Chapter 2

Friday January 18

Okay, what the fuck? Today was more jury selection - “voir dire”, they call it - but this time it was lawyers for a specific case asking us about potential biases. I’m not one to shout “sexism!” every time a leaf rustles in the wind, but I’m really surprised lawyers could get away with these questions.

The four men before me got the basic questions that you always hear about: Are you or any member of your immediate family involved in law enforcement? Have you been involved in a vehicle accident that resulted in anyone being seriously injured? For me, the questions went in a totally different direction.

“Do you have any strong feelings or convictions about the sexual practices of bondage, dominance, and submission?” Lawyer-1 asked, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to ask a stranger. I was the only one standing in the middle of fifty strangers, all eyes in the room on me.

“Ah, excuse me?” I said. I just didn’t know how to deal. He repeated the question, as if replaying a recording. “I ... I’ve been tied up a couple of times. I don’t consider it part of my identity.” People laughed, but the judge’s glares quieted them down.

Both lawyers wrote notes before Lawyer-1 went on. “Have you ever engaged in acts of exhibitionism?”

Believe it or not, I actually had to think about the answer to that. The nudie-pics and sex tapes, for a moment, slipped my mind. So did making love on the deck of a sailboat. And being blindfolded, tied naked to a tree, and used in the best possible way on a second date. And then there was the girl-on-girl party show when I was undercover as a prostitute.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Please elaborate,” the lawyer asked.

“Um..., do you want me to send you the URLs?” I asked, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

“Just a description is fine,” he said.

I hesitated. I looked at the judge for guidance. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Move along counselor.”

Lawyer-1 mumbled something, and then it was Lawyer-2’s turn. “Do you believe that acts of sexual dominance necessarily indicate an unhealthy relationship?”

I answered, “No, of course not.”

The judge chastised the lawyer, saying, “Save it for opening statements, counselor.”

Every woman after me got the same kinds of questions. None of the men did.

Despite my offense, I’m glad I get to serve on the jury. I do want to help my community serve justice, and I am curious about the experience. Plus, I really want to know what sort of fucked up case justifies asking those questions.

Saturday January 19

I’m at my parent’s house, a two hour drive from my college apartment. My parents have agreed to let me have a few pieces of furniture for my new apartment in Vegas. This weekend we’re negotiating what I can take and measuring it. Next weekend I’ll rent a truck and come pick it up.

Before coming to my parent’s place, though, I dropped by Mr. Demarco’s house. I needed some papers witnessed and he’s a notary public, so it was convenient. He was my lawyer for some trouble long ago, and he’s my dad’s friend. He was also, briefly, my lover.

We hugged our hellos and then we went into his office. He put on reading glasses and looked over the papers. “So, a private investigator’s license application for Nevada?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “That’s my new job. A friend of my mentor is starting up a new agency in Las Vegas and my mentor said he’d be a fool not to hire me.”

“You could go to Silicon Valley and be making six figures within a couple of years,” he challenged me.

I shrugged. “Officially I’m going to be a junior computer forensics technician. I’ll be learning from an expert. But I’ll also get a chance to do other stuff - research and field work. As for money, I’ve got a locked in option to buy in as a partner after a couple years, so if the firm does well, that could work out nicely.”

I signed the papers. He signed as a witness and stamped them. “So when you’re not reconstructing hard drives, you’ll be putting on tight dresses and stiletto heels, flirting up marks to get information?”

“I already own the dresses!” I told him with a wink. “And you know I’ve got a wide range of skills.”

He stood up and something changed. A moment before, I had been his friend’s daughter asking for a favor. Then he touched my hair. “It’s funny,” he told me, “I always think of you as blonde.” My heart went all fluttery and I’m sure I blushed. I half-expected my glasses to fog up.

Memories fought for control of my nervous system. My body flipped into fuck-me-now mode. I wanted nothing more than for him to take me on his desk. I was pretty sure that he was feeling it too: he swallowed nervously. I moved my body - my shoulders and hips: subtle enticement. I smiled and tilted my head, presenting my neck.

He thought about it for a moment: I know he did. Then he stepped away and said in obvious time-to-go tones, “This will be an exciting chapter in your life. I can’t wait to hear about it. Say hi to your mom and dad for me.” And then he led me out.

I’ve been squirming ever since, feeling the wet slipperiness he caused between my legs every time I moved my thighs. My parents said I was acting fidgety at dinner. They should be asleep by now. I think maybe I’ll masturbate for a couple hours.

Sunday January 20

I didn’t masturbate. I did something else instead.

Look, I’m about to cut my tether with my childhood and move far away. I’ll be completely on my own for the first time in my life. All that’s exciting as hell, but it’s also scary. Before I said goodbye to the city I grew up in, I was going to take one last thing that I wanted, as a present to myself. That’s assuming I could persuade Mr. Demarco, of course.

Our sexual relationship began a few years ago when I broke into his house. To keep him from calling the cops on me, I blew him. After that I’d show up whenever he called me, to satisfy his urges. It was a game to him - role play, not real blackmail. He thought I understood that. Maybe I partly did. Whatever. When I look back on it, I don’t remember the anxiety - just the most amazing sex of my life.

I’ve gotten much better at breaking into houses since then, but this time I planned to get caught. I geared up in my usual kit - black jeans, hoodie, gloves, lock picks. I didn’t bother with underwear. The locks were trivial to pick this time around. And the cameras? I could have avoided them. Instead I smiled at each one as I crept through the house.