Caroline could probably have asked for a postponement of her jury duty, but then she’d just have to do it later. Better get it over and done. Her Eric would’ve said it was a responsibility owed to our American community, a sign of our aspiration to justice and truth. In her head she heard The Sex Pistols. She didn’t like to think she was Pretty Vacant, but maybe she should admit it, go into therapy, embrace it. The song was a pounding monotony. She was getting a headache letting it throb through her head. She needed a palate cleanser. Try some Bach. That could be repetitious too. Eric liked Bach and Mozart and Beethoven. But sometimes all she heard was tink-tink-tink on the harpsichord or strings. She would not tell Eric that. She washed her hands in the lavatory in the County Courthouse. Looking at herself in the mirror, she stuck her tongue out and it was a purple fish coming out of her mouth. She closed her lips around the fish, patted her hair down, went to the Assembly Room.

Her head was splitting open. Inside, little children and animals were marching around. The older lady next to her, sixtyish or so, had meat-red toenails and wore copper-colored sandals with flowers erupting from between her toes. The lady talked about her mother’s unwillingness to move into Carefree Manor, an Assisted Living facility. A younger woman in scrubs happened to work there and said that she shouldn’t feel guilty, that some residents say, great! no more meals to fix! no more laundry! but others just go inside themselves, deep inside, into dark tunnels.

Caroline knew which one she would be.

They were escorted to the jury room. The clerk announced it was a criminal case; she had hoped it would be a civil case. The clerk said the charge was Malicious Punishment of a Child.

The accused sat at a table with his attorney, a white man. The accused, Mr. Okafor, was a Nigerian. He wore a black suit and white shirt and blue tie; he could have been dressed for a funeral. He was the most formal person in the room. She wanted to look away from the shame of him and maybe his hope. He didn’t agree to a plea deal; he was willing to undergo the shame of a trial. Shame, Mr. Okafor, shame on you.

But she also felt sorry for him: he must’ve believed himself innocent, of course. And he was from another culture which expected different familial relationships. Didn’t the Bible have something about the rod of correction? Eric’s father was an alcoholic, though Eric didn’t remember his father; he just knew about him from the stories. Eric would not have defended this man with his complete heart, though he was a public defender, and he routinely defended heroin addicts and unwary kids who had been entrapped.

She wondered if he would’ve defended her if she was accused of adultery.

The defense attorney asked the potential jurors if they believed children should be disciplined, if every child was different and needed different kinds of discipline, if the jurors had been disciplined as children, if they had been spanked, if they believed the statute allowing spanking should be changed.

The prosecutor asked if they knew any police officers, if any of the prospective jurors had been victims of crime. Caroline’s head banged inside with little children marching and little dogs barking.

Her lover, Michael, had a dog who slept on the carpet as they made love. Rufus–well-behaved and discreet. Lately Michael liked to wear black–black trousers, black turtleneck, black overcoat. No, it wasn’t hipster attire. French, he told her. He would be traveling to France. He liked her clothes, her witty pairing of purple and green; he also liked her naked. He did not, however, ask her to accompany him. She pulled her flowered peasant skirt lower over her knees as she listened to the prosecutor explaining that they were expected to be fair and impartial and should let them know if they couldn’t be.

Again the prosecutor asked if any of them had been victims of crime, and she raised her hand and explained that two years ago her purse had been stolen. The police officer was polite, professional, sympathetic. The purse was never recovered. Really it was her own fault for leaving the purse on the bench. She felt guilty about that. She stopped her confession.

This was voir dire. This was speaking the truth.

The two attorneys wrote on pieces of paper, exchanged the sheets. The clerk called her name and she was excused from duty, as were six others. The lady with the red toenails had to stay. Caroline could go. This was what she wanted.

She ought to tell Eric about Michael. She stood up to leave the jury room and looked at the accused, who stared straight ahead. For him, it was just beginning.