The rest of the numbers faded as I walked to the juror box, more than a little frightened. What could they possibly ask?

Once everyone was settled in their seats, men filed through the door and sat at the two tables in front of the judge’s bench. One of the men was Mr. Deveraux.

My stomach knotted into a ball. This couldn’t go well.

“All rise,” the bailiff announced. “The Honorable Benjamin McClary.”

A middle-aged man with salt a pepper hair and a stout body that wasn’t helped by his black robes entered through a door in the back wall. Once he sat at the judge’s bench, the bailiff motioned for everyone to sit down.

The judge looked out into the gallery, folding his hands on the counter in front of him. “I’m Judge McClary. I apologize for not being able to meet with you earlier, but I was told that Bailiff Spencer filled in for me.” He nodded to the bailiff, then turned his attention to the jurors. “Thanks to all of you who’ve taken time out of their busy schedules to fulfill your civic duty. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for many of you, but rest assured, your effort hasn’t gone unnoticed. Okay then, first I’m going to swear you in.”

We raised our right hands and repeated the short oath.

I knew I was just a potential juror, but being sworn in made me nervous.

“I’m going to introduce the attorneys for this case, as well as the defendant. If you know anyone here, I’ll need you to raise your hand and tell us how you know him. I hope I don’t need to remind you that you’re under oath and lyin’, either through your words or by omission, is grounds for perjury, which can be punished with time in jail.”

A few potential jurors looked anxious.

“First is Mr. Mason Deveraux III, the assistant district attorney of Fenton County, who will be prosecuting this case. Does anyone know Mr. Deveraux, or had any dealin’s with him?”

I squirmed in my seat, unsure what to do. I’d never met him before this morning, but I had talked to him. Did that count? Judge McClary said I could go to jail for not telling him things and I wasn’t so sure Suzanne was required to give me time off to sit in county lockup. Biting my lip, I raised my hand.

Mr. Deveraux’s eyes just about bugged out of his head.

“Yes, miss,” Judge McClary said. “Which juror number are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“How do you know Mr. Deveraux?”

“We weren’t actually formally introduced.”

The judge’s eyes darkened. “That’s okay, seein’ as how you aren’t goin’ to a cotillion. Just tell us how you know him.”

I urged my racing heart to slow down, not that it paid attention. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “We met this morning. I was late to jury duty because I got a parking ticket, and then my heel broke, and I had to use the restroom…” I looked at the judge. “I didn’t mean to be late, I swear it, but then Ol’ Matt in security held me up until Officer Ernie showed up to watch Matt frisk me so I wouldn’t sue for sexual harassment, even though I swore I wouldn’t.”

The judge’s eyebrows rose.

“So I had to wait for Ernie to show up, and the elevator was slow and when it stopped I really had to go to the bathroom and I…” I decided to keep the men’s bathroom out of it. “I ran right into Mr. Deveraux, causing his papers to fly everywhere. And that’s when I had an interaction with him.” I glanced over at Mr. Deveraux, whose face had turned a shade of red that resembled the red peppers in Miss Mildred’s garden.

“That’s it?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

His eyes roamed around the room and he seemed uncertain what to say. He cleared his throat. “While I appreciate your honesty, miss, I was looking for something a little more substantive than that.” He looked around the room. “Anyone else?”

A couple of people raised their hands. One man was his neighbor. Another was a woman who regularly served him at a restaurant where she waitressed. When the judge asked if they could be impartial in spite of their association with him, the man said he couldn’t and the judge dismissed him.

He next introduced the defendant’s attorney, William Yates. When the judge asked if anyone knew him, he looked at me with raised eyebrows. I studied Mr. Yates to be sure. He was a short, older man with thinning grayish-brown hair. His mouth was turned into a frown. Since I’d never seen him before, I gave Judge McClary a tight smile. Several potential jurors raised their hands, saying they knew him, all saying they couldn’t be impartial. The judge dismissed them, too.

“The murder victim was Frank Mitchell. He was the evening manager for the hardware store. Did anyone know Mr. Mitchell or have any dealings with him that would affect your impartiality?”

No one raised a hand.

“And now this is the defendant, Bruce Wayne Decker. Mr. Decker has been charged with aggravated robbery and murder in the second degree. He’s been accused of killing Frank Mitchell at Archer’s Hardware store after the store closed. Take a good look at Mr. Decker. Do you know him or does he look familiar to you?” He looked like he was in his twenties, and even though he wore a dress shirt with a tie, the way he tugged at his collar suggested he wasn’t used to wearing it. Mr. Decker had a wild look in his eye and his hand twitched. When he realized we were all watching him, he stuffed his hand in his lap.

Both the judge and Mr. Deveraux looked at me, but it wasn’t me they needed to worry about. Out of the forty jurors in the original panel, about fifteen raised their hands. Quite a few were vague about how they knew him, but when asked if they could be impartial, almost all answered no. The judge told them they could go.