it then commenced. Jurors 1 through 24 took turns, in numerical order, giving answers to the many questions printed on the back of their numbered cards. It amounted to giving their life histories. Those of us in the gallery were instructed to formulate our answers to the same questions on the back of our cards, and to pay close attention to all further queries.

Three of the first 24 were dismissed for cause. One had peculiar religious views, and two knew one of the lawyers, people associated with the accused, or one the many witnesses to be called. Jurors 25, 26, and 27 took their places in the jury box or on chairs in front. I still felt good. Surely I was safe.

Then the defense attorney had his turn. Peremptory challenges removed three more. My confidence continued to ebb when the leading questions from the defense team became curiously intrusive. When asked if they had ever done, known, thought, felt, or imagined x, y, or z, juror after juror raised their hands and were dismissed.

Lucky me, I got to replace original juror # 24 when she was excused and left the courtroom. By answering the questions on the back of my card I gave my life story, and then answered all previous follow-up questions. Truthfully. This was serious. I have never shirked my duty, and I wasn't going to lie to avoid service.

At the end of voir dire there were 24 of us left in the chairs and the jury box. Still I thought my odds were decent, 50 -- 50. Surely, twelve others would be more acceptable than me.

Then we cooled our heels again while the prosecution and defense teams took turns eliminating those of us they didn't want, trading off, each side crossing off one number, then passing the sheet to other team. When they were done, the judge began to read the numbers of the winners, those who would remain, hear all the evidence, and decide the case. She began with the lowest number, # 1 -- the lucky fellow had his number called and thus he got a seat on the jury -- and I kept track, hoping twelve would be seated before the judge got to me. I didn't count using my fingers, though. They were crossed.

10 jurors had been seated when all the numbers below 50 had been called. I cheered silently when 50 got a seat, and made an ardent appeal to the deities: let the judge skip 51. Please. The gods answered my fervent prayer with mocking laughter. I was so stunned to hear Her Honor intone "51" that I wasn't even aware of the last number read, that of the lucky soul who would get to attend the whole trial, hear all jury instructions and deliberations, but would not be able to say or do anything. The alternate would only become active if another juror became ill or was somehow disqualified during the trial.

We all rose as the judge exited after telling us to return after an hour recess for lunch. After which the trial would begin. Once outside I booted up my phone -- they had to be off in the courtroom -- and called my assistant. The dark, angry late-September skies and whipping, stinging gusts perfectly matched my mood, and I tried, hard, not to snarl at Marge as I informed her of the disaster. I asked, well, instructed, her to cancel, or reschedule for evenings, all my meetings, and to get the files for my new accounts and upcoming visits together so I could pick them up tonight. After my usual Caesar salad with broiled salmon for lunch, which, maybe due to my mood, tasted like dross, I moped back into the courtroom.

I found that seat # 12 was in the corner of the back row, right next to the alternate's chair. The storm clouds parted slightly when I saw a possible upside to my situation. She was the alternate juror. She smiled as I sat next to her. To my friendly"Hi," she told me her name, Katrina, and I said I was Frank.

Which wasn't quite true. My Francophile mother had named me François, and later shortened it to Franç, spelled Franc and pronounced "France." My kindergarten teacher said it with a hard C, and Franc became Frank. When I tried to correct her, the other kids made it into Francie, which rhymed with all manner of neat words, and Frank suddenly seemed better. Call me Frank.

After the chief prosecutor was done with her opening statement it was clear that the case would be easy. Open and shut. Anthony "Tony" Galliano was a Chicago mafia underboss. We would hear from the legal wiretaps and confessions of underlings, that Tony had ordered the killing of an unfortunate night club owner who stupidly refused to pay for protection. Both the hood that pulled the trigger and the one who drove the getaway car had flipped on Tony, and would testify as to Galliano's direct involvement. Excellent, I thought. We'll be done in two days.

However, as the lead defense attorney's first sentence slithered off his serpentine silver tongue, I recalled the time Jacob, my lawyer cousin, once regaled me with the defense lawyer's creed: if the facts are against you, argue the law; if the facts and the law are against you, put everyone else on trial. Throw shit against the wall and see what sticks.

Tony Galliano was completely innocent. It had been entrapment by the FBI; the witnesses were admitted liars, felons, and murderers trying to get reduced sentences; the warrants for the wiretaps were illegal; the president of the United States hated Tony and demanded that his attorney general prosecute him because Tony had bested him in legitimate business; the deceased had actually hired the hit man himself so his family could get the insurance. Etc., etc. Katrina leaned closer to me and murmured, sotto voce, "I've never seen such an innocent man," then sat back and giggled softly. I smiled and basked in her perfume. I liked it. A lot.

After the mid-afternoon break my considerable relief -- I still harbored hopes for a speedy trial, meaning I could return to my job -- lasted only until the prosecutor asked to speak with the judge in chambers. Judge Trimble looked grim when she returned, and even less happy when she informed us that death threats had been made. Against jurors. Accordingly we were going to be protected, sequestered, locked away in a hotel under armed guard. The trial would resume tomorrow at 9:00 AM. Now we would be accompanied by law enforcement as we drove our vehicles home, packed a bag, and were transported to our new lodging.

**

"Leave it off."

Having been entranced by it all afternoon, it was Katrina's scent as much as her sultry voice that froze my hand just an inch from the light switch.

Coming into my hotel room from the garishly lit hallway, I was blind, but, having been in the dark, she could see. Well enough to wrap her arms around me from behind. Her breath tickled the hairs on my neck, still quivering from the adrenaline rush from the surprise, as she pulled me into the room and eased the door shut.

Surprisingly strong, Katrina spun me around and pushed me against the wall. And kissed me. I instinctively dropped my suitcase, my arms encircled her, and my fingers found only smooth, silky skin. Everywhere they went. They froze in place -- they happened to be on her very firm, voluptuous ass -- when I heard the whir of my zipper descending. When she broke the kiss, I thought that maybe I should say something, stop this, as we jurors weren't supposed to fraternize, but her fingers guiding my cock out of my pants stilled my tongue. Then I could no longer even think. Her mouth was that hot, that rapacious. That skillful.

**

I couldn't concentrate. The courtroom was hot, the prosecutor was droning on and on, it was 2:20 in the afternoon, and I was exhausted. Katrina had left at 3 AM, after the most passionate, intense night of love-making ever. She had stopped the initial blow job just before I crested -- I learned later in the evening that she is a master at controlling the male ejaculation -- stood, planted my hands on her breasts, and stripped me.

After she had me on my back on the bed -- she'd already pulled off the covers -- she lay beside me and let me kiss her, as she again directed my hands. To her breasts. Then to her pussy. I soon needed to taste what I smelled, and she liked my cunning tongue. When she had recovered, Katrina pushed me onto my back, mounted me, slid down, and masterfully scooped my penis into her vagina. Hands free.

Then, oh-dear-God, did she fuck me! Every which way. Hours later, right after my third spill into her ravenous pussy, I was still gasping and reeling when Katrina transformed from angelic, wanton playmate into insatiable succubus. When she first began to use her fervent, moist mouth and adroit tantalizing tongue to get me up for one more round, I began to feel a bit used, but she was a fellatio virtuoso, and once I stiffened yet again, the mind became willing. The body still lagged, though, and I doubted my ability, that is until she added the prostate massage to the wonders she was doing with her mouth.

I tasted my semen as she kissed me goodnight just before slipping through the door to her adjoining room. She purposely left behind her black lace panties and took my boxers. As she closed the door, she dared me to wear hers, vowing she'd wear mine.

At the morning session Katrina had been oddly distant, formal, very reserved. Cold, even. I didn't know what her game was but tried to stay awake and concentrate on the trial. Tony Galliano was evidently a very bad man, as every prosecution witness averred.

After lunch I had an especially hard time staying awake, as the prosecutor's voice was singsongy, annoying, and vapid. Even the heat emanating from Katrina's balled-up panties in my pocket seemed unable to keep me alert.

After the afternoon break, however, things changed. Radically. When Katrina returned she'd changed her perfume. I remembered the new aroma clearly from when I'd had my nose in her quim the night before. The sachet beside her was damp and inundated with her scent, and my mind reeled imagining how that might have happened. Katrina's sly smile was wicked and she kept me so distracted, on edge, that I could hardly concentrate. On the upside, it did help me stay awake. And upright.

Katrina began taking copious notes, or so it probably seemed to any observer. But really she was doodling, drawing very good likenesses of cocks and pussies, boobs and assholes. Cocks in pussies. Cocks in assholes. She had a most clever way of sliding her pencil over the clit of her biggest cunt. I wondered why she was being so coquettish, but didn't give it much thought. I certainly looked forward to the evening.

**

His fist pounding the table shook the room. "God! What the hell is wrong with you, lady? Everybody can see that Galliano's guilty as sin. How can you possibly vote to acquit?"

The accusation hung heavy in the stuffy jury room and all eyes bore into Katrina.

She sat straight in her chair and icily stared down the looming, hulking 6 foot 7 former collegiate basketball player. Former basketball star, if you asked him. Her voice was firm, defiant. "I don't think they've proven the case. The two crucial witnesses are criminals -- one's an admitted murderer, the other has two felony convictions -- and I'm convinced that they are lying simply to get reduced sentences."

I again regretted not accepting the nomination to be jury foreman. The elderly librarian who got the job was nice, sweet and intelligent, but would never have the gumption to stand up to Mr. Power Forward. And he was going to do just that, power forward and ramrod the others into exerting pressure on Katrina. Extreme pressure. It was going to get ugly.

Katrina had become an actual member of the jury when the woman who had been sitting next to me mysteriously didn't show up on the fourth day of the trial. The judge explained that "an irregularity" had been found, and that juror number 54, Katrina, was taking her place.

Katrina had been keeping me aroused, hot and bothered, during each day of the trial and fucking me silly during the nights. In between orgasms she'd also been talking freely about the evidence. When I first objected, saying we shouldn't discuss the case, she'd teasingly called me a silly boy, a punctilious priss, and just talked on. She was completely convinced that the key witnesses were lying, and said she hoped that I'd consider her point of view. Eventually adopt it.

Often, as she rode me, cowgirl was her favorite, she'd gallop for the finish line, then, reading me just right, stop screwing me just shy of the edge. With her hand on my chest holding me still, teetering on the brink, her voice would drip equal measures of lascivious lust and mischievous irony when she'd ask me if I still believed the witnesses were telling the truth.

I thought I did.

But when the other jurors took turns berating Katrina, her injured look awakened my protective instincts, and I told the others to cool it. As the power forward and I exchanged bellicose glares, the forewomen said it was late and suggested we adjourn for the day.

**

"Your honor, I request that the jury be polled."

The prosecutor was not at all pleased that we had become deadlocked, and the look on her face suggested she would like us to become a literally "hung" jury. Our final vote had been 10 to convict. Yes, I voted not guilty. Mr. Basketball had so pissed me off that I was not about to let Katrina take the brunt of the others' derisive disdain alone. The nightly, amazing sex had nothing to do with it. Honest. It was nice, sure, and I had been celibate since Jan's death a year ago, but...

Katrina's handiwork had borne other results, too. Just that morning I'd checked them out myself while showering, and confirmed her assertion from the night before. That, in the ten days of the trial, rather the nine nights, my testes had indeed increased in size due to the continual heavy lifting.

The Clerk called the jurors in number order. The first ten all dourly intoned, "Guilty." When number 51 was called I firmly said, "Not guilty," to titters from the gallery.

"Number 54?"

"Guilty as charged." Katrina's voice was matter-of-fact, but the audible gasp from the other jurors betrayed their surprise.

Katrina ignored me as the judge thanked us for our "service" -- the sarcasm dripped from her lips as she stared daggers at me -- and dismissed us. After we filed out for the last time, Katrina stopped just outside the courtroom when the door closed. As we were the last two jurors, we were briefly alone in the hallway. She turned to me but didn't meet my eyes.

"I'm sorry, Frank. Call me at this number. I can explain." She pushed the card into my hand, then pivoted and fled down the stairs and out the side door. I was hot on her trail until the horde of reporters outside the building surrounded me, asking why I voted as I did, a hundred times in fifty different ways.

**

"Okay, Martin, we can't prove a goddamned thing so we have to let you go. Don't think for a moment, though, not one fucking second, that we'll quit looking. We'll find it, whatever the payoff was, and then we'll put you behind bars. Forever." FBI Special Agent Mike Dickerson was not at all pleased at having to release me.